Heliotropism

by Vins

Summary:

Heliotropism - 1. (botany) the growth or motion of a plant toward the sun.
2. (zoology) the tendency of an animal to move toward light.

Just another version of how Brassius and Hassel (almost and then finally) met, and the challenges each of them faced along the way.

Began as "Five times Brassius and Hassel (almost) met and unknowingly helped each other, +1 time their meet-cute became a shouting match / the help was deliberate."

Chapter 1: Prologue - Childhood

Notes:

First chapter is a prologue -- there's no meeting between our boys yet. E for everyone, low stakes and fairly chill with some low-key abusive behavior from Hassel's fam, because angst, amirite? Mentions of illness, nothing concrete yet, a touch of foreshadowing at most. Some confidence issues, the usual.

To be totally honest, I was going to delete this bit of warm-up writing but heck, it's fanfic, so I spit-polished it a little and present it to you now. Please feel free to point out inconsistencies and errors, what you believe to be mistakes in characterization, etc-but in a productive spirit, if you would? Or bits ya like, ofc :D

Prologue -- Childhood

* * *

Calona reached the bottom of the stairs, where she grabbed a stray sandal and threw it, hitting the boy in the stomach. At this he turned his gaze and body both, but she was busy buckling her own sandals on, hopping on one foot, and then tying back her ashy green hair into a low ponytail. Her backpack bounced lightly on her back.

“I was observing that Combee fly in semi-circles around each other, almost as if they’re dancing,” the boy began, looking ready to continue, except just then his audience bolted out the door.

A woman called after her and then sighed.

“Take your sister’s lunch too, would you, dear. And her allergy medicine? You have your medicine, hijo? Call Alegria from the Pokemon Center if you need anything, or Arceus forbid anything happens–you remember what Doctor Miguela said, yes? And nurse Anxo’s number! You have your information card, querido?”

The boy’s mouth thinned as he took the bagged sandwiches and zipped them into his backpack, blinking solemnly at his mother. He softened for a moment, grey eyes reflecting a spark of excitement, and his mother picked up on this and smiled warmly at him. The boy’s smile bloomed back at hers in response, childish and joyful. Then he picked up and donned his own sandals, one of which had been tossed at him, and took up his bag before he followed his sister toward the bus stop.

“I’ll bring you back a present, mamá,” he said softly, closing the screen door.

Their mother watched him go, tucking a strand of her wavy green hair behind her ear. Her hair usually fell in waves like curling grapevines, but lately it had been displaying more jagged, damaged curls. A dozen hairs remained on her hand when she pulled it back from her head, and she shook them off. Her eyes traced her children’s path, but she was smiling at her youngest son’s promise.

The walk was short, downhill from their home toward the main road where neighboring schoolchildren were already waiting.

Calona slid up to a girl with a Hoppip on her head and struck up a conversation about Mesagoza academy boys. Her brother stood nearby, basking in the mild autumn sun. The bus grumbled along the road, and they could hear it long before it pulled up.

“Come on,” Calona insisted, tugging her brother up the steps, where he sat beside a window as she wandered toward the back of the bus to loud greetings from other friends.

Quiet, sometimes doesn’t play with the other children, his report card said. Whether it was the cause or the result of missed school days, laying in bed reading or flipping through his mother’s albums of Paldean painters, he had never had many friends among humans. Lately, the local school had partnered with larger academies across Paldea to organize field trips for the students, and he had felt particularly left out when his peers and sister had all gone to see Montenevera, and climbed to Glaseado Peak with local guides and ski patrol.

But today was different. He watched the canyons slide by at a distance from the main road, the fence that kept Pokemon out of traffic looking broken down in places. The rocky landscape began to give way to grassy meadows as they neared Los Platos, picking up another handful of students. Their parents had deemed this a suitable excursion for a boy of his “delicate disposition.” He hated the words, words that talked around the truth instead of telling it, but the thought of this trip sent flutters of Butterfree wings in his stomach.

They had roots in Cortondo, his mother had told him. Her father had grown up there, back when the family business had been tending the olive groves. Much of Cortondo was still occupied with this seasonal work, which had become a tourist attraction as well as a labor of love for the townsfolk.

“Be sure to visit Rina's family and tell her hello,” mother had said to Calona, the night before. “I’m giving you enough spending money in addition to this, for a box of shortbread for this weekend. Your father loves those.”

He liked the shortbread, too. His father was an engineer of some kind, Brassius was hazy on the details. They had moved to Artazon when he’d taken a job in Levincia. Long work hours earned him a promotion, and though his parents spoke of this as a good thing, the children noted the results were only increased hours and a sadder mamá. Nowadays, his success necessitated that their father stay in the city the entire week and come home only on weekends.

He had taken Brassius and Calona to visit his office once, years ago–the high-rise building and bustling city had impressed the children. He’d been told to wait out a meeting in his father’s office, and so he began to look around the office, bored of staring out the high window onto the magnificent East Paldean Sea. What stuck in his mind were the blueprints, the paper and electronic renderings of strange, crystalline shapes, drawn to some unknown scale. Hexagons, triangles, spheres, superimposed and then rotated in three dimensions on a two-dimensional screen.

They used to drink coffee together as a family every morning, but now it was only Sundays that papá joined them for breakfast. Their mother tried to mark the occasion with an apple pie or lemon tarts, but when it came to shortbread, Soapberry's was unrivaled. No sweets their father brought back from Levincia could compare to the family-owned and operated bakery in Cortondo.

Brassius looked inside his school bag, checking that he had brought everything he needed. Water flask, sandwich, as mamá had insisted, Calona’s forgotten sandwich, thanks mamá, his pencil case, his notebook. It was meant for school, but he’d repurposed it to sketch and doodle. Medicine, just in case. He frowned and zipped the bag again, beginning to flip through pages of sketches. Most were unremarkable, but there were some he wanted to redo. In his head, the pencil obeyed his hand and marked the paper exactly as intended, but in practice the marks were imprecise… he sighed, feeling a stomach ache coming on. It would be fine.

“Hi,” said the boy who had slipped into the seat next to him. Brassius jolted.

“Oh. Hello,” he managed. The other boy blinked at him and Brassius appreciated that he didn’t smile.

“I don’t think we’ve met,” said the other boy. He looked older, and his light brown hair and eyes and angular jawline already hinted at the handsome adult he would become. Brassius didn’t study his features in a mirror like Calona would do, but he knew from social cues and his own aesthetic judgment that this boy could be sitting anywhere on the bus and students would flock to him. So why had he sidled up to Brassius?

“I’m Arturo Basil,” the boy said, pulling back the purple zipper of his black backpack and digging around in it. Brassius’ world shifted to accommodate the idea.

“You’re…you too?” he muttered, failing to express the thoughts crowding his mind. “Forgive me, I mean to say, I’m Brassius. Are you new, or just in another class?”

“I’m twelve,” Arturo replied easily. “I saw you were studying. I was hoping to sit and read a while, if you don’t mind?”

Brassius sighed internally, part in relief and part in acceptance—this made sense. Arturo had sat next to him because Brassius was quiet. The world aligned again.

Arturo smiled, took a brightly-colored book from his bag and turned away to read. Brassius frowned and rested his head against the seat in front of them, ignoring the urge to look over Arturo’s shoulder where he’d spotted a sketch within the purple book. He smushed his forehead into the back of the seat in front of him, his notebook closed on his lap beneath folded hands. He had been awake much of the night, first agitated by Calona, then his pencils refusing to cooperate, then excited for the trip, and now the sun and the warmth of the bus as it bumped along lulled him to drowsing.

He dreamt of a vast field. Tall waves of grass undulated, a sea of grass, green with wildflower white foam and gleaming in the sun. He half ran, half swam through it, and as he ran, he spotted something yellow-green in the corner of his eye. A Combee? No. Perhaps a Bellsprout, or a Sewaddle? No, no… Whenever he turned, his momentum and the current carried him further and the flicker of color vanished. And then there was a flash of black, like a lightning bolt, a dark, long shape streaking through the grass which parted in its wake, powerful claws and huge teeth and rippling, sleek body. Wind whistled at its speed, fins parting the grass. It bowled him over with the force of its shockwave, all without making contact. There followed a feeling like thunder after lightning, a delayed rumbling of the earth and grass, shaking and coming to a stop. Brassius felt himself sinking in the grassy sea, deeper, below where he had assumed the grass sprouted from soil… where his feet had found ground there was now only willowy grass, and he slid down, further. Was that flash of yellow-green again? Was it Sunflora?

There was a bump and Brassius woke to find that most of the kids were outside the bus. The light had changed only a little, but the landscape was now softly rolling fields, the silvery bark and leaves of olive trees planted at even intervals in grids, lined neatly in low fences. The road stretched on toward Cortondo, outlines of buildings visible at a distance.

“You coming?” said Arturo, and Brassius looked up to see the older student waiting for him. Suddenly shy and still disoriented, Brassius averted his gaze and clambered up from the bus seat to follow Arturo outside, joining the students, teachers, and parent volunteers.

The dream clung in unreliable fibers to his consciousness, falling away too quickly to grasp. He felt the urge to swim upward, and also recalled a jagged, long, inky-black shadow moving swiftly through deep grass, sharp and sinister and fast. He knew that he had been looking for something, someone, chasing something, but what it was had slipped away. Brassius frowned, annoyed as the memory dissolved further upon prodding. He abandoned the empty endeavor and climbed atop a tangle of tree roots, beneath the shade of a very old, gnarled tree.

Looking across the olive fields, he could spot the telltale signs of bug Pokemon, a couple Starly perched in the tree above him, cuddling into each other so tenderly it made him look away.

The nearest parent chaperone was telling students to stay in pairs, and Arturo had wandered near again, and they exchanged a look and a nod. They were going to spend the first part of the day helping harvest the olives, using the step-ladders safely by turn, one person holding the ladder, the other harvesting olives from the tree into the tarps laid out for this purpose on the ground. They were instructed to switch places when they tired, and told that adults would handle the higher branches. Then they would head over to the bakery in the town, where they could eat their packed lunches, and afterward tour Cortondo’s largest frantojo, or olive mill. They would each receive a souvenir of last year’s olive oil, because it took time to press this year’s. The children had to stay in pairs–Brassius zoned out, because he noticed that there were Combee in the trees again, making a different pattern with their flight than the ones near his home.

Brassius asked Arturo to hold the ladder as he scaled it, breathing deeply among the hard, silvery leaves. He brushed past bunches of green olives to the sun-darkened, reddish and dark violet fruits, which he dislodged carefully. He bit one and the bitterness flooded his mouth, and he spit it out, to Arturo’s loud protest beneath him.

Ripeness was no guarantee of an olive’s taste.

He reached for a bunch of olives and fell short. Rather than give up, Brassius stretched further, searching out branches that would support him. He considered himself an expert tree climber, though usually he did this to hide from his sister, or to observe Pokemon. Arturo said something below, but he wasn’t visible through the leaves and Brassius didn’t catch the sound, his concentration on climbing. He saw a Spinarak scuttle away in the further branches, ignored it to reach for the ripe olives, which fell readily through the foliage when he tugged on the stems.

That was when Brassius came face-to-face with her. Wide, dark eyes and an anxious frown peered at him. He blinked at the green face, the yellow olive crowning its head, the leaves bordering it, the startled eyes that looked so distressed. He blinked, and then the sight stirred some emotion in him.

“Oh. What are you doing up here?” he muttered.

The Smoliv blinked back, then further scrunched up its face in discomfort. It looked to be on the verge of crying. Brassius, who at ten rarely permitted himself to cry, felt suddenly that he would do anything to cheer this small creature.

“Baby, querida, let me help you get down…” Brassius muttered, slowly extending his arm out, other arm clinging to a thick branch, footholds secure. “You’re supposed to be on the ground, aren’t you?”

The Smoliv stayed where it was. Brassius leaned closer, slowly, gauging its reaction, withdrawing when it looked more scared. This went on for several minutes. Arturo called something from below, but to Brassius the words held no meaning. The crown of leaves quivered as Smoliv tensed, and the boy leaned back again. He waited for Smoliv to relax and then he began to inch forward more slowly, and this time Smoliv permitted him to come right up to it. The footholds got trickier here, and both arms hugged the branch Smoliv was perched on.

“Come on then, you’re not an olive or an apple, you should be on the ground,” Brassius murmured, making his voice as gentle as he could.

He would spend days watching bug, grass and flying types that might be skittish with humans. He liked watching how they moved, how they interacted with each other and their environment. But a Smoliv in a tree? No, no, no. He might only be visiting Cortondo, and perhaps things were different here, but the way the little one was eyeing the ground and trembling suggested he was right.

Bracing his weight on his left arm, Brassius bent his right arm to himself and tilted his head at the Smoliv.

“Come on, I’ll give you a ride down,” he added, when the Smoliv looked at him doubtfully. He tried not to laugh or smile at the eyes that surveyed him with skepticism. “Let’s get you down, hmm?” he tried to sound soothing, and carefully made a motion to sweep Smoliv toward himself with his right arm. Smoliv didn’t back off, so Brassius gently nudged it toward his body. The Smoliv was warm in the crook of his elbow, and heavier than it looked, and it allowed itself to be hugged loosely.

At this point Brassius was sweaty and panting, his left arm burning, but he wore a triumphant smile as he inched himself back to the sturdy branches, pushing with both feet. The branch supporting his left arm forked, so he moved Smoliv to his other arm, getting a better handhold, inadvertently tugging on a head leaf. Smoliv made a sudden, percussive sound like a gurgle in its throat and next thing he knew, Brassius was covered in oil that smelled of rotten eggs. He blinked. Shifted his grip without thinking, and the oil-slick bark slipped from beneath his fingers, his footholds fell away, and the world was shifting, Smoliv cradled to his chest. Leaves whipped his face and arms. There was the sound and then he felt the impact of a branch breaking. This altered his fall’s trajectory such that he landed atop the ladder, failed to grab onto it, and slid down and into Arturo. Both boys landed on the olive-strewn tarp that covered somewhat rocky soil.

Brassius squashed a large number of olives in his landing, feeling them like bruising pebbles, but Smoliv remained unharmed, clutched close to his chest with both arms. Though he banged up his elbows and knees, Brassius laughed.

“Holy Arceus, you clumsy dope,” Arturo grumbled, getting up and shaking fallen leaves from himself, wincing as crushed olives stuck to his shorts. “Are you alright? What’ve you got there?”

“She sprayed me,” Brassius said finally, his relieved laughter calming. “Careful, it stinks! I’m so sorry,” this to Smoliv. He unwrapped his arms and set her carefully onto the ground. The Smoliv rushed to hide behind another tree, and Brassius watched it go on its stubby, tiny legs and tried not to laugh.

“How did it get up there?” Arturo motioned to the tree, then stood and frowned up into the leaves. “Are there more? Do they eat olives? Is that what that oil is?”

“No, no,” Brassius rose too, trying to keep an eye on the hiding Smoliv. “They produce their own oils. I don’t think they eat olives. At least, I’ve only seen them eat several kinds of berries. And never to climb trees!”

He realized he was shouting when several parent chaperones hurried over, and began to fuss over the smelly oil that had certainly ruined his clothes.

Later that day, as the students had lunch in the Soapberry family bakery, a patron stood up with the words, “Vaultin’ Veluza, peugh that stinks!” and went to investigate the ovens in the back, muttering about hygiene. Brassius curved his slouched shoulders lower and ate his sandwich, ears turning red. He and Arturo exchanged a look and failed to keep their laughter in check.

“Rina and Ren, you stay with Brassius and Arturo, stop wandering off!” instructed their teacher, sighing heavily. The pair of girls made token complaints about being paired up with the boys and their odor but settled at the table with little fuss. The one called Rina, with light green hair and sparkling green eyes, took several round, fried pastries from her lunchbox and passed them around before munching down happily on hers.

“Papá let me roll out the dough for the Buñuelos before school today,” she said, wiping the crumbs. “Good, right? Arturo, that’s your name? Are you new?”

Arturo shook his head but Brassius put in, “He’s from another grade but he was interested in coming to see the frantojo today so the teachers allowed it. He says he wants to see the new metal grinders and presses.”

“Oh, they used to press the olives with grinding stones,” began Ren. “ But then last year my parents helped install the new presses, they said they wanted to modernize and produce more olive oil, I guess? I’m Carmen, by the way. My family has worked in the olive mill for generations. I think we’re distantly related,” the last part was said to Brassius, who nodded. “Oh, Arturo, did you know Rina works here? That’s short for Katerina, her parents own this place.”

The girls shared a conspiratorial look and giggle.

"The Buñuelo was delicious, thank you,” Arturo said somberly.

Carmen and Brassius agreed. The Chimecho moved happily out of the way, chiming, as the door opened to let in the adult chaperones, back from their own lunch break. The teacher visibly lowered her shoulders.

* * *

The frantojo tour bored Brassius, who wanted to keep observing the Smoliv and feeling the breeze and sun on his face. Arturo, on the other hand, darted to look behind doors and around barrels to spot pulley systems, dusty and out of use mechanisms, the oil-stained grindstones that had been dragged out and put on display in an empty room.

“Took four Machamp to move those,” Carmen confided. “We had to hire a moving company from Mesagoza.”

The musty air inside the frantojo made Brassius sneeze, and Rina handed him a spiderweb-embroidered handkerchief.

“You should know that the region you come from, the south of Paldea, produces half of all the olive oil produced in the world,” their teacher was saying. Carmen feigned a yawn.

“Ah, you find this dull, do you Ren?” their sharp-eyed teacher said. “Come on up here and give the class five facts about this place and olive oil that you don’t find boring, then. Go on!”

Carmen trudged up to stand in front of the unused olive grinder, and said, “Before electricity, we used to use olive oil as fuel for lamps, and we still use it as a base for some cosmetics and medicines.”

The teacher pretended to yawn and the class laughed. Carmen narrowed her eyes, bit her lip and thought hard, determined to outmaneuver the teacher.

“Our oldest tree is around eight hundred years old!” Carmen said triumphantly.

“That’s very old,” said the teacher, nodding. “How many varieties do you have here? Do you ever use heat or chemicals in extracting the oil?”

Carmen answered, but Brassius saw Arturo moving slowly along the back wall toward the door. Brassius looked around, hesitated, and then followed his harvest partner.

This room contained a moving belt of harvested olives, currently stationary. Mixed in with the olives were leaves, twigs, and stems, so the entire apparatus looked like an enormous garland. It stretched across the room over a trough filled with branches and leaves, evidently sifted out already. Brassius stepped up and took a sprig of leaves that caught his fancy. The silver undersides of the leaves felt almost scaly. He slipped it into his bag.

“They used to grind and press the olives,” Arturo said, peeking down from where he was perched on a ladder near the ceiling, “with stones, like Carmen said. But now we have a machine grind the olives into a paste, I can hear it working.”

Brassius climbed up after Arturo, and saw that the belt brought the olives into this room too, and into a round machine that whirred. The back wall of the room was glass, and on the other side of it was their class, their teacher lecturing with her back turned to them, and the laughing faces of their classmates. The floor was clean white tile, the walls scrubbed, not a single web on the ceiling. Brassius ducked down behind a large stainless steel machine, but Arturo either didn’t notice the class or did not care.

“There’s metal hammers hitting them, seeds and all, in the grinder. Then the paste goes into the molaxer, that’s the churning thing just there, and then into the centrifuge here. Oh look, they have Pokemon minding the temperature!”

Capsakid and Dolliv looked up from where they were peering through a glass panel into the churning machine, beside a small screen that had information including temperature and pressure. Brassius, who had never seen a Dolliv before, dug into his bag for his pencil and notebook.

“Get down,” he hissed at Arturo, just in time. The teacher turned to see what the students had been giggling at but there was nothing unusual in view. When she had left the room, Brassius poked out from behind the equipment and gave Carmen and Rina a thumbs’ up.

While Arturo continued to admire the machinery and mutter to himself, Brassius sat very still apart from his furious sketching. The Dolliv approached him slowly, stepping gracefully down from the wooden platform where it had been sitting and watching the temperature on the molaxer. Capsakid watched Arturo suspiciously as Dolliv approached an enraptured Brassius.

She stopped several paces off, sniffed, and made a face that had Brassius struggling not to cry from laughter.

“I must smell terrible,” he agreed, smiling widely. He showed her his sketch, saying, “It’s very rough, I know,” but Dolliv looked at the proffered notebook for long seconds before she nodded with a pleased, high-pitched sound. The nod was accompanied by a small burst of oil from the olives on her head, this one much pleasanter-smelling than what Smoliv had doused Brassius with earlier. He blinked and watched Dolliv saunter happily away, having sprayed Brassius and ruined his sketch.

“Hey, this olive oil smells amazing,” said Arturo from across the room.

 

They waited for their classmates outside the frantojo, with Brassius drifting nearer the olive grove. Hoping for another glimpse of the Smoliv from earlier, he kept his gaze on the gnarled and twisted roots of the olive trees. This might have been why, when something brushed the back of his head, he raised a hand to bat it away without looking.

This happened twice more, and then Brassius heard the angry buzzing and saw the tiny Combee he had knocked out of the air, and the very large, very loudly buzzing Vespiqueen. The orange claws were the least of his worries now—the red eyes, protruding mandibles, furious horns, the wings beating angrily against its thorax, most of all the abdomen angled at him from above like a cannon prepared to open fire—made his stomach drop and his eyes widen.

“Freeze, don’t move!” came a whispered command.

Brassius, who had frozen on instinct, did not find this to be helpful. He watched the Combee fly into the Vespiqueen’s skirt-like hive, hiding inside a perfectly-sized cavity that mirrored its tri-hexagonal body.

He bit his lip and remembered all he could of hours spent watching Combee flight patterns. Then he moved his shoulders side-to-side, and got down to the ground, sitting on his knees and bowing his head to touch the dirt once, twice.

“Ooooh,” said the voice which had told him to freeze. The Vespiqueen hovered over him, and Brassius could feel the wind generated from its wings on the back of his neck. He stayed face-down in the dirt, hoping he wasn’t wrong about this. Part of him thought swinging his backpack at it and running might have been the wiser move.

The Vespiqueen hovered for some time without attacking, and then it landed in front of him. Brassius looked up, startled that the wind and sound had died down. The Vespiqueen bent down and took what could only be a long, deep whiff.

It scrunched up its face and flew suddenly much higher in the air, buzzing angrily again.

“Oh that’s not good,” said Rina, who had been watching events from the neighboring olive tree with her own Combee. Brassius felt panic begin to well up in hot and cold pinpricks along his arms and a narrowing of his throat, and also the slighter feeling of irritation at Rina for being of absolutely no help in a vexing situation.

And then the Smoliv was there, emitting a liquid-sounding gurgle, and the Combee flitted out of Vespiqueen’s shelter and flew down to communicate with the Smoliv. Brassius opened one eye from where he had backed away into the lap of an olive tree and watched Smoliv and Combee exchange soft syllables.

He bobbed his head once in a small semi-circle, the way he’d seen Combee do, and the small Combee flew up to him curiously. Brassius raised a hand gingerly and patted it, very gently apologizing. The Combee trilled a little and flew back to Vespiqueen, which continued to buzz threateningly as it finally retreated.

Brassius exhaled and slumped back against the olive tree, and the voice from before said,

“Holy crap. I thought you were a goner!”

“Thanks for the great advice,” Brassius murmured, eyeing Rina as she climbed down from the nearby tree. Then with more sincerity to the Smoliv, “Thank you, querida.”

“What were you even doing in the grove and not in class?” he asked Rina on the bus, sitting in the aisle seat, the bottle of olive oil stowed in his bag and Arturo perusing his purple journal in the window seat beside him.

“Well you know how I like bugs,” Rina said, “and there weren’t a lot in the olive mill. But I saw other Combee in the grove, and I figured my Combee would want to play. I didn’t expect to see you acting so dumb! You gotta pay attention to wild Pokemon, dummy! And you shouldn’t wander off the road without a Pokemon of your own! Did you not pass first grade? Jeeze.”

Brassius couldn’t disagree there, so he stuck out his tongue and then turned back to staring out the window. Rina was right, and she was being relatively nice about it. Brassius was already ten. Half of his classmates had their own Pokemon. Some had several! He stared out the window, wondering what his partner would be like.

The Smoliv that had snuck into his school bag snored softly, below notice.

* * *

Meanwhile, in a province of Galar…

* * *

Hassel tucked down his little sister’s collar and ran his hands carefully over her head to smooth the bedhead even a little bit. His brother was a lost cause and more likely to slap away his hands if he tried, but Cara was six years younger and milder, or maybe it was that she was a girl and mother took politeness to a terrifying extreme in her case. Whatever the reason, Hassel felt less uncomfortable when he could take care of someone else. That, and he did not want to give mother or their Kalosian tutor another reason to rebuke Cara for sleeping in.

Monsieur Concombre was not there to teach them grammar, Father had told them all last night. He had called them up into his study after family dinner. They stood at attention while he went behind his desk to the liquor cabinet and poured out his favorite Freezington whiskey (Scotch, Hassel mentally corrected himself). Father liked to test them, sometimes, sitting and sipping and watching them try not to react as they awaited his announcement. Typically he would use these meetings as a monthly inspection, quizzing his children on topics their tutors had mentioned they were struggling with. Sometimes he would announce upcoming family events. Other times, he would make his displeasure known: Mikan had had his Tyrunt taken away just last month for failing to train with it every day. Though his brother had taken the news stoically, Hassel had heard the wailing that night, and his own pillow had been wet, too. But Hassel's attempts at comfort had been rebuffed, again and again. Mikan had pointed out that Hassel still had a Pokemon, and couldn’t possibly know how he felt, and shouldn’t be crying because he wasn’t the one suffering, what was he, a little girl?

Hassel had attempted to talk to Father about this decision, though the only result was a reminder not to question orders unless he was prepared to assume leadership–go on, Hassel, challenge me to a battle like a man. No? Then know your place. It will be at the top, Hassel. You have not trained nearly enough yet. As for your brother, he needs to learn responsibility sometime. You didn’t neglect your duties when you were his age, did you?

Hassel would have been more worried, had he not seen Cara sneaking in to see Mikan later that night, Cara who still had access to the study via the children’s library’s sliding bookshelf during her reading lesson, and the privacy to sneak in and grab Tyrunt’s Pokeball and sneak out again. Cara’s education was overseen by Mother and only marginally freer than Hassel and Mikan’s. Provided she was reading about household responsibilities or care for dragons and dragon masters, Cara could spend her morning reading hour in the library largely unsupervised.

They stood in a line like three little soldiers of varying heights. They were not made to wait long this time.

“You will give Monsieur Concombre the respect he deserves,” Father had said, speaking slowly. His voice was a sheathed weapon; the cut-glass articulation demanded absolute attention. The children knew to listen to barely perceptible changes in intonation that would render a statement into a question or a taboo, a suggestion or a rule. Their father would say that he did not deploy his weapons needlessly. “He is coming here, leaving his duties in Shalour City, at my personal request. You will have the privilege to work with him for just two weeks. Do not squander this opportunity. You know who Concombre is, don’t you?”

Cara’s eyes widened and she shook her head no. Mikan avoided their father’s gaze, and so Hassel took a breath and pushed the words out. It was always difficult to speak in the Study. Some stifling force pushed your words back into your throat, but Hassel had learned to overpower this strange phenomenon.

“I believe Monsieur Concombre is a pioneer of the Kalosian technique of Mega Evolution.”

“You believe he is, or he is? He is said to be descended of the pioneers of this technique, yes,” Father said, running his fingers over his blond mustache as he did when beginning to be irritated. Hassel stopped himself from licking dry lips.

“He will demonstrate the technique for us tomorrow. I expect you all to learn from him…” he paused as though lost in thought. Hassel knew not to trust pauses, and was proven correct, the knot in his stomach migrating up into his chest at his father’s next words. “Ah, Hassel, a word. The rest of you may go.”

Mikan and Cara left, Hassel heard them as he forced himself to make eye contact as he had been taught to, raising his chin and pushing back his shoulders. The study door clicked, and their father turned to Hassel’s relief, and went back to his desk and opened the latched wooden box, taking out his pipe and his tobacco. Hassel watched him slowly pack the pipe with it, and when his father paused, gazing at Hassel with raised eyebrows, he moved forward with a jerk and took the lighter into suddenly wooden fingers. He flicked it three times before it lit, and held the trembling flame in a lightly trembling hand until his father’s pipe was smoking.

“Have a seat,” Aurantio said magnanimously, waving the pipe in an arc to indicate the leather upholstered chair before his desk. Hassel swallowed his question and sat and willed his heart to slow down because he could feel it jumping in his chest.

“I have spoken with your Mother about this. I believe it will push you to motivate yourself. I have spent a not inconsiderable amount of time and funds to have it tracked down for you, my Firstborn Son.”

Whenever his father spoke to him this way, with a certain delicate emphasis indicating capitalization, Hassel felt something strange happen to his body. Presently he felt sweat drip down his back, so he straightened his posture and relaxed his hands, hoping his pants would absorb any sweat on his palms. He could count, he could always count if it got bad, as long as his eyes remained focused and clear… He snapped to attention, not a moment too soon. His father was holding something out to him, another box, this one of black velvet.

For a wild moment Hassel thought he was being given another Pokemon. The box was big enough to fit a Pokeball, certainly a minimized one, and perhaps even regular size… he took the box with a nod and then forced himself to speak, if hoarsely: “Thank you, Father.”

The narrowing of fiery orange eyes, the fingers brushing through a blond mustache, and Hassel hurried to open the box. It wasn’t a Pokeball, though it was round and polished so that it gleamed. And there were two of them.

“Is this…?” Hassel took the first, larger crystal into his hand, his fingers just closing around it. Like an oversized glass marble, it felt cold in his hand. Except the stone did not let light through like glass did, so much as glimmer with a light of its own. Most of it was a deep dark purple, but a thick swirl veined the mineral’s core like an orange flame, matching the fervent eyes of his father across the desk.

“Indeed,” he said, beaming at Hassel. “We will set it into a collar once your runt of a Gible reaches its potential. It is perhaps premature to give it to you now, but as I told your Mother, you deserve a reward for your training. I know using your cousin’s Pokemon is not to your taste, but your battling skills have improved. If you continue to grow at this rate, by the time you reach eighteen–what’s that, three years away, now?--you will be ready for the Coming of Age Ceremony. Ah, but that is a discussion for the future.”

Hassel had placed the Garchompite back in the box before he left any sweat on it, and had been spinning the second, smaller stone sphere in hand. This one was closer to marble size, and multi-colored like a children’s toy. It didn’t set his chest burning the way the Garchompite had, nor did it do anything, really. Perhaps Cara would like it as a trinket, Hassel caught himself thinking.

“...Now,” his father had seen his distraction. Hassel replaced the Key Stone in the box and sat up straighter. “Tell me, what was the first Pokemon to Mega Evolve?”

Stopping himself from shouting the answer, Hassel took a breath instead. He had this. He did his reading, his tutors had drilled him, this was fine. Book learning, theory, these only took time and attention. He was good at that. It was not even a difficult question, not even a trick, like Father was wont to throw his way. He was being generous tonight, whatever the cause.

“Draconid lore of ancient Hoenn tells us that Rayquaza was the first Pokemon to Mega Evolve, but this is contested by another account. In Kalos, there is an ancient tower, rebuilt many times, that indicates a fighting Pokemon and its trainer were the first to achieve the bond of trust required for Mega Evolution,” Hassel forced himself not to linger here because his voice would waver with emotion and that was not allowed in the Study. “Lucario–which is silly, of course,” he hurried, responding to his father’s rising eyebrows.

“Of course,” his father repeated. “An ancient Rayquaza, yes. If you manage to impress Concombre over the next fortnight, he may offer you a chance to visit Kalos and pursue your studies of Mega Evolution further in Shalour. I should be very disappointed if you do not rise to the occasion, Hassel. Few dragon clans can boast mastery of this technique, in my generation. It would cement our status as the foremost and strongest Dragon Tamers in Galar in the Old World, and make inroads into the New World. Unova is Drayden’s territory in the north, but this could give us a foothold.”

Hassel’s mouth had gone dry but he spoke up, as trained, “I will not disappoint you, Father.”

“Very well, dismissed,” his father said sharply, no longer speaking half to himself.

Hassel felt ill as he walked out and closed the door to the study, the black box in hand.

Notes:

Some intermittent use of Spanish -- not my native language, so corrections are welcome!

Can you spot the scarvio characters? There's two whose names are slightly altered, but I think come across clearly? Also, Cara is ofc CaraCara oranges, Mikan is I think self-evident, and Calona is a very lazy anagram for Canola oil, the kind of oil you get after pressing Colza flowers :D

Fanart on twitter by awwlba and awwwlba on insta of an adult Brassius rescuing a Smoliv stranded up a tree. I don't recall if I wrote this before I saw the fanart, but it's fantastic art and I'll credit the artist anyway! Inventive use of the "thorn whip" that I've seen WizardGlick describe as armature wire and which I'll have some theories about going forward. This will get darker, but hopefully enjoyable!

Oh, I should add: there have definitely been stories and fan works that have influenced my interpretations of these characters. If you feel I've taken any of your ideas, please lmk and I shall credit you. To this end, for chapter 1 / prologue, I recall one story specifically but haven't been able to find it, where fairly young Hassel and his clan are flying over Cortondo as little Brassius and his family have a picnic and Brassius has made a sketch of the landscape and presents it to Hassel -- if anyone recalls the name and author, lmk? It's the last chapter, I believe. I've read a good deal of the stories on here and loved most of them. Shout out to CosmosVoid and TheIrenicUniverse for being kind and allowing me to bounce ideas off of them, and for sharing their fantastic writing and art which has inspired me again and again <3

Chapter 2: 1. The Song and the Sketch

Summary:

The first not-meeting, this one will be two chapters long. The very slow burn begins!

Hassel gets a taste of freedom and blossoms.

Notes:

Prologue: Brassius 10, Hassel 15
(characters included Rina, short for Katerina=Katy -- nicknames change with age sometimes. Arturo you must've figured out)

Here: Brassius 18, Hassel 23

Ah! I forgot to mention sselcouth last time, whose story Painter on a Cliff is tremendous, and you should do yourself a favor and read it. I was definitely inspired by her wonderful writing. Thanks again to Cosmos and to Irenic, who are fantastic to bounce ideas off of and inspiring (go look at all their work, it's wonderful). And thank you so much to the commenters and kudos-leavers! And to all readers -- I hope you enjoy <3

This chapter has another cameo. If he is your favorite, I hope I did him justice! He irritates someone here but I think he's ultimately in the right.

No particular warnings yet / nothing new. Some of the same regarding respiratory distress, a played-off breakup scene kinda sorta implied... Still cute and light and fluffy for now, relatively. I mean, Brassius is prickly but we knew that.

1.

Lumiose City, Kalos. Eight years later.

* * *

Perhaps it was something in the air here, in the river water, in the grass or the soil. There were fewer paved routes, more wilderness between cities and villages, the forests and the climate that yielded generous harvests. Whatever the reason, Pokemon here were more abundant than Galar or Johto. And they were known on occasion to flock, herd or stampede you. There were even alerts sent out, broadcast in cities; outbreak of Binacle in the Azure Bay, or caution, Pumpkaboo patches floating near Route 13. Hassel had chanced across them when wandering in the south, looking to spend a day out in the famous lavender fields when he found himself suddenly astride a sea of floating flowers. Reds and yellows, whites and pinks, streaks of color across the green and blue landscape. Flabébé, a group of them called a bouquet, he later learned, enchanting as they floated along like tiny Eldegoss but miniature, delicate, colorful… a children’s book come to life.

That was when he decided he wanted to linger in Kalos, and he had stayed all of spring and into the start of summer. Hassel lingered still, enchanted by the city and its sounds.

Walking in the wilds of Kalos that spring, he had come across a sick Skrelp struggling in a late spring frost, and how was he to get the poisonous Pokemon to a Pokemon center when he didn’t have the right medicine to hand? If he touched it, the poison would affect him, but it was in no state to move on its own. After trying and failing to wrap it in his sleeping bag (he subsequently had to get a new one), Hassel gave up and caught it, hoping he could release it back into the wild when it was healthy. He rushed back to the nearest Pokemon Center with Gible barely keeping up. The Skrelp had recovered, and turned out to be rather clingy.

He thought back to how relieved he’d been when Skrelp recovered, how it had blinked enormous red eyes at him, pink snout twitching, pale blue fins waving gently… He had tried to bring it back to where he’d found it, but it just went back inside its Pokeball when he tried to set it free. Giving up for the day, Hassel had taken the train back to the city, where his things awaited him in a rented attic room–his guitar, a second-hand bicycle, several changes of clothes, Gible’s favorite blanket and a corner where he kept fine paper, pens and markers. He had been tutored in sketching as a child, in conveying distances to scale in maps, understanding the anatomy of dragons… but he had never colored anything until he saw Kalos. He had gone through a phase of pinks and blues and purples, that spring. He had always felt color, sometimes even flavor, in music. It felt wonderful to work backwards, now, hearing music as he drew, sometimes not hearing music and then realizing he was humming it…

Three or four days a week, but not the seven that father had demanded, Hassel took a train or a bus to a distant route or cave, a lake where powerful Pokemon were said to live, or a place frequented by trainers. You couldn’t live with dragons in a city, not without giving them exercise. And dragons were conspicuous. Hassel would defeat the experienced trainers, coach the newbies a little, and engage with any willing wild Pokemon. After the dragons were tired out, if the weather allowed it, he liked to bathe in a lake or stream and then eat his packed lunch, find a tree to sit against and sketch whatever he saw in bold colors, or read the newspaper, or take a nap. Sometimes he and his dragons train further, or take the opportunity to fly.

He went for a walk with Gible every evening on days they did not train, to keep up a minor form of exercise, and to listen to the city, to hear pianos playing in bars and bells ringing in cathedrals, to wander freely where his feet led him. He kept his collar turned up and checked for tails, but no one had been sent for him, or at least, no one had found him yet.

Reasonable caution dictated he avoid routine, but he had been falling into something of a habit nevertheless. Lately, Hassel found himself frequenting the old Latin Quarter, past student galleries and cafés and closed restaurants, curtained windows, laundry hanging off tiny balconies three floors up, buildings leaning close together, streetlamps throwing shadows on the cobblestones. During the spring he had busked on the embankment near the fruit market, and shoppers had tossed change and occasionally last year’s fruit to him as they passed, but now it was summer and the students were nearly done, so they came out more and filled the street with energy and life. There was a little shop nearby that sold herbs, and a stand that had fresh galettes most mornings. Gible was crazy for the galettes, though Hassel also had a sweet tooth.

He had paused to tie his shoes here last week, his laces were turning ratty with age, soles nearly worn through, and then he’d noticed how the light fell, and heard the ringing of the bells and fallen in love with the acoustics of this side-street. Early in the evening, he would take Gible and Skrelp for a walk that ended in the vicinity of this church. He would lean up against the closed bakery, sometimes sitting and watching people and simply listening, but most times leaning back in the shadow of the awning and letting his fingers interact with his guitar. After several nights like this, someone had left a chair out in his usual place and Hassel had kept coming since. Gible liked to people-watch or sway to the music, falling asleep after about an hour. Skrelp retreated into its Pokeball for twelve hours of sleep at eight every evening without fail, usually halfway through their walk.

And Hassel could not get enough of the acoustics; something in the configuration of narrow streets and corners and cafés made this specific, angular square ring and jangle and sing. It was more a jagged star than a square, really – the bit of street opposite the tiny round tables of the little café that served coffee and wine and that morning’s croissants, now a little stale. The cobblestones, the church bells, the art students filtering in–it was all so different, so lively, so beautiful. Sometimes Hassel got to see an installation in progress, graffiti declaiming that Pokeballs are prisons or, memorably, an anatomically inaccurate rendering of Mr. Mime peeing into the small drinking fountain. There was a mural the art students painted over every few days, visible along the side wall of the coffeeshop. It had caught Hassel’s eye when he walked over with the bizarre face of a small Pokemon he had never seen before, beady yellow eyes in a gray, gremlin-like face. It was so off-putting that Hassel stared at it for several minutes before he realized he was smiling, that it had come back around to being cute in some inimitable way. The other Pokemon painted onto the wall were done each in a different style and from a different region–he recognized the rest, of course, he could list types, weaknesses, move-sets and abilities in his sleep. Hassel shook his head.

He had been coming here for two weeks now, guitar case on the ground, improvised chord progressions jangling through the air, Gible blinking sleepily beside him. It was never as busy as the fancier parts of town but he could begin to pick out regulars, familiar faces, though Hassel was careful not to get too familiar. The warm, bright evening melted into night, the stars only faintly gleaming. Too much light pollution in the city of light, Hassel thought, to get a clear view of the stars. The way that Gible slowed and moved to the music, and the way some of the passersby moved made Hassel smile and look down at the fretboard.

Summer nights in the modern center of Lumiose bustled with activity, but here away from the embankment, opposite the cathedral and near the university, the arts academy and the arts district, there were fewer tourists at this hour. Galleries were closed, caricature and portrait street artists gone. Students occasionally wandered down the cobblestones–he could tell by their outlandish fashion choices, but also by their tipsy walk, their laughter, the easy embraces and stolen kisses. Late teens and early twenties felt far away for Hassel, at twenty-three. He looked away, feeling suddenly like he was intruding, and his hand had slipped into A minor and stayed there. He smiled at his own reaction, sniffed, and his fingers picked up the familiar folk songs of Johto, recalling the masked dances… his guitar was no substitute for the traditional flute, but he let the notes linger on the strings, picking slowly, as if he were dancing himself. The songs changed into older, stripped down versions. The ceremonial accompaniment to tea, to traditional dances, the old legend about the two towers…

Hassel's eyes drifted closed, head swaying through the song, slow, steady, then faster, more scattered, then a rush to the end. When he opened his eyes he was surprised to see passersby wandering over to listen. The café across the street had reopened after their break, and several customers sat at the small round tables. A waitress with curling dark hair paused taking orders to gaze at Hassel and he blushed and smiled, averting his eyes. He looked down and did a double take, spotting coins in his guitar case. Ah, that decided it, then. Not one to turn down a willing audience, Hassel brightened.

 

Across the way, the young man in the black turtleneck and his friend in striped green trousers were sharing a bottle of wine.

“Listen, I don’t mean to be unkind,” the taller student was saying, pink scarf unwound and hanging long, a blush high on his cheeks, his button down several buttons away from completely open. He put a hand on his companion’s shoulder. “I understand you’re serious, Brass. But I’m just looking to have a little fun. Yes, I know–” he preempted his companion, who had opened his mouth, ready to argue something with indignation. “I know, the Senior Prize is a big deal, I’m honored, but come on, you can’t just do this for prizes. For what, for fame? You’ve got to give it time, let it ripen, let it mean something.”

His friend’s face darkened when he frowned. Already pronounced circles beneath his eyes took on a purplish-black hue to match his turtleneck.

“Ah,” he said, voice hoarse and quiet. He shrugged the hand off his shoulder. “My mistake. Forgive me for misapprehending your intentions, then, Lindburg. I suppose it must be liberating, to be possessed of all the time in the world. To pursue, how did you put it? A little fun.”

“See, there it is. Resentment. It’s like a web, sticking to you. The more you fight it, the more you become entangled in it. This is why this can’t work,” Lindburg’s frown deepened, too. He hesitated and went on, “I’m sorry, darling, but you can’t put that on me.”

His companion did not answer at first, but seeing Lindburg’s expectant face, he gave a minimal: “I see.”

“I’m glad you do! We all get blocks, we all fall into slumps. Gabor had to take medical leave last semester. Do that if you need to, go back to your beloved green country. You’ve seen me vanish, you know I take off to the forest and go climbing when I’m down. Have you ever meditated in a cocoon, suspended from a tree branch?”

His companion took up his abandoned wine glass and stared into it rather than dignify that with an answer. Lindburg refilled his own glass, and followed their waitress’s distracted gaze across the street.

“Say, is that Kantonian music?” he said, after listening for a time.

“No,” his companion snapped. “Wait. Quiet.”

They listened, Lindburg draining and refilling his glass again, and giving Brassius side-eye.

“It’s utaimono, or supposed to be. But one person can't be a whole orchestra so he's adapted it. The Burning of the Bell Tower, which is in Johto,” Brassius muttered at last. His fingers had been tapping the glass in time. “I thought it sounded familiar. The city where the past flows alongside the present… The Maiko dancers are said to be beautiful. I’ve never been there. Calona had a phase I actually enjoyed, before she moved into Unovan jazz. I love it when it’s played well, but her skills were not up to the task.”

“Right, right, your sister’s a musician,” Lindburg refilled his companion’s glass. “Still, you usually prefer the new to the old. I didn’t know you knew Johto folk legends or liked jazz.”

“Certainly, I look to utopia rather than arcadia,” Brassius sniffed. “You’re not a poor musician yourself, with your Bug flute.”

“Hardly,” Lindburg laughed. “It doesn’t take much to beguile bugs, does it?”

There was a lull. They sipped their wine.

“Why do you so insistently dismiss your talents?” Brassius pressed him, suddenly fierce, eyes glowing as he looked up. Then he looked away, squeezing his eyes shut, grimacing. He took a sip of wine but it must have gone down wrong because he sputtered, coughing. His chest rose and fell quickly, and he stifled his coughing in the crook of his elbow.

“Alright, alright, I’ll take the compliment, no need to choke on my account,” Lindburg said lightly, but his eyes were careful and his hands twitched. His companion’s already wan face lost color, eyes growing wet as he hacked into his elbow.

The waitress, who had frozen as if in a trance several tables away, fixated on the guitarist across the street, jumped to bring them water.

“Please don’t mind him, he just loves attention. He’ll be alright,” Lindburg assured the waitress as Brassius struggled for breath but found time to glare at his friend. “Relax,” Lindburg said, trying to take Brassius’ hand, only to be swatted away.

Brassius’ hair fell out of his attempts at styling the curls and into his face, though the low ponytail kept the longer strands at bay. His thin frame shook with coughing, each inhale cut short on a wheeze. He fumbled in his pockets for an inhaler, a pill, something, coming up empty, too winded to even curse himself. He was hyperventilating with breaths too shallow to carry oxygen, each cough jolting his ribs with familiar pain. His eyes darted, too desperate to be conscious of the scene he was making, and met the eyes of the musician across the street. Or rather, he met the golden gaze, but those eyes were elsewhere, transported, feeling so deeply that they did not register what he was seeing and so they expressed not pity or concern but admiration, or maybe longing. It was breathtaking, and Brassius’ coughing cut off, he stopped breathing, surprised. The music overtook him. Unconsciously, his breathing evened out to the tune, deepening despite the slight rasp that remained.

The guitarist seemed to come back to himself, then. Something changed in his eyes, the music stumbled, but he blinked and took Brassius’ fixated stare in stride and picked right back up. Brassius let out a sigh, and his shoulders relaxed. He couldn’t see the details of the man’s face from here, but the warmth of that gaze had felt like fire, like breath, like sunlight.

“Oh, you’re the insect man from his picture,” the waitress said, interrupting whatever feeling the song and the guitarist had inspired in Brassius.

He did not stop listening, however, his attention still fixed on the blond man, the wide shoulders framing his embrace of the guitar. His all-encompassing focus pulled the world in rather than keeping it out, as Brassius tended to do, when he managed to become absorbed in his work. The golden-eyed street guitarist playing old, practically cliche music was transforming the world, the way art was supposed to! This was ironically, achingly avant-garde, Brassius reflected, fingers itching, breaths shallow but clear. The old excitement was growing within him, glowing, starting to burn. He was supposed to note the fits down in a journal for the new doctor, who was concerned at their frequency, but that didn’t matter right now, what mattered was if he could contain the heady feeling long enough to feed it into something real…

“Ah yes,” Lindburg was saying, “Brass here painted my portrait for the café, I think he was covering a bill? I was surprised he got away with it,” he laughed and the waitress joined in. “It’s impressive that you recognized me.”

“You do look different without the pink Butterfree in your hair and with fewer than eight limbs… but Colette has a soft spot for what she deems to be avant-garde. We were just about to take some of the student work down to rotate it, there’s loads more in the back.”

Lindburg continued to chat, inviting the waitress to sit and partake of their wine. When this predictably failed, he followed her, asking her to show him some of her favorite work in the café. He cast a quick glance at Brassius, who was making moon-eyes at the guitarist now, deemed him alive, and risked slipping a hand around the waitress’s waist, paying close attention to her reactions. She pulled away with a smile, and Lindburg followed her into the café.

Without taking his eyes off the guitarist, unearthing his sketchbook and pencils by touch from his bag, Brassius set to sketching. Shoulders, hands, the fall of shoulder-length, golden hair beneath the streetlamp, the eyes half-lidded as the music changed… the sweep of hair falling into the open face from the messy half-bun as he tilted his head, lost in the rhythm, obscuring winged brows… he started again on another page, he could capture this, his hand just needed to move differently, more freely! Brassius frowned at his broken pencil, took out a pen, shook out his hand, wrist clicking. That was smoother, yes, better… music was movement, after all…

Most of the sketchbook pages had been torn out unevenly, and only a handful remained. Typically he’d get a fine point on the pencil before beginning anything, but such trivial things didn’t matter now. There was an idea growing in his head, a feeling and an energy coursing through his chest, and if he could put pen to paper right now, just now, he might be able to catch some of it. He wanted to create at scale, the kind of thing that got you noticed, that got you jobs and prizes. Something he could feel, something worthwhile…

He wasn’t thinking about that now. He wasn’t thinking anything except the way the streetlamp cast a warm glow, the new song, not ancient Johto but something unfamiliar, and the dextrous, long-fingered hands; even from here he could see pianists’ fingers. Brassius would bet his scholarship that the man–he looked to be in his twenties, at a glance–could play piano. His hands were an artist’s dream, palms broad enough but fingers long and elegant and coaxing such music forward that it lit Brassius’s chest up with heat, not the horrible feverish kind but the exciting, alcoholic heat of potential. He squinted. There was a thin bracelet, just twined red and white thread, on his right wrist.

Why had he been wasting time trying to understand Lindburg’s style? Lindburg was trivial. So what if he’d got the senior prize? Brassius had never heard music like this. He should have noticed, should have listened. He moved without realizing it to the furthest table from the café, to see and hear more clearly.

It was only after his hand had sketched the form that he really noticed the slack-jawed Gible on the paper, and then its real-life counterpart, sitting beside the man. It had tipped back its rounded body, sound asleep, ease written in every scale of its upturned snout. As though feeling his gaze, it woke up, yawned, and surveyed its trainer with the same warmth Brassius had felt in the golden gaze. The Gible swayed very slightly to the music. Brassius had heard of Pokemon and trainers so in tune with each other that they could battle without verbal commands, reading each other’s body language. This Pokemon looked like it could snooze or sway all day and night to its trainer’s music, and Brassius wouldn’t grudge it a second, though he himself felt like his hand was dancing, his heart racing. He was concentration incarnate, eyes, hand, paper and ink. He was a conduit for something else, something greater. Brassius—questions of style and form, of art philosophy and meaning, of identity and wardrobe, choice of lover, disappointment or fame—even of pained breathing—faded away. And to be free of himself and of doubt and of insecurity, to be free of self and self-criticism felt like the weightlessness of stepping into warm water. It buoyed him. His hand felt light, natural. When he flipped pages it wasn’t because he hated what he’d done. He didn’t even look at what he’d done. It was because he wanted to capture a new angle or detail, because a lock of hair had shifted and he wanted to redraw the shadow from the different angle of elbow and shoulder, because Gible had startled itself awake, blinked, and was half-dozing again with a toothy yawn and swaying to the music in a way Brassius didn’t know little Pokemon could sway, a dragon dance that was nothing like the battle maneuver of the same name. He turned the page without judgment or self-criticism because the song had ended and another had begun, because he recalled the golden amber of those eyes, he had never seen such a shade, and the warmth of them. How they held both the sad desire for something unattained and simultaneously the joy of the music.

He found himself hoping that the musician found whatever it was that he was longing for. Brassius shook his head at his own sentimentality. It was reflected in the sketch, too, the sentiment–oh, that was the opposite of avant-garde! He squeezed his eyes shut, willing it away. He couldn’t unsee it now. Opened again. Still there.

Worthless. Damn damn damn…

And he had felt so hopeful, so light, for a minute… ah, he was used to disappointments. But this one was somehow easier to bear. Perhaps the music helped? With a wry frown Brassius tried to salvage his ego. So sometimes he would succumb to sentimental street music and sketch with more feeling than technique, that wasn’t a crime. A bit of a crime against art, perhaps… against taste, or style, but who was to know? He wouldn’t sign it, wouldn’t sell it, no one had to see.

Still, it was not altogether tasteless. Brassius cast a more detached eye at it. The Gible was almost childishly charming, and the lines of the guitarist’s arm, back, and guitar could be considered pleasing to the eye. The sketch was neither fully abstract nor fully naturalist, something altogether inspired by the old Johto song, the old tower in the background not the Lumiose Pokemon gym but a tower with multiple pagodas, a temple with a bird perched atop it… black but in his mind, he knew it to be golden… Not what he wanted from art, perhaps, but maybe the guitarist would find it flattering? Brassius swallowed bitter disappointment after his excitement—he should be used to inspiration’s feints, to his own mercurial rollercoaster of a temperament, he knew, but it never got easier. He tore out the last sketch before he could think twice of it. But then he had thought twice of it, because he thought entirely too much, as his instructors frequently told him, and he should listen to his instincts… well, he would show them, his instincts were far from sentimental. He crumpled up the sketch and let it fall to the ground.

Lindburg was just coming back to the table, and being taller than Brassius, easily made out the sketch before it was a ball on the ground, and the deep frown that had returned to his friend’s face.

“Wine not to your taste?” he asked.

“You’ve got lipstick on your collar,” Brassius parried. Lindburg only smiled and ducked, as if tying his shoelaces, but he had scooped up the crumpled drawing too.

“I had a cherry pastry and it got away from me, actually. You know Matilde is at least twice my age, don't you? Lumiosians all flirt, it's just how they communicate. Anyway, I helped Matilde curate the student gallery, we centered your portrait... I suppose you could call it my portrait. I should paint one of you, Brass. You always refuse to model for me. Well, shall we? My treat today.”

Brassius nodded his thanks, thrusting his sketchbook carelessly into his bag, pens into his pocket. They walked slowly by the guitarist, and Brassius took in the music without excitement now, tiredness leaching his posture. The guitarist glanced up without seeing them, absorbed in his new song, and Brassius averted his eyes. What right had he to meet golden eyes, when he couldn’t even put pencil to paper without sentimental nonsense ruining it? When he turned, he snatched the crumpled paper from Lindburg (he thought he was being sneaky, as if Brassius didn’t have peripheral vision) and tossed it into the guitar case himself, perfectly aware of his friend’s mischief and pre-empting it. Perhaps the guitarist would simply toss the stray sketch without looking at it, or assume a child had made it. That would be best, really. Arceus, he was tired, but insomnia had been dogging his nights, so he’d taken to reading, or sitting on rooftops smoking, or even going out with Lindburg…

Brassius cursed the fatigue that had got hold of him, the tightening of his ribs, the incipient headache that was only tapping now, but which would be pounding soon. What he wanted, when he heard music like this, was to create, and if he could not do that, then to dance. To be like the other students, much as he usually hated this thought, and to dance all night in a club, or better yet on a rooftop, in the face of his worries and with no regard to them. To laugh, dance, flirt, live, and not to be in panting, dead-eyed pain, first from the physical and then psychological anguish. What absurd limits his body had! How paltry, how inadequate to the feelings within him, to his dreams and ambitions. He’d seen a play lamenting the sorry state of existence, the main character’s words came back to him now, to live, or not to live? But oh, the Gible was nibbling lightly on the guitarist’s pant-leg. Brassius grinned, the expression sending a pulse of pain to his temple. He followed Lindburg. They walked off toward the university dormitories, stopping to scoff or laugh at graffiti, listening to the strains of jangling guitar fade away.

* * *

Hassel noticed the wetness in his trouser leg and his mind went to childish places before he saw that Gible had taken a fold of his pants into its mouth and was drooling through it, wetting the outside of his shin below the knee as a way to get his attention.

He grimaced, tried to smile down at the tired Gible and tugged very gently with his leg to ask it to let go.

“Alright, alright, I know it’s past our bedtime, old boy,” he muttered, setting his guitar down gently and kneeling to scratch Gible’s jaw after it had let go. “I apologize. You know how it can be, you become absorbed and don’t notice the time. Thank you for your reminder.”

Smiling genuinely now, he patted Gible and went to his case, surprised to find a scattering of bills, coins, and what looked like some trash that had blown into it. He paused before he tossed the crumpled paper, noticing it was thicker, finer quality. Hassel was intrigued, but he tucked it into his jacket pocket alongside his wallet. It was late. Gible had been neglected long enough.

Back in his attic room, he lost himself in bedtime routines. When he was laying in bed, Gible curled up near his knees in a blanket cocoon, Hassel gazed up through the attic window at the night sky illuminated by lights, and the barely-visible stars. The waxing moon drifted slowly into view, bright and beautiful. He closed his eyes and the moon transformed into the pale face of the café patron across the street, whose eyes had shone with emotion as Hassel played. The pared-down Bell Tower song played in Hassel’s head as he fell asleep.

 

Something was tugging on his hair. Hassel cracked open one eye, then two, to the sight of the algal seahorse swaying back and forth, strands of blond hair in its mouth. Skrelp was awake, which meant that the sun had risen hours ago and the rest of his team would be clamoring for breakfast soon.

“Don’t eat that,” Hassel laughed hoarsely, shaking his hair free. Skrelp made a bubbly noise in the back of its throat, and Hassel nodded. “Yes, yes, let me just get up and we’ll do breakfast. You must’ve been a Hoot-hoot in another life, you really do keep time perfectly. Or maybe a Kricket-aaaahhhh–tune?” Hassel's face expanded in a monstrous yawn, then returned to its peaceful expression. He rose, stretching by habit as he went to the cupboard to fetch gourmet Pokemon food, and he set out Skrelp’s dish (it was his only bowl, but Skrelp liked routine).

After he had shaved, washed, brushed and dressed, Skrelp situated itself on his shoulder for the morning. The fresh-faced Hassel emerged into the street, squinted in the sun, and made directly for the stand selling the other kind of cookie that Gible favored.

An hour later, Gible had eaten his sables, Skrelp retreated into its Pokeball and Hassel was digging in his pocket for change to pay for his after-breakfast coffee when he came across a texture he recognized: fine quality paper, crumpled in his pocket. He didn’t recall tearing out any sketches.

He flattened the paper out on the table with care. Abruptly, the memory surfaced: yesterday’s music, the crumpled trash he’d found in his guitar case. Except it wasn’t trash. The scene was of a city street and a guitarist, done in pencil which broke off, and was replaced with simple black pen. Hassel recognized himself with a pang. The guitar was sketched in vaguely, with more attention given to Hassel’s silhouette and the Pokemon sitting at his side.

It appeared simple, at first glance. But the more he looked, the more detail he caught. Seemingly effortless detail, that connection of lines here, the omission there, the almost complete lack of shadow. The lines conveying the sweep of Hassel’s back when he bent his head, the side of his face, the look both relaxed and focused as he played, fingerwork across the frets implied with half the frets missing but the line of the neck of the guitar like a Swanna and at his feet, in more detail, Gible’s face full of the music…

Art students sometimes gifted him sketches for lack of funds or to break the ice, usually presented with a self-conscious smile, sometimes with an address or dorm room scrawled on the other side, once with a flourish and curtsey. He’d seen them in the café that displayed their work, the art students, and he visited exhibits at museums to keep abreast of the old and the new. He’d never been interested in the sculptures or paintings of battle in their father’s library or the excursions to private exhibits father had taken them on as children, but he had always enjoyed looking at the oil paintings, and he’d seen the old ones mother kept in the attic beneath a tarp. He did not keep up with the training, or the reading, or most of the things his father had attempted to instill in him. But Hassel kept abreast of the music scene at night, and the art and coffeeshop scene during the day. Here they called them cafés. If nothing else, there were usually interesting people to people-watch… He looked back down at the anonymous sketch, still thinking about his mother and her oil landscapes, a faint smile on his face.

The sketch was not anatomically perfect, nor did it yet have a distinctive style all its own. But it bore the beginnings of something different, a perception more incisive, an execution instinctive and precise, a confident vision of one passing moment, captured and achieved. It conveyed the feeling of the song, the warm summer night’s breeze playing with Hassel’s hair in that one strand’s slight wave, seemingly careless details that added up to something alive. Hassel’s face had lit up, looking at the thing, and he felt tears dripping down his cheeks and chin before he realized he was crying. Silly habit, it had got him in trouble with his father many times, and he thought he had learned to control it. But he was a musician now, and not a dragon tamer. Emotions were his greatest asset, to be treasured and not pushed down. Clara’s voice rang in his head and he smiled through the silly tears.

He had been playing the old tunes from Ecruteak last night, and the artist must have some familiarity with them, for there in the background, where the Lumiose gym should have been, bright, jarring, modern, was instead the shadowy stacked pagoda roof of the Bell Tower. There were very few shadows, and the darkest places were the tower, and the shade over one of his eyes, which made the contrasting spark of it appear all the more dramatic. Inverse light and shadow, Hassel mused, since that night the tower and, by this theory, his eyes must have been bright. At least to the artist. The perspective—from across the street. There had been several couples at the café, the waitress, the group of tourists… but no, this required sitting and listening and sketching. How had he not noticed someone’s attention, especially the attention of someone with so keen a gaze? He could miss important things, when engrossed in music, but how had he missed someone examining him so carefully?

Gible’s face made him want to cry from joy, whenever his eyes fell on that part of the sketch he felt a too-wide smile stretching his cheeks. Hassel smoothed the paper carefully out again, feeling suddenly like he had to know. He had, without noticing it, begun to guess after the artist. The tall man with the striped green trousers, drinking wine and laughing with the waitress? No. The waitress? No, no, he knew Matilde, she’d served him for free at the end of the night. She was an art appreciator like the owner of the café, sure, but she wrote and recited poetry, and often sat with her nose in a book between shifts. Besides, she had been working, there had been tourists in and out all evening, art students always went by hoping for a critique from the café owner, the place was usually quite busy, Kalos really did café culture in a new way…

One other thing bothered Hassel. He would recall the identity of the artist, or track them down. But why had they not presented the sketch to him? Had he been so caught up in song? Why toss it in his case like an after-thought, and why crumple it up? Was this to make light of the gift? This would not do…

Gible, long done with his cookies and curious at what had Hassel sniffing, nosed at his hand and Hassel lifted him up for a look.

“They really got your chompy face, old boy. And mine, too, for that matter,” Hassel muttered, and Gible made a sound that suggested approval as Hassel set him in his lap. “Learn the style, will you? They didn’t sign it, but if we go to Colette’s, they show student work. Maybe we can get their name, find something else done by the same hand? We should really thank them… even if it’s only with another song.”

Gible huffed happily, sending the sketch off the table. Hassel began to put it back into his pocket, paused, and tucked it into his lapel instead. He would eventually tape it to the inside of his guitar case, and it would inspire children watching him perform to make their own sketches for him, of him, of Gible, of their own Pokemon. Hassel would also tape these to the inside of the guitar case, until the felt was entirely overtaken by drawings. The original remained in the center of the tapestry, and Hassel’s eye was always drawn to it first, whenever he opened his guitar case, and whenever he put his guitar away in years to come.

Notes:

Oh, there was a story I will find and credit here when I do, where Hassel explicitly trains his dragons out of town to avoid notice and give them exercise. I had not thought of this very real physical necessity until this story very aptly presented it. I'll track it down and credit its author with this idea. I believe they had Hassel give young trainers some advice, too. He's such a sweetheart, Hassel. (lmk if you recall the story I'm talking about?)

One more thing. I hope it is not confusing, my switching between Hassel / Brassius' perspectives. Please lmk if you get lost anywhere? Thank you for reading!

Chapter 3: 1. The Sketch, pt2

Notes:

righto, I think I typically include swearing in my writing, I don't really warn for that. Now you know to expect it... :D

Not really any warnings for this that I can recall...? a little bit of bad French, that's probably the worst of it? Anyway, it's the next part that gets a bit rougher, this is just more of the same, I hope. eh. I like detective Hassel.

1. (cont'd)

Same time, same place

* * *

Colette Stein was short, but her clear and piercing brown eyes made people twice her height feel small. Her voice could ring loudly over a chatting crowd and her words could shatter an artist’s dreams as easily as set them up for a showing at the bohemian Shalour Gallery, the height of modern art in Kalos. Colette had lived above and literally presided over Chez Colette for at least three decades, and it was a rite of passage for students at the Lumiose Art Institute to get at least one withering critique from Madame Stein. She was as much a fixture of the city as the central tower, and while the years multiplied her wrinkles slowly and greyed Umbreon’s whiskers, they seemed not to affect Colette or her establishment in any other way. The café doubled as a gallery for arts students she took under her wing, though these were few and far between. Paintings accumulated on the walls. Sketches, photographs, short books of poetry… Matilde minded the bar and sometimes waited tables when the social mood struck, though she was best known for her literary salons on Friday nights. Lumiose was a city vibrant with cafés and galleries, but Chez Colette was an establishment.

Unlike Matilde, who flitted around with drinks or tended the bar and the conversation, Colette rarely mingled with the clientele. They had to come to her if they wanted her attention. Colette typically selected a small group of artists for a weekly workshop. She only sauntered down for a coffee in her own café if very few customers were present, typically before opening hours or past the mid-day rush, when the stragglers had drunk their after-lunch coffees and gone.

The art student furiously applying pencil to sketchbook tensed when he saw Colette come through the back of the café. He’d been sitting with Matilde. Was it true that Madame Stein might, on select occasions, accept art when a tab came due? This was indeed true, Matilde had confirmed, though it was more common to see a student leave in tears and with a greater tab for their efforts. Undeterred, the student made his pitch. Flourishing the sketch, he placed it on the counter before Colette, where she had sat down, and opened his mouth to present it properly. Before he could say anything further, Colette’s appraising dark eyes glanced at the sketch and the verdict was pronounced. Pronounced twice across languages, as if to pre-empt any misunderstanding or denial.

“Non. No.”

She turned to her black coffee, conversation finished. Umbreon slunk behind the counter and, after a feline stretch, hopped onto it and headbutted the unsuitable student, who went from reeling emotionally to stumbling physically back.

“But why? Won’t you at least tell me what’s wrong with it?”

“On your tab,” Colette said firmly.

The bell tinkled on the door and she raised a skeptical gaze which warmed when it alighted on another art student, this one evidently in her better graces.

“Ah, Mr. Colza. You’re just in time. Tell your classmate why his work is not acceptable currency here.”

Brassius, in for his mid-afternoon coffee, the third and last for the day, blinked and frowned at this greeting. His eyes went from Colette, who sat behind the counter with her attention fixed on her coffee, a hand idly petting Umbreon’s head, to the wide-eyed first year. His eyes drifted then to the bottles, apples, and pokeball atop the end of the counter, and the sketch which depicted these objects.

“Good afternoon,” Brassius said slowly, eyes taking in the sketch and the student’s face—he was pleading, poor kid.

Brassius paused longer to examine the sketch and the models it was made from. Finally, he said, “Isn’t nature morte a bit passé? Forgive me, but what is it you wish to convey? Is there any originality, or in lieu of that, authenticity? It strikes me as technically fine, but anyone can practice to achieve good technique. What vision guided your choice of subject? If you’re going to give us these objects, why not play with the light, or innovate on the composition? There’s no use of color, or shadow, or texture. You could at least try warping the perspective? I mean,” Brassius interrupted himself to breathe, because he was speaking quickly. He forced himself to slow. “What is it telling you? It’s telling me that the objects were there and so you drew them–but that’s hardly a work of art! Simply a study. I mean. I can see that the objects are there. I don’t need you to draw them to tell me that. And you can’t expect such things to sell, at least not until you’ve made your name. And that’s what currency is, isn’t it? Something of value… this is just practice, a homework assignment. It’s not serious work, it needs… meaning, depth…” Brassius was speaking half to himself now, looking bitter, and the words seemed to hit him more than the student; “Or in the absence of that, at least passion! Or… some kind of exceptional skill or innovation… otherwise, you’re not saying anything. You might as well be silent. You might as well not pick up a pencil or paintbrush at all.”

Colette glanced at Brassius out of the corner of her eye. The student looked near tears.

“So wordy, Colza. It’s much simpler. You, young man,” she turned to the student, who perked up, “have no artistic sight. You have not found your raison d’etre. You are no artist, not until you discover this. Now add it to your tab, and try again when you have reflected on your mistakes.”

Umbreon growled softly and Colette went back to petting it, while Brassius shrugged at the other student, who had turned bright red.

“I’ll be back, Madam Stein!” he vowed, taking his sketch and nodding to Brassius before he left, the bell on the door jangling.

“Are you deliberately provoking tears?” Brassius asked, and Colette’s small smile was answer enough.

“You’re one to talk. Cherie! Cherie! Make Señor Colza here his usual, would you?”

“Of course, dear,” said the waitress-turned-barkeep. She had wandered in from the back rooms. “Did you just tag-team a first year art student? I do hope he’ll recover.”

“Just another amateur, Tilde. They’re impossible at this age, I don’t know why I even bother,” Colette waved her hand. The barkeep sighed fondly, shuffling to the espresso machine, packing coffee grounds. Soon the sound and odor drifted over, and then Brassius was accepting a double espresso with a nod and a gracias. A small biscuit was perched on the saucer.

“Matilde,” he said suddenly, looking up from inhaling the aroma. “The street musician from last night, do you happen to know him? I saw you looking at him, before you and Lindburg went, ah, inside…”

Matilde grinned at Brassius, twirling a black curl around her finger and tucking it behind her ear.

“Ah, I thought I should have to apologize to you for that,” she began, watching Brassius’ face redden. “I did not mean to abscond with your date!”

“Oh not at all,” Brassius managed, before hiding in his espresso. He sighed with enjoyment after drinking half of it. Then his expression soured, and he said, “Easy come, easy go, that’s me. It wasn’t really a date anyway. I’m glad for you.”

“Ha! You’re even worse at lying than at giving feedback,” Colette announced to the room, making Brassius hunch lower over his coffee. “Speaks well of your upbringing,” she added. “But Tilde’s first and only love is language, followed by Cava or, if that’s unavailable, green tea harvested from the top of Mount Silver.”

“Apart from picky old women,” Tilde shot back, blowing Colette a kiss.

“It wasn’t going anywhere,” Brassius said firmly, sitting up again and casting his frown around the room. “It really is dead in here at this hour.”

“That’s because I flipped the sign,” Matilde winked. “As for your question, I sometimes bring that young man food. You must have noticed his Gible?”

“He did,” Colette interjected again. Brassius looked up suspiciously, then frowned more deeply.

“Did you go through my sketchbook?” he said slowly, stormy expression darkening further. “How many times need I tell you? I will share work when I am ready! Don’t go looking through my personal things!”

Brassius glowered into the silence.

After she let the pause linger, Colette said, “Oh simmer down. I was only taking a peek. It was fresh, Monsieur Colza. Not like the dead things you’ve been working through. It looked alive.”

“It felt good,” Brassius admitted, letting the phrase dead things sweep over him, mortifying and then gone. He turned inward once more after his outburst, recalling how the music had lifted him. “Drawing it. But it wasn’t right. Remarkably well-cared-for, that Gible. It’s no easy feat to raise a dragon, let alone such a content one.”

“Almost as handsome as its master, wasn’t it?” Matilde prodded.

Brassius nodded before catching himself and joining Matilde in a laugh. Where she sounded high pitched, like tinkling bells, Brassius’ laugh was breathy, youthful self-consciousness twisting his face into a grimace.

“Drawing inspiration and influence from other artists is the bread and butter of any writer, I’m sure it’s similar for artists. With time, your own voice will emerge. At least, that’s what I’ve observed,” Matilde offered Brassius another cinnamon biscuit and he took it automatically, frown tugging down one side of his mouth.

“You’ve got potential, Colza. I’ve told you before. You haven’t found your voice yet, that’s all. This summer holiday, go abroad. See new things, and consider the things that formed you. What do you want your art to do? You’re casting around and it’s painful to witness. I’ve seen this before, and where it leads…” Colette wagged her finger at him.

“How does it all end then, pray tell?”

Brassius did not care to be compared to others. Colette smirked at his challenging tone.

“Badly,” she said. “If you cannot find the conviction you require to direct your potential, you will waste it like so many others have. Burn out. Fade. It’s what happens when you cannot sustain your fire. Your growth,” she amended. “So go find your joie de vivre before your ambition overtakes it, or you become cynical and bitter.”

Brassius frowned.

“You should not cut yourself off from growth,” Colette said, suddenly sharp. “Thinking you know best, that there is nothing more to learn.”

“I’m well aware of my limits,” Brassius muttered, consciously unclenching his jaw from where he’d been grinding his back teeth. He sighed. “I feel like I’m vacillating between self-doubt and arrogance, moving all the time but going nowhere.”

“Where does the arrogance stem from, do you think?” Matilde put in, sliding her elbows on the bar and leaning down to be level with the hunched-over student. Brassius looked up to meet brown eyes with his grey ones, looking younger and more tired for it.

“The doubt, obviously,” he confessed. “That’s what Colette means, isn’t it? When you say conviction. Something outside of myself, so that I convey it through art, without doubt. But what if there’s nothing? What if it’s all… empty?”

“Then you’ll be a hack and I will deny ever seeing any potential in you,” Colette said, patting Brassius on the back before going back to petting Umbreon, who opened its eyes and blinked at the disruption.

“Bravo. You’ve cheered me to no end,” Brassius said dryly.

“You don’t come here for cheering up. You come here for art, and coffee, and critique.”

“And it seems I’ve found two out of three today.”

He watched Matilde go to the window and draw the inner lace curtains. While there, she grinned and tickled Bonsly where it was standing very still in the sunlight.

“It really is unusual for a student of the arts to train a rock type,” Matilde mused, coming back to wipe down the bar and ducking out the back to let in the next shift’s waiters. The art student with long pink hair and the baker’s sons who had helped out in the kitchen growing up all greeted Colette respectfully before setting out candles and flowers on the tables outside, and beginning to prepare for the evening flaneurs, post-dinner coffee drinkers and the usual literary salon crowd who drank wine until they slurred their poetry recitations.

“Is it so unusual to wish to counteract your primary type’s weaknesses with a deceptive-looking Pokemon?” Colette replied, when Matilde had returned. “It’s something of a cliche to train fairy Pokemon as an artist nowadays… besides, every type has its own artistry, it depends on what you’re good at bringing out. Though Colza is somewhat mercurial by nature… Hm, perhaps flying or dragon might suit you best, non? What of a ghost or poison partner? Bramblin or Dragalge, something as prickly as-”

Brassius drank down the last of his coffee, now cold, and interrupted. “Thank you, I’ll take my leave now!”

Matilde laughed into her shoulder, watching Brassius pick up Bonsly, struggle a little with its weight and set him down to trod beside him out of the café.

“You wanted him to leave in a rush,” she accused, fighting down her laughter and taking the empty cup.

“He forgot his sketchbook again. Empty-headed young thing,” Colette lit up a cigarette and smiled, flipping open the sketchbook to studies of Gible, then of Bonsly and Smoliv. “Anxious as that Smoliv of his, they’re a clownish pair if ever I saw one. They get younger every year, Tilde.”

When she looked up, Matilde had begun to prepare for evening service. “Take the shift off,” Colette said, noticing for the first time that she’d filled the entire ashtray with cigarette stubs.

Matilde smiled wryly, her face looking much closer to her age, wrinkles and laugh lines emerging from hiding, dimples crowning her smile.

“I wouldn’t want to miss this. We have an early customer,” Matilde waved at the door with the glass she was polishing. Another young man stood just outside, looking between them and the “closed” sign with plaintive eyes.

“Ah, it’s the model himself,” Colette’s eyes lit up. “Go see what he’d like, then. He’d best pay us with a song, then I can judge if he’s as good as you say.”

Matilde said wryly, “You know full well what he sounds like, I see you open your window every night he plays.”

“Nonsense. I simply like fresh air. It gets stuffy in the summer, indoors.”

Matilde snorted and went to let in the young man, who beamed warmly at her, the polar opposite of Brassius’ prickly, distracted social manner, though his greeting was the same.

“Good afternoon,” he said, standing in the doorway with Gible and clearly fighting not to shift from foot to foot.

“Please, come in,” Matilde smiled again. “You’re always welcome, our customers love your music. And we do, too. Table or bar?”

“Actually, I was hoping to take a look at your art gallery,” Hassel trained his features into warmth, though curiosity would have him staring past the waitress and at the walls. He made an effort not to be rude. “I could order a coffee, too. Or, do you serve tea?”

“What kind of tea do you prefer? We have Galarian black, Kanto green, a variety of herbal teas… Perhaps you would like peppermint?”

“Black with milk would be perfect, thank you,” Hassel smiled and nodded.

While the waitress swept off with his order, he traced the room with his eyes. An older woman sat at the counter with a notebook and an empty coffee cup. The faintly striped wallpaper served as backdrop to both framed and bare sketches and paintings, all carefully arranged at a distance from one another so that they did not make the space feel crowded or messy. Other stretches of wall were bare brick, which set off black and white photographs. Behind the bar there were shelves of bottles and also of books. There was a hallway leading to the bathrooms and kitchen, based on the sign above the doorframe, and another hallway that was unmarked, but lined in more art. Young waiters or busboys flitted between the hallways, bringing out napkins, chatting, and looking busy without accomplishing very much. Hassel moved slowly along the perimeter of the café, or rather, the two side walls, because the bar at the back and the windows at the front were devoid of hanging pictures.

There were photographs, color and black and white, of Pokemon, of landscapes, of people. Hassel wasn’t looking for a photograph but he lingered despite himself, impressed with the curation and variety. He had been in galleries, in museum exhibits and private showings, as a child, that had been curated with significantly less taste and range. The brick wall and the simple black frames neatly drew the eye to the pictures and photographs within.

“Are you looking for anything specific?” the dark-haired waitress called, coming up to the table nearest Hassel and setting down the tray with a steaming pot of tea, then setting down a cup and saucer and jug of cream. Hassel looked away from the photograph and went to pour the tea, adding the right amount of cream and a touch of sugar, because he could, and because he was feeling peckish. The waitress smiled and set down the orange marmalade and croissants onto the table and Hassel audibly swallowed at the sight.

“Thank you! But how did you know these are my favorite?”

“They never last, when I bring them over,” the waitress said with a smug look. “You’ll ignore the apricot for a song, cherry and raspberry for two songs, but orange ends the song at once.”

“Thab yuh vebee buch,” Hassel said through a mouthful of croissant, then swallowed, apologized and thanked Matilde again. “I noticed the photographer on the left has an eye for pattern in their composition, where the one closer to the paintings seems really taken with camouflage and the colors and textures of Pokemon in nature.”

Hassel set to spreading marmalade inside his croissant expertly once more as Matilde and Colette exchanged looks over his head.

“You are a photographer?” Matilde said politely.

“Oh, no,” Hassel set down the butter knife, marmalade sandwich complete. He really preferred sandwiches to curries, though it was warmer here, it made sense not to spend time and heat cooking. He took a sip of the Galarian-style tea and sighed. “No, I’m just a connoisseur? A fellow art enjoyer, an amateur, really.”

“Indeed?” Matilde’s smile was a little mysterious, and Hassel turned quizzically to her before he remembered the sketch in his pocket. Something stirred in him, then. A desire to keep the sketch, to have it to and for himself. It had been given to him, and it was a drawing of him, after all. Something between himself and the artist. He could track down its maker on his own. Did he really want to ask strangers about this?

Hassel nodded at the waitress and drained half of his tea, thinking only how to end the conversation politely. In the end, he did not have to: the waitress winked at him and went back to the older lady at the counter, and Hassel discovered that he had eaten the croissant, all save a bite, and finished his tea. Gible began to headbutt his calf when Hassel brought the last bite of croissant to his mouth. He raised an eyebrow but did not hold out long, and Gible heard about how spoiled he was but seemed more focused on the treat.

The younger staff were audible from the kitchen, chatting and clanking cups. It sounded more like they were drinking coffee rather than preparing to serve it. Did they serve food? Bring pastries in from the bakery? The waitress was speaking quietly with the older woman. Hassel was undisturbed as he withdrew the semi-crumpled sketch and placed it reverently on the table after wiping off crumbs with a careful hand. The golden hairs on the back of his long-fingered hands glowed, barely visible in the light. He had acquired a tan, spending so much time walking the city or training outdoors.

Hassle bit his lip, caressing the crease on the bottom left of the sketch with his thumb absently. There was no signature, but the angle of the pencil, the smudging, the confident lines of black ink… he might be able to recognize it if he saw it again. He focused on the details, the inversion of light and shadow, the playful way his hair stirred in the captured breeze, the lines that implied the guitar without filling in the details but then the lingering details, understated yet somehow expressive, in the figure of Gible and especially its contentment. His artist had an eye that could see beyond surfaces, a hand that could capture a moment as well as movement… Hassel felt warmth flood him again, alongside frustration, that he had shared a moment so intimately with this stranger, connecting over music–clearly, he’d been inspired by Hassel’s playing, the Hassel of the sketch was enraptured in the music, the setting had been inspired by the song–but he had not known he was sharing the moment. And he was beautiful, undeniably elegant, but also cool, in the artist’s eyes. It made him feel warm to even think, which is why his eyes invariably drifted to Gible or the guitar instead. He felt the way he did when disembarking from Dragonair as a kid after his first flight, exhilarated, the center of the world. He stood, mouth set in a determined frown. Gible followed hurriedly as Hassel took the sketch with him and approached the walls, scanning where the photographs ended and the drawings and paintings began.

The art students’ self-portraits were obvious, unique, and absolutely not a match. Hassel spent some time examining them anyway, wondering how he would have composed his own given such an assignment. But he wanted to find his artist, so he moved on. There seemed to be some organization to the work, apart from setting the photographs off to one side, but he could not figure out what it was. Sketches of landscapes, mountain passes, devoid of Pokemon, and then the dappled brushstrokes of snowscapes and seascapes in all sorts of colors caught his eye. The sunset or sunrise, seen through a curtain of falling water, the waterfall orange and pink. A group of Dratini swimming together in a pond in the midst of a bamboo grove. Nevermind that Dratini did not typically live or swim in groups of five. Hassel ignored the memory of studying their habits and refocused his attention. The line of that Flamigo’s leg, there… but this was one of the few unsigned and half-finished sketches. Hmm.

There were mosaics of mirrors where Hassel met his own eyes, bright and fragmented. Canvases with cotton, plastic, and wood glued or submerged in thick layers of paint, palette knife markings creating further textures. A papier-mache Vulpix on a low table, and origami bird Pokemon stood on the windowsill, and there were even several glass pieces–a wind-chime with abstract glass and ceramic shards that suggested feathers, and another abstract work, a hexagonal glass panel blooming with enormous flowers, bright colors catching the light, the base of them sprouting from a smaller hexagonal crystal that had been left transparent and for some reason had a pair of eyes. Hassel moved on, and found several technically flawless sketches of mega evolved Pokemon, including Lucario and Garchomp. The latter made something in his stomach swoop, and he turned quickly away and walked to the opposite wall, then went a distance down the hall.

His eyes skimmed over paintings and sketches without landing on anything. He could recall the cold weight of the Garchompite in his hand, as though he was back home again and his father had presented him with it, this vicious future, bringing out the hidden strength and fury from his oldest friend. His dearest friend, he thought, looking back to see Gible looking at him from where it was resting near the bar and watching two women talk. Gible caught his eye and toddled over, whether there was something in Hassel’s gaze or Gible simply wished to be near him. Hassel squatted down and hugged Gible, surprising it but it nuzzled into him and he picked it up – hefty fellow! – and carried Gible in his arms as he looked back toward the paintings.

He was in the back room, now, down the short hallway. The paintings here were more lively. There were more Pokemon, some people, but mostly it was composition, color, light… he wasn’t sure what carried emotion, but looking around he liked this room better. The electric lights weren’t special. The wood floor was just as creaky as in the café, and the couches in this room looked well broken in. There were several low tables and bookshelves in one corner, where the couches stood angled for conversation and stumps of candles lay beside ashtrays on the corner table. A Smeargle was napping on one couch, sucking gently on its tail in its sleep.

The sketches and paintings here seemed to have more life to them. Hassel brightened–if his artist was anywhere in this place, it would be here. He cast his eye about freely, letting the paintings ensnare his attention. A sketch of Pokemon from the Johto region caught his eye–but no, the style imitated the ancient Johto art he’d seen in private collections in Blackthorne City, reminding him of the Ruins of Alph. It wasn’t his artist. He read the small note, “about the artist” pasted to the wall beneath the sketch. Some of the works had these, others did not. Most works were signed with a couple letters, and many signatures were difficult to read. But he would figure it out once he found it! There had to be a clue here somewhere.

There was a Butterfree in the pink hair of a familiar face, though if Hassel had seen someone with eight long, green limbs, he would have remembered. Something in the composition made him pause. The spider-legs would normally look monstrous but there was a certain grace and fluidity to the grotesque picture, with the young man’s face and body contorted atop a half-sketched tree, dabs of navy and yellow suggesting shadows and sunlight through foliage. A trainer, merged with his bug types?

“Ah, you see something here?” said a voice, making Hassel jump and look at the Smeargle, which was still reclining and had turned into the couch. No, it was the older lady from the café who had approached Hassel as he looked at the painting.

“It feels unfinished,” Hassel said weakly, holding the sketch to his lapel as though concealing it. He gestured at the fading background, the pale green base coat of paint and the gaps in it that revealed bare canvas gleaming white.

“Unpolished is not the same as unfinished,” said the older woman. Her clever eyes looked up at Hassel when he turned to her and he was startled by how dark and penetrating her gaze was. “How does it make you feel?”

Hassel grimaced a little, then smiled self-consciously and looked back to the painting.

“It’s setting out to be unsettling,” he said, to the woman’s approving Mmm-hmmm. She waved him to continue, when he paused, and so Hassel gathered his thoughts and went on. “And he looks peaceful, and vibrant. Like he’s used to the attention, confident. He takes it for granted. And I think we see that and… the placement, off-center, in the top left corner, the open eyes, the hint of water or maybe a reflection from below with that second light source, it all feels a little bit… uncertain, maybe? Like the artist wants to express something else, but this bright creature crawled into their imagination and the movement of legs distracted them… they suggest some tension in the shadows, here, the brush strokes quicker and sloppier, but that’s actually the most atmospheric part… I think below the peace the subject projects, there’s some kind of frustration? The suggested motion of the leaves against the bare canvas is a little harsh, the contrast there…”

“Indeed.”

The woman sounded exactly like the waitress at that moment and Hassel was startled enough to tear himself away from the painting.

“You have an excellent eye and instinct for art criticism, young man,” she said suddenly. “And I do not give out praise lightly.”

“Oh, well, thank you,” Hassel managed. “But there’s no signature…” this was said to himself, as he moved closer to the painting. “Is that a curve or a C?”

He squinted, eyelashes nearly brushing the paint. He withdrew, blinking, and consulted the sketch again.

“Ah, I see you are an art detective,” the woman at his elbow observed, and Hassel stopped his reflex to laugh.

“I suppose I am,” he said, forcing himself to relax and share the sketch, which the woman took in with evident pleasure.

“Ahh,” she repeated. “That was some good sleuthing, Mr. guitarist.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry, I’m Hassaku,” Hassel bowed his head, hair falling around his face. He was incognito, after all, and the fewer times his name pinged anyone’s radar, the better.

“Colette,” said the woman shortly, and Hassel’s mouth dropped open. “Yes, yes, the owner, that’s right,” she said. “Well, Monsieur Hassaku, you should be proud. This is indeed one of the pieces here with potential.”

“It’s not quite the same style,” Hassle muttered, looking between the sketch of himself and the strange, bug-man portrait.

“You are a Trainer, too?” Colette said suddenly, gesturing toward Gible and Hassel’s belt of Pokeballs. Hassle nodded, following her gaze to Gible and smiling.

“Do you train grass types, by chance? Your perception, your critique, your sensitivity… it is of the nurturing kind,” Colette’s accent came out more strongly when she spoke slowly, thoughtfully. “Have you worked with children?”

“What?!” Hassle lowered his voice, and gave in to the urge to laugh softly. “I apologize. I spent time with younger siblings, but I’m hoping to make a name in music. And I don’t strive to train any particular type, though it’s true that I have raised several dragons…” he paused, feeling he had already revealed much more than he had intended. “You said you're the owner. Do you know the artist who drew this? Can you recognize the style?”

Colette gazed at the sketch of Hassel and Gible and nodded. “Very good,” she said, after several moments. Her voice had gone up with pleased surprise, but she lowered it again, almost purring, “You inspired him. There’s talent here. But you should tell the artist what you think of it yourself.”

“I’d like nothing better,” Hassel confessed. “What’s his name? Who is he? She? He?”

“I think… that is something you should discover for yourself,” Colette said maddeningly. Hassel turned a distressed face to her but she shushed him, saying, “As long as you keep playing here in the afternoons and evenings, I imagine you’ll meet sooner or later. There’s a summer holiday for art school students at the end of the week, but they will come back in the fall. Yes, you have until the end of the week if you wish to make it sooner, Mr. Hassaku!”

Colette turned and Hassel heard her low heeled boots clicking on the parquet of the hallway and back into the café proper. He looked back up at the texture of the paint on the canvas, and imagined the hand that held the brush, the faceless figure lashing out at the canvas in his head.

“Who are you?” he whispered, frowning down at the sketch.

* * *

Notes:

Japanese names for a pseudonym for Brassius, who is experimenting with identity and art and everything really, and Hassel, who is trying to keep a low profile. And because I felt like it? No compelling reason really. Didn't give this a good proofing, sorry, figured I'd just throw it atcha and hopefully it's not dreadful eghh.

still part of the text written many months ago so if characters feel diff, i might've still been getting the feel for them.

did I start a beauty and the beast au just as the job picks back up and before finishing this? yes, yes I did. will i be posting it soon? probably not till I plan it out a little more or maybe all in one go when it's done.

oh oh I should say this is the important part --THANK YOU for the comments, and kudos, and for reading! It makes my day to get a comment <3 so thank you very much, your thoughts and words are appreciated! Take care, folks!

Chapter 4: 2. Coming Home

Notes:

I wanted to call this chapter "root rot" but I resisted... things turn darker here, though I think it's expected at this stage? There's some mild eco-terrorism, but mostly the issues are the usual expected ones, including: chronic and acute resp illness, somewhat graphic depiction of anxiety attack verging on panic, for good reason though so that might not count xD

Other warnings contain more spoilers so I'm putting them in END NOTES, go there if you're feeling particularly touchy / the impending dread is not an enjoyable experience for you -- because that is the atmosphere I aimed for in this chapter. It's the first scene that I imagined in this story! Got me to write it :)

ch4, encounter 2 of 4 or 5 (still not sure)

2. Coming Home

In the forest outside of Artazon, Paldea. Approximately two years later.

* * *

Brassius followed the Sunkern up the winding, dry bed of the creek he had played in as a child. He almost regretted not bringing his own Pokemon out. Bonsly and Smoliv would have enjoyed the forest and reassured Brassius. But the theory that was gaining traction in his head suggested they were safer in their Pokeballs. There was a low buzzing, just on the other side of audible, that vibrated through the soles of his boots and set dread curling through his gut and constricting his lungs, his head. Like the low rumble of distant thunder, but ongoing. He shook it off best he could and pressed on, ducking branches and brambles. He had wrapped a scarf around his head and face to protect his skin this time. His previous dive through the undergrowth—a failed attempt to follow Sunkern—had left him with dozens of scratches on his face and a lesson.

The stones he remembered as grey were rust-colored underfoot, crumbling into the clay and dust and decomposing foliage. The edges of the short forest ravine were bursting with grasses, mosses, and ferns, with vines and saplings growing on near vertical ridges. The same ridges that had been barren rock when he’d climbed down them as a kid to visit the tiny creek. He would light a fire here in the winter, when the trickle of water had frozen over and he’d gathered a circle of stones and some dry branches. He would sit and observe the bird and grass Pokemon of the forest, warm by his little campfire, watch the clouds through the bare branches of trees, watch the flames dance in the small campfire. Sometimes he had neighborhood kids with him, like Arturo or his sister. Often, he was alone, sketching or watching and listening. The cries of the Pokemon sounded not like their names but like some profound language, out here. He kept well away from the hibernating Ursaring den further in the ravine. He had stumbled across Arboliva of the Forest this way… it had taken weeks of patient waiting and watching, feeding wild Pokemon berries and demonstrating that he had no ill intentions, before the enormous ancient Pokemon would tolerate him even stepping into her forest glade. He would visit her on holidays now. When he had been in school and felt up to it, he had gone to see her at least every week, just basking in the presence of the wild Pokemon of the forest, the hum of insects and rustle of leaves, the feel of the air and sun, the cool shade itchy with sweat and grass everywhere but peaceful. He had always felt he could breathe better here. But that was then.

Now, in the pressing present, the Sunkern waved its leaves at him as Brassius caught his breath and rounded another bend to spot it. The ravine was bursting with life and it was hard to see the Sunkern–even though it was spring and in other places, the ferns had not yet poked out from the ground or unraveled their fronds from a tightly packed spiral, here it was as if summer had come early. Wild irises bloomed alongside chamomile and a bush of lavender, and those were lilies… the rust-colored stones crunched into dirt underfoot. Brassius briefly wondered if this was deposited runoff from the canyons to the south west.

They were quite a way into the forest now, in the opposite direction to the one he’d guessed. The bag he’d packed was feeling heavy, strap cutting into his shoulder, but he wiped the sweat from below his hairline and hitched the bag up. Sunkern looked worse for wear, too, now that he noticed. Its lower half was coated with the rust-colored dust, and its breathing and movement looked tenser, stiffer, than just that morning. Brassius’ frown darkened and he ignored the ache when he deepened his breathing. There was the faint smell of something mineral in the air, and something tinny and greasy.

He was truly growing alarmed at the lack of Pokemon and abundance of plants by the time he rounded the final bend and found that the Sunkern had squeezed underneath a frankly aggressive fence. No wire mesh here–these were industrial steel bars, spaced centimeters apart. The creekbed allowed Sunkern just enough leeway to dive under the fence and emerge on the other side. As one used to climbing around cities for convenient graffiti locations, Brassius looked up: barbed wire twined the top of the fence. Between the steel bars, he could see several low buildings, rooftops covered with grey tarp, windows all shuttered. There was a radio transmission tower beyond those, and the forest had been cleared on the other side of the buildings to make room for construction equipment and a wide open space that seemed empty. He didn’t typically come out here, but he had thought the forest stretched on further than this…

Brassius immediately decided against following the perimeter of the fence to look for a gap or door. The construction permitted no loose wooden boards. There was probably some code or keycard business here that would confound him. He looked a little ruefully at the Sunkern and then grinned. It looked more like a grimace, but it was the thought that counted. He took the heavy wire cutters from his bag, wound his scarf more securely around his neck, and swung his backpack back and forth, gathering momentum. After several swings, he flung it over the fence. It landed loudly, bringing up some dust, next to the startled Sunkern.

No alarms rang, and nobody came running, no guard canine Pokemon, no employees or mad scientists or anyone else Brassius’s overactive imagination could concoct. He waited several minutes to be sure, resisting Sunkern’s impatient bouncing.

The tree nearest the fence was mossy and Brassius had to swat a Tarountula away gently, but, he thought as he hauled himself up the lower branches, he still had it. He paused to catch his breath, realized that the feeling was not going away, and decided to ignore it. He climbed higher, over the fence, where the top met the razor wire. Wrapping his scarf thick around one hand, he grabbed a length of the razor wire, cutting it neatly with the wire cutters in his other hand. He pulled on it, cut another section, pulled and cut again, until he’d made a gap. He would worry about getting back over later. Sunkern was clearly unwell and wanted him to follow, and he could damn well help one small Pokemon. Brassius tossed the wire cutters near his bag and before he could change his mind, dropped onto the fence from the tree and jumped down, bending low on landing to absorb the impact. A roll on the shoulder looked cool but he didn’t think his ribs could take it, achy and bruised as they felt now. He replaced the wire cutters in the bag and hefted it up, looking to Sunkern, which was already halfway to the nearest building. Brassius stared and followed, going past an empty bicycle rack, then a parking lot and a paved road. There was very little dust anywhere, and the asphalt looked new and smooth. But there was no one around, no janitors, no workers, no cars or bikes or even Pokemon, apart from him and Sunkern. All the signs were facing in the other direction along the new road, and when he walked around to read them, he saw that someone had sprayed them with black paint, making them illegible.

He exchanged a look with Sunkern, and that’s when he noticed the white noise. Walking through the woods was always punctuated by the calls of Pokemon, rustling of trees and undergrowth, and various small creatures moving and going about their daily routines of eating, excreting, napping, playing, or hunting and foraging. They would be climbing, walking, running or hopping along to find other places to do these things. As they walked along the creekbed, the forest had made its usual background noise, but approaching this place, it had grown hushed, as if Pokemon knew to avoid it. But there was a droning or a buzzing hum, low and deep and constant so that he hadn’t noticed it until then. Brassius frowned down at Sunkern, but it hopped insistently along.

It happened mid-step. The world spun, just a degree or two, and Brassius tensed, thinking Damn, damn, damn! Not here! Not now!

But then it had passed. It wasn’t a breathing fit, though breathing was increasingly painful. It was a tremor in the ground, like the feeling he got when stepping into an elevator, or observing a battle between large and powerful Pokemon. Brassius picked up Sunkern and walked on in the direction it had been going, mindful of the ground, which was stable but might shift again at any moment.

His deep-set eyes were narrowed, now, and he followed the path between buildings. The door was indeed locked and required a card or some kind of key, when he approached it and tugged experimentally. He’d wrapped the scarf around his head, mindful of the cameras trained on the doors. He’d expected this, the wire and the fence suggested as much. The thing about people, though, was that they were sometimes careless when it came to windows, especially higher ones. And while there were no trees to climb, there was a convenient ledge, the top of the doorframe, and the window frame above. He scanned the uniformly shuttered second story windows and found that one was indeed barely shut. When he climbed up, having tucked Sunkern into his jacket to free up his hands, he noticed that his shoes left rust-colored prints on the top of the doorframe. There was a fine dusting of reddish brown dust along the building, too, helping keep his sweaty hands from slipping.

He reached for the fettling knife clipped on his belt and wiggled it between the window and the frame, then used it to nudge the latch further out of place.

The window gave easily after that, and Brassius poked a finger between the shutters to bend them and peer in: the room was dark and empty. He withdrew his hand and snaked an entire arm beneath the shutters to lift them up, then set one leg inside, straddling the windowsill, and carefully ducked his head in, and then his enlarged torso. Sunkern peered out from the half-buttoned jacket as he carefully maneuvered, sure not to bump the little creature. There was an absence of alarms, but he had not really broken any locks or windows to get in. He closed the window most of the way and lowered the shutters again, just as he’d found it.

He turned to the computer and desk in the room, which appeared to be the standard in soul-killing office space: a chair, a lamp, a bulky computer and a whiteboard on the wall. He peered in the dim light at the drawings and equations scrawled on it, and something in his memory twinged at the sight of overlapping hexagons, but he couldn’t quite place it… Brassius looked swiftly and efficiently through the desk drawers but found nothing beyond standard office supplies. A more tech-savvy infiltrator might have tried to guess the computer password, but Brassius did not bother and simply opened the door and looked around the hallway beyond. There were signs indicating numbered offices with arrows, and intermittent dim lights coolly spilling across a beige carpet. Brassius walked until he found a stairwell, where there was indeed a plan of the building–and an elevator.

Enclosed spaces were not his favorite, but his breathing had been strained the entire walk so Brassius summoned the elevator, head wrapped in the scarf again.

The elevator controls gave him pause. He was on the first floor above the ground floor, but there were several levels below the ground. The thought had occurred to him when he’d felt the tremor, but this implied the compound went deep beneath the forest… When and how had it been built? The fencing had looked new… There were four basements and a floor below them, marked simply with a hexagon. Brassius sighed, feeling the air scrape his throat, and selected this mysterious floor. The doors slid closed slowly, with a ding.

* * * october the previous year
About a year and a half earlier, elsewhere.

His family called it his sabbatical. Hassel had called it freedom. Six months spent exploring Kalos, returning to his rented mansard room in Lumiose city, keeping his own schedule, eating fresh and sometimes stale croissants, absconding with whomever he wanted, most of the time just strolling and playing music in bars and on streets… but he was twenty-four, Cara was eighteen, and when he saw the announcement in the paper—he still got the Wyndon Times specifically for news of his family—Hassel knew he had to go back.

His own coming of age ceremony had taught him just how severe the ritual could be. He hadn’t even mourned his freedom. The city walks, the countryside battles, the mysterious sketch, the flashy art students… Cara’s life was too important. Her freckled face swam before his, laughing in the summer breeze.

He took the magnet train from Lumiose to Wyndon and then the old train from Lotadington Station to the Crown Tundra. The crowds and the hushes felt the same as ever, but it was as if there was a Geodude in his stomach. He had left his guitar in the mansard apartment along with his bike and drawing supplies, paying the landlady extra to store it for him. His hand kept drifting to his face, but he refused to allow himself to bite his nails. Instead, he returned his hand to his belt and reached to touch the Pokeballs containing Skrelp, Dragonite and Gible. They felt warm, but it might have been the Freezington chill. The snow that covered the town for eight months of the year had not yet blanketed the town. The evergreens towered darker than usual, the deciduous trees had lost their colorful foliage and looked knobby and naked, the grass had begun to yellow, and the sky was overcast with leaden clouds. Yellow, grey, dark green. He shivered and zipped up his jacket.

As he walked through town, looking for a suitable place to call out Dragonite and take off, he saw couples and remembered suddenly that it was the apple harvest festival. He had taken Cara and Mikan after his own coming of age ceremony, and they had gone apple bobbing, watched an apple pie eating contest, and even gotten to see several Pokemon from the Applin evolution line, brought in by trainers for the festival. Hassel had always thought Dratini was cute, and Gible, but he did not think dragons in general were supposed to be as darling as Applin and its evolutions. No wonder they were considered a symbol of love. If he ever caught one, he couldn’t imagine giving it to anyone, trusting anyone to raise such a precious and small Pokemon.

The Appletun’s trainer, a round elderly woman with short grey hair and thick glasses, had addressed the gathered audience from the stage where the Applin and their relations stood, sat and flapped proudly on display. “If you’re very lucky,” she had said, “someone special might one day give you an Applin, like my wife gave me Honeycrisp here. As you know, this is the customary declaration of serious, lasting love. Accepting and raising the Applin means you will treasure both your romantic partner and the Pokemon that they’ve caught for you.”

The woman next to her, of similar height, her hair white and an elegant carved cane in hand, added, “It’s tricky to catch an Applin, you know! They don’t usually just fall out of trees. You’ve got to spot it in the foliage, and they’re quick to run! If someone has gone through the trouble of catching one and giving it to you, you can trust they are besotted.”

Hassel remembered the look she gave her wife, and how the Appletun had chosen that moment to give a great yawn and the children had laughed happily at the turtle-dragon-pie Pokemon called Honeycrisp.

There were no Applin or evolutions on display this year, but there were garlands of cut-out paper apples, and stands selling cider and caramel apples and apple chips, apple pies and other themed desserts. Hassel looked away when he felt his mouth generating more saliva and realized how tempting the smell was.

A young woman carrying a steaming paper cup of cider was saying something and her high-pitched laugh caught Hassel’s attention. Her partner held her by the elbow and laughed in response, just as loud and joyful as the first laugh. Hassel thought back to the Applin and envied the old ladies, just for a moment. Then he sighed, smiled, and bought himself a steaming hot apple cider.

He drank it slowly, savoring the warmth and the spices.

Then he got down to business. He walked south, where the route took trainers into the wilderness. As soon as he was out of sight of the crowds and buildings, he turned behind a copse of evergreens. Then he was flying on Dragonite, his backpack and his dread weighing him down as the wind bit at his face and hands. He would need gloves, and he had not taken an umbrella, and goggles… the house had everything he could ever physically require, his for the taking, of course, but Hassel would rather get his own.

They flew over hill and valley and mountain, Dragonite sensing his stress. It was dark and starting to rain slow, heavy drops when the lights of the Highlands Mansion came into view. Hassel patted Dragonite’s side gratefully for delivering him mostly dry, because as they landed near the stables and ducked beneath the covered walkway, the rain began to pound the roof and the moor in earnest.

He knew the servants would let him in, and he decided he would not report to his father until called for. Instead, Hassel wiped his boots best he could, allowed Dragonite to retreat into its Pokeball (he envied her sometimes!) and marched up the wide stairs, down the carpeted hall, past the library and study and the former children’s quarters and to the far east wing where Cara had always favored the blue bedroom with the view of the oak tree. He knocked, hoping that Cara’s preferences had not changed.

The sight of his sister answering the door, looking pale but taller, her beautiful golden hair all gone, shaved until there was only fuzz on her suddenly small head, did something strange to Hassel. Cara’s eyes lit up when she saw him, and they embraced.

There were words exchanged and plans made that night, as the siblings sat up late in the bedroom and Hassel learned that Mikan had gone in search of a rare mineral, that mother had been frequenting Stow-on-Side and Wyndon, going to tourist traps that she normally deemed dull, places she would go for galas but here she was, spending her free time in parks and museums as if she suddenly preferred her own company. Hassel and Cara could make neither head nor tails of this behavior.

Most importantly, father was attending the Salamence Festival in Hoenn and would be away for the week. This brought some relief.

“Is it on your birthday?” Hassel asked, after they had lapsed into silence.

Cara nodded.

“So you have six months to prepare.”

Another nod.

Hassel looked up from the fine carpet at the foot of the bed they were sitting on to find Cara looking at him.

“I still can’t get used to you without your hair!” he exclaimed, half-laughing and half-crying.

Cara simply looked resolute.

“You’ll let me help you, won’t you?” Hassel said, his shoulders slumping and his eyes pleading.

Cara smiled and something in her eyes melted at last.

“I’m counting on it,” she said.

Hassel’s eyes shone.

“We have a lot of work to do, Cara-Cara. Tomorrow, we’ll begin.”

* * *

Back in another time and place.

The elevator doors opened after a longer time than Brassius had expected, but he saw why at once. The ceiling of this sub-basement was very high, and indeed, if he did not know he was underground, he would have taken this for a typical indoor train station. A closed, empty train station.

There were several tracks, passages between them, and electronic screens situated on pillars at intervals along the platform. A schedule scrolled periodically along these. The images were crisp and the place was sparkling clean, apart from the ubiquitous faint red dust which gave the white surfaces a pink tinge. The next train for the Depot would arrive in four hours and thirty four minutes. The next train for the Core was due in seven minutes. The next train to the Wellspring was delayed indefinitely due to work on the line. The train to the Levincia branch worked on its usual schedule, four times on weekdays.

Brassius studied the diagram of the tracks and their destinations carefully while he waited. He was beginning to form an idea of what this place was, but he’d need proof… and he probably would not get another chance to acquire said proof, after the security spotted him on camera. Part of him wanted to go home and hide under his blanket, preferably with a cup of coffee or even hot chocolate. But the other part burned with the urgency of inspiration, of taking the available opportunity before it vanished, rash though he had to be… and he had listened to this latter voice in himself the whole time, until he felt himself commit to what he could only describe as a foolhardy course of action.

The place was impressive, though. He could not imagine the sums of money, the time and labor required to build a series of private, secret underground train stations spanning dozens of miles. Why weren’t these public? Artazon’s citizens would happily travel to Levincia to go shopping or see entertainment, and the city folk would surely come out for weekends in the picturesque small town. Perhaps his parents could have made their marriage work, what with his father traveling to work via speed train and arriving less exhausted to spend more time with his wife and children… Brassius let that train of thought depart, listening and gazing into the gloom of the tunnel. There was a glint, a light, he was sure. It resolved quickly into a blinding white light. Brassius stood back and felt the sucking of air, and then the brisk wind stirring the red dust along the floor, flapping through his hair and clothes, his scarf whipping around his face. He tucked Sunkern closer to himself.

The train glided to a stop before him without touching what Brassius realized were not standard rails. The speed took his breath away, although he reflected bitterly that this did not say much. The doors slid open a meter to his right, automatically, and a voice announced the evening shift train would be departing to the Core in two minutes.

Instead of boarding, Brassius walked over to the other side of the platform and stuck his head over to look down along the tracks – there were blue and red panels built into the sides of the platform, coils of wire visible through glass windows. What looked like half a dozen Magnezone drowsed, levitating near them. Brassius’s eyes widened and he backed away. So there was life here, if one knew where to look.

He got on the magnet train before the doors closed, sitting back in the ergonomic seat designed by and for some engineer. If his father could see him now, he’d probably say the same thing he’d said when Brassius had excitedly shared his ideas about going to art school. And throw in something about trespassing and bailing himself out of jail, and spending all his time with wild Pokemon instead of studying, perhaps. Although his father’s Ferrothorn had not been averse to very loose hugs… certainly not to scritches between its thorns.

The magnet train played a series of soothing, high-pitched chimes as background music. It moved so quickly that Brassius’ head spun when they took off, but the view behind the ample windows was all black tunnel so he couldn’t get a gauge on the actual speed beyond what his inner ears told him. The mag-lev train moved silently, levitated and propelled along the modified magnetic railing, and the faint musical chiming was almost eerie. After what felt both like a long time and no time at all, his chest and stomach full of dread despite the frankly adorable Sunkern nestled in his jacket, his backpack on the seat next to him, Brassius was blinded by sudden radiant white. He blinked, his eyes tearing and adapting to the brightness. The train was still moving, but the tunnel was lit up by what appeared to be endlessly bright lighting, and it was widening into a chamber half the size of his hometown. Brassius took a moment to realize the place was full of mirrors which reflected the industrial lighting, throwing beams of it around an enormous underground cavern. The speed of the moving train made it hard to spot details, but as he leaned against the window he saw the train coming up on a long, flat building adjacent to the far wall of the cavern.

There was no sign of Pokemon or vegetation down here. The train was in the building before Brassius could really look more closely–in a train station identical to the one he had left. He disembarked. The air was much warmer down here, and more humid–his breaths came a little easier. He tried not to think about how many days would go by before someone thought to look for him here, should he fall ill now. He usually knew better than to push himself this much when his throat felt like sandpaper and his breaths stabbed pain through his ribs and collarbone, when he could stand still and still fail to catch his breath. But the shock of finding what looked like a military installation in his backyard forest, the pain in Sunkern’s small, brown eyes, the suspicion nagging at him, all impelled Brassius onward against his reason. If this was indeed the cause, then he could not afford to wait. The Pokemon of the forest were falling ill, the danger was spreading, his mother was bedridden, the neighboring children had the same cough and pallor and eyebags he’d grown up with… whatever it was, its influence was accelerating. He had thought he would find a factory with a leaky pipe, or maybe something contaminating the source of the creek. He had not expected buildings, steel fences, underground trains…

The only exit at the far end of the building opened upon the vast cavern. Metal stairs zigzagged their way along the sheer rock of a pit even further into the earth. Metal walkways with rails led to various computer stations, open spaces where enormous machines blinked dozens of green and red lights, and further along several more buildings. The place was lit up like a hospital, powerful lights strung along the walkways, the floor and the walls. Brassius took his time descending the stairs and peered briefly into the pit, because it was exuding a brighter light edged in red, green, blue and yellow everytime he blinked. The colors stuck behind his eyelids.

The pit was deep, enough to make his stomach turn, and far below there was a hexagonal white structure, glowing with the refracted lamplight directed at it from all sides. Perhaps it had its own inner light, too, but it was hard to squint at and imprinted itself on his retinas when he tried. Several complex-looking machines trailed wires and sensors around the mineral or crystal, blocking its light with their bulk. It did not look like a Pokemon, unless NaCli had a new evolution… no, this was some kind of mineral deposit, mined and then placed here for research, or perhaps the facility had been built around it. The glint of it looked familiar to Brassius, but he couldn’t place what it reminded him of. Not a Pokemon evolving. Not the light of some attack… perhaps a Terrablast, he’d seen several when observing gym battles at Artazon in the summers.

The gym leader had asked him to be a gym trainer there this year, and when he had introduced the idea to his Pokemon, Bonsly and Smoliv had seemed interested. Brassius felt that it would be distinctly avant-garde to bring a pseudo-grass type to a grass type gym, and stomp all over the flying, fire and bug types that made easy work of grass types… but that was looking like a distant prospect, now. He had more urgent matters to deal with.

Brassius frowned and followed the suspended walkway, careful not to look through the metal grating floor lest the height distract him. Or make him dizzy. Or take his breath away, or his balance, or… he stopped the thoughts angrily, gritting his teeth, holding onto the railing and forcing his steps. Look confident. That was key. Head up, chest out, breathe, walk. Sunkern had fallen asleep in his jacket, his left arm cradled beneath it, his right hand clutching the rail of the walkway until he reached the stairs. That building up ahead looked important. The wires trailing from the instruments and machinery around the glowing thing in the pit all led into the building.

Before he went to try the door, which he suspected was locked, Brassius went over to the edge of the pit and peered in again. The glowing hexagonal structure was bigger than he’d thought from above, at least his height and thick, like a pillar of salt cut in a crystalline structure that was nothing like salt. The facets gleamed, reflecting light, but they also shone with their own inner glow. Brassius let out a long breath, sat down, and brought his sketchbook–the one he had not left back at Collette’s café–and a pencil, and set to sketching the apparatus and the crystal, the pit, on another page, the train stations, and while his memory was fresh, the fence in the forest, the abandoned buildings, the back of Sunkern as it wobbled along… the technique wasn’t important, this was evidence, he’d get to the bottom of what was happening here, he wasn’t about to leave without proof. He wished he had thought to bring a camera, but the things were bulky and he wasn’t really a photographer. The sketches would do: this was how he would document his findings for now.

He tore himself away after his impromptu workshop. He tugged hopelessly at the door to the lab, expecting it to be locked, then pushed it lightly and was surprised when it opened.

There were safety hazard signs everywhere. The foyer to the building had hazardous materials warnings, large white suits, helmets, masks, and a pair of chairs in the corner beside a wall of screens. Brassius was enough of a hypochondriac to immediately freeze in the doorway. It took an embarrassing amount of time to force his limbs to work, get his breath somewhat under control, and remind himself that the warnings were for the double doors up ahead, not this part of the building. He went over to the security station in the corner, deciding he’d rather brave the computers than what looked to him like astronaut suits, for now.

He sat and gazed. There was a camera feed of the glowing crystal in the pit outside. On camera, it looked to be emitting pulses of light that hadn’t been visible to the eye. Another screen showed a lab space with a large glass box that had rubber gloves attached to it to allow a scientist to work with materials inside it. It was hooked up to a cylinder of some kind of gas. Brassius came closer to the screen, squinting at the feed–it was high resolution, he could see colorful bits inside… the materials inside looked like a mess of fine, red-brown crystals that had shattered, larger chunks near the center and a dark dust of the stuff covering the rest of the glove box. Then something moved.

Brassius sprang back, panting, as figures in hazmat suits milled in front of the camera, accessing the glove box to move a sample of the red crystal into a petri dish and then out of the enclosure through a side chamber, opening and closing valves to preserve whatever pressure and gas was inside the glove box. He watched them take it out of range of the camera. The next screen focused on a lab that looked to be all theory–there were open books and coffee cups on every lab bench and desk, and the whiteboard had chemical equations on it that meant nothing to Brassius. But there, the hexagon drawing again, broken down into small spheres stacked upon each other in different patterns. They were guessing at the structure of the glowing crystal? Were they trying to reproduce some of its qualities, or change it to something else? Brassius had no idea, but he copied some of the details from the whiteboard into his sketchbook, too. As he sketched, he glanced between the other cameras, registering movement across most of them.

The third screen showing a raised circular platform in the middle of a room with an enormous silver vessel standing on it, a scientist in the corner still in their hazmat suit, taking the red crystal from the petri dish with tweezers and dropping it into a narrow glass tube, mixing in some kind of liquid, shaking the tube to dissolve the crystal. The liquid turned a dark red, like blood, only more muddy. The person in the suit flicked the tube once more, then climbed the ladder to the raised platform and dropped the tube into a small hole atop the silver vessel. They climbed back down and began to click away on a computer connected to the apparatus. The tube, which had hovered on an air current or magnet at the surface of the silver vessel, descended further down, and the computer generated a graph that was too blurry to make out from the screen Brassius was watching. There was a break room camera, too, where several people had crowded, free of their suits and enthusiastically sharing what appeared to be one of Katy’s famous cakes. Small plastic plates and forks, balloons, was it someone’s birthday? Someone with the word “SECURITY” written in large letters on the back of their shirt walked by the camera, chewing a bite of cake.

Just another day at the office. Brassius forced himself to take several breaths. It took a few minutes to come up with a plan, but much longer to talk himself into it. He would not get this far into the facility again. He was reasonably confident it was worth the risk. He would blend right in, take it and go. Perhaps flick a few switches or pull a few wires on his way around, if he could avoid the camera eye-lines. He had a good idea of where they were, he had an excellent grasp of perspective, after all.

He took off his backpack, then gently took Sunkern out of his jacket and placed it inside the backpack, and donned it again. Then he went over to the other side of the foyer, and picked up a hazmat helmet.

* * *

A half hour later, he had done it. The petri dish labeled “sample 1” was sealed tightly with plastic wrap and lay inside the hazmat helmet, which he carried by the open neck-hole, upside-down like a tote. Inside his pocket was a second, empty petri dish labeled “sample 2.” Brassius had also torn out the pages of his sketchbook pertaining to his investigation, and put them inside the helmet-bag. As he waited at the Core station for the train to take him back to the forest facility, he had written out his ideas, including his previous investigations, and future plans for testing Sample 1 (Core lab) and Sample 2 (forest outside of facility). This was done calmly, methodically, and largely because Brassius was becoming convinced that despite his precautions, he’d inhaled crushed glass or something very much like it. Where on his way in, he had felt out of breath but the aches had been intermittent, now every breath scraped his throat raw and convulsed his ribs with intense spasms of pain. His chest felt tight, hot, and full of Beedrill. His empty stomach roiled, but that was the least of his problems. Cold hands and feet, cold sweat periodically breaking out, and faint shivering – all new symptoms which promised fresh unpleasantness. He was fairly sure it was anxiety, or his heart, his lungs, or all of the above, but he was certain that something was going to give soon. He grit his teeth through the pain and forced his wheezy breaths to stay calm, sheer force of will keeping panic and shock temporarily at bay. He knew he wouldn’t last.

It had never been this bad before. At least he’d leave a mark, even if it wasn’t a legacy of art like he’d wanted. Brassius smirked internally when he thought back to his parting gift. When the train arrived, what felt like both a long and short time later, he stumbled onto it, his backpack feeling incredibly heavy. He had tried to stuff the helmet into it, then took out its contents and tossed the thing. Sunkern was back on his shoulder, moving quickly to his back when he fell across a seat and his eyes drifted closed.

The journey was a blur from there. The chiming, the train ride going by in a blink, and Sunkern slapping his face with its leaf worked to make Brassius stumble out of the train at their stop, Sunkern hopping on its own. His vision narrowed on the yellow-brown Pokemon, which nudged him insistently when he stumbled and sat down for a rest. Getting up was harder each time, and Brassius was ready to crawl, the platform was so long and tiring, except that was hard, too.

The yellowish plant bulb led him into a small space, and shot off a stream of seeds to hit the button for the ground floor when Brassius simply swayed and leaned against the wall. He didn’t remember stumbling out of the building or how he got back over the fence, if he’d found a gate, but he must have done, because next thing he knew, Brassius was laying face-down in leaf mold and soggy ferns. His backpack lay where he dropped it, just in reach.

A hand went weakly for his pocket, fumbled with the petri dish and pulled it out. He didn’t recall why he was doing this, only that he had thought it was important earlier. His mind was nearly gone, but it had convinced his body that something had to be done. The words repeating in the internal voice he used to command himself when he wasn’t getting enough oxygen. Usually he’d say things like “don’t panic” or “breathe slow” or “sit down slowly” but this time it was: Sample two. Forest dirt. In bag. Protect Sunkern.

His hand blindly scooped forest soil alongside last year’s leaves into half of the petri dish. He shoved the thing in his bag, forgetting to cap it with the other half. Ah, thank Arceus, that was done. There was something about Sunkern, next?

Then he retched and threw up bile, barely managing to lift himself up and not collapse back into it. The forest spun around him, and there were probably three or four Sunkern now, good, it had found its friends… there was an Oddish giving him a strange look, and oh, an Applin in the tree above, blurring into nothing.

* * *

Sunkern cheeped its alarm, the forest Pokemon spread the word, and Pawmot was summoned from its den, Pawmi in tow. The human looked more dead than alive, lips blue and skin pale, breathing faint, heartbeat irregular. Pawmot did not register this as such, but it did let out a great, loud, long cry, making the forest resonate and ring with its echoes. A half-eaten Pecha berry dropped to the ground from the nearest tree.

The Sunkern jumped up and down, overjoyed that Pawmot had come, distressed at the state of the man, as anxious as a bunch of Smoliv. This particular human had always fed them and played with them, protected them from bug and flying Pokemon, sat still and watched them sunbathe from a shady spot, doing some strange human thing with his hands. And when they had fallen ill, he had been the one to notice and take them into the Pokemon center. Then when Sunkern showed him the scary human place, he had gone in, and before he left he had cut the metal strings Sunkern could feel carrying electricity. Sunkern noticed immediately when the frequency of the earth’s vibration resumed its regular rhythm. But the human had inhaled more of the bad dirt, and so Sunkern had called Pawmot, and Pawmot had agreed to help. They tired more easily nowadays, the Sunkern, and their joyful jumping was low and short-lived. Something in the earth was making the plants grow too fast and die too quickly. Now the Sunkern watched as Pawmot began to rub its paws together, the pads generating sparks, faster and faster… their jumping was not joy but cheering, hurrying Pawmot along.

There was a glow from the human’s bag, and then Bonsly materialized next to him, and Sunkern had never seen a Bonsly crying before. Bonsly nudged its human’s motionless hand. The first Sunkern and Pawmi flanked Bonsly, communicating with touch and soothing sounds. A moment later, Smoliv also came out of its pokeball and burst into real tears. Pawmot had charged its paws and brought them squarely down on the human’s chest, hard.

The human’s eyes flew open when Pawmot administered the shock, but they were glassy and if he had revived, it was not to full stamina. Some status condition evidently afflicted him. The revival blessing–though it might’ve been a double shock, really–had made a difference, but Smoliv wailed hysterically and Sunkern and Bonsly both knew that this human needed the human Pokemon Center and nurse Joy. Bonsly communicated this as best he could to Sunkern and Pawmot. They couldn’t carry the trainer, but they could bring a human here to help him.

No humans nearby, Pawmot said, sniffing the air and perking up its ears.

Anyone else who can help? said Bonsly, keeping his tears back. He hated hated hated water.

The only large Pokemon here are not very amenable to humans, Pawmot replied, watching Pawmi pick up the half-eaten Pecha berry and eat it.

That was when Smoliv stopped crying abruptly and peeped, Arboliva of the woods!

Bonsly turned to her and frowned.

She avoids humans, Pawmot said.

Smoliv repeated itself and Pawmot shrugged, as if to say, sure, go ahead and try. Your trainer’s funeral.

Notes:

SPOILERS:

1) In my defense, he doesn't die. He just... comes kind of near death? Which is canon! Although it's going to happen twice, shush, this is the first time and it's physical.. there's difficulty breathing, pain, vomiting, just various symptoms of not doing great.

2)There's the matter of an industrial lab possibly poisoning an entire town, its animals/Pokemon and people and nature, but that's kind of normal for everyday life in our world now so does it really need a warning? well, here's the warning.

* * *

there will be several more chapters of this second encounter -- which hasn't really happened yet but will soon! Sorry if it's abrupt splicing Hassel for a short scene in the middle of that, I needed it to get the timelines to work, I realize it's a tad confusing but.... egh fanfic readers can suspend disbelief like nobody's business.

Did you enjoy detective Brassius? In my head it was a little horror-tinged small-town mystery... I think you will like detective Hassel, too, when you get him again (and you will soon!).

Writing has been sporadic so I'm posting slowly, but since this is a bit of a cliffhanger i'll try to update quicker for ya, there's at least two more chapters of this encounter, I think three.. leave me a comment with a few words or an emoji if you're reading? And if you are, thank you, and sorry! :'D

PS I think it's WizardGlick or another of the excellent early fandom writers who theorizes that Brassius' whip is armature wire, to support his sculptures. I love this. But it reminded me of something else too -- of barbed wire. Hence the idea of Brassius breaking in to a secure installation, climbing fences (goes with climbing trees i think!) and taking a cutting of the barbed wire as a sort of victory trophy, to remind himself of what he overcame--and he will obviously get better, as canon tells us! Perhaps in the future. This plus the sickness idea and Brassie being a grass type gym leader with a town full of flowers lent itself really well to an environmental pollutant making the town ill, and hey presto, depressing content matter. But also a chance to be brave and maybe a little stupid.

Chapter 5: 2. Coming Home - Levincia

Notes:

Sorry to keep you waiting! Been less time for writing but I carved some out and planned this story out a bit better. Yay!

There's a bit of skipping around in time here but hopefully you'll not lose your bearings, dear reader. Basically, after their first near-miss in Lumiose, Hassel sees the newspaper and goes home to help Cara train. They train for six months and she has her ceremonial battle (this chapter). About a year later, the events with Brassius happen, and we catch up with Hassel. So they're approximately 24-26 years old for Hassel and 19-21 for Brassius.

Warnings for this chapter? Hm. Fallout of last chapter, let's say? There is mention and talk of death. The medical terms are probably suffering abuse and some are outright made up (I'm so sorry if you're a medical professional I'm sure it reads as complete nonsense, I did my best to fake it. Feel free to correct me if you have the time and patience). But yes, near-death and discussion of death and illness. Hospitals, etc. We know Brassie survives but it's touch-and-go for a bit.

Longer chapter for you, not proofread as many times as I'd like, but I hope you get some enjoyment out of it! I enjoyed writing it, anyway <3

Ch5, encounter 2 continued

 

* * *

Cara stared down the Hydreigon, which roared fiercely at her. She gave no notice.

Hassel’s hands gripped the armrests of the chair until the wood creaked. His father was shooting him a sharp look but Hassel was fixated on his little sister, facing down a tremendously powerful Pokemon on the battle arena. They were high up behind the stadium’s shielding, but near enough to see Cara’s unflinching face.

The crowd, dragon clans, relations from other regions, distant cousins and their parents, strangers whom Hassel had glimpsed at ceremonies past, all held their breath. The ceremony required young women to display elegance as well as power. Where Hassel had been tasked with strategy and brute strength, Cara needed to excel with beauty. Hassel had always thought this an absurd requirement, but he could appreciate Cara’s training now.

Hassel tried to remember how when he had apprenticed under Clara, she had trusted him to do well… but he could not conjure the same confidence. He wanted to swoop down on Dragonite and take over the battle for his little sister. At the same time, he knew their aunt’s Hydreigon to be a decent dragon. He’d grown up battling with Gible against his aunt’s Zweilous. When they lost, Zweilous had never dealt additional damage from pride or spite. It kept control of its movements, unlike some of the berserkers Hassel had battled later in life. Cara was safe. He imagined, not for the first time, Cara and Clara teaming up, and this helped him relax a little. She could do it. She’d nailed it many times in practice.

Clara had politely refused the invitation because it coincided with the holidays that required her presence in Blackthorn’s Dragon Shrine for some secret rituals of their own. Hassel had never seen these rituals when he apprenticed with Clara, but he had spent many meditative hours in the shrine with Dragonair, swimming, praying and quieting his mind. He wished he had some of that calm assurance now, but instead he felt like there was a Magicarp flopping around in his gut. He sat on his hands so as to keep himself from standing up and throwing a Pokeball into the middle of the ceremony. Cara would not thank him for undermining her training.

To his left, Aurantio was coolly confident to the outside observer, but Hassel saw him stroking his mustache and knew that their father worried over Cara. How she reflected on his reputation, certainly, but there was something deeper there, an emotion that wasn’t the hollow pride or disappointment reserved for Hassel. Cara was his only and youngest girl.

Mother certainly looked tense, eyes narrow and mouth pressed thin as she stared down at Cara over the shield of her ever-present glossy catalog. Then there was movement, and Hassel held his breath as Cara executed a backflip in midair, went directly into a cartwheel and landed perfectly in the trainer box marked on the field. Hydreigon roared again, and their aunt smiled from her own trainer box on the other side of the arena. The screen at the top of the stands zoomed in on trainers and their expressions. This was to be one-on-one, no Dynamaxing or items. Cara brought her arms around from the cartwheel, slowing her fluid movements. Then she went into a twirl and threw the Pokeball with more momentum than should have been possible, letting Vibrava out in a flare of light. Vibrava swooped into the air the way they choreographed it, and directly into an attack that had Hydreigon recoiling at the sound waves.

* * *

The battle had raged on, exhausting both Pokemon, until finally they each let off a powerful finishing move. The stadium roared with the explosion and with shouting. Hassel realized he had jumped to his feet and was shouting, too, his ears ringing. His short nails were digging into his palms where he’d squeezed his fists and he uncurled his fingers, eyes darting between the Pokemon that had finally stopped their frenzied flying battle. The silence and tension spread from the battlefield up into the audience.

Vibrava struggled to stay aloft as the sandstorm subsided and the dust of the two attacks meeting head-on cleared. Hydreigon was still airborne, too, but its flapping wings faltered. The Dragon Pulse had made contact before it could shoot off its Hyper Beam, which had hit hard despite the Light Screen and the defensive cocoon of the sandstorm around Vibrava.

Cara stood tense and watchful, as did aunt Morag. The two Pokemon looked on the verge of unconsciousness, using all their energy to stay aloft and breathing hard.

There was a beat. And then Hydreigon landed heavily, and its eyes closed as it slumped to the ground. Vibrava and Cara looked more surprised than triumphant. And there was another quieter shock going through the crowd, a collective exhale and the crescendo of applause among the spectators.

Vibrava flew to Cara, who petted its head above its antennae and froze with wide eyes. Vibrava was glowing.

Hassel opened his mouth in delight and quickly made sure to turn his back to his father as the tears of joy and relief burst the floodgates. Grinning like a lunatic, face scrunched up in excitement he squinted at Vibrava which glowed brighter, and began to shift its shape. Its antennae and tail elongated… its eyes became overlaid by pinkish red protective bubbles, and its glowing form expanded from dragonfly to flying dragon, wings growing and the pitch of their flapping changing audibly.

Hassel’s relieved mind fragmented the memories after that. Cara must have shaken Morag’s hand. Flygon did a loop around Cara and returned to its Pokeball at some point, and it was treated by their dragon Pokemon medic immediately after, as was Hydreigon. As the spectators left the arena, Hassel’s father looked proud and Hassel found that for once he was completely indifferent to his father’s expression. He savored the afterglow of an unambiguous victory, participating in toasts at the enormous wooden table set up in their ballroom that evening. The guests ate, drank, and talked loudly well into the night. Hassel drifted nearer the piano after his evening coffee. Then he sat down at it, and the rest of the evening blurred by at a faster and more joyful pace. At one point the guests looked ready to listen and dance, and so Hassel obliged them with several classic waltzes, and his parents even danced once – the first time Hassel had ever seen them look animated together doing something that wasn’t a double battle, back when he was little. Mother almost never battled nowadays, and Hassel knew father kept up his training but had grown bored. After their nephews failed their ceremony several times no one ever challenged him, not even to a sporting match.

The night melted away in a golden haze of champagne and music. At one point, an unfamiliar young woman with wavy orange hair and a face full of joy and freckles passed by, laughing and complimenting his music. Hassel gave her the same sunny smile that refused to leave his face that evening. Later on, he saw her dancing and waving at him to speed up the tempo, and he obliged, growing sweaty from exertion but loving the feel of the piano keys and the acoustics of the ballroom.

He had been training so hard with Cara in the last month, he had only had time to play when she was resting or going off on her own to “meditate.” Hassel suspected a secret friend or hobby was involved here but he used this time to dig through the mansion’s dusty trunks of abandoned antiquities, searching for musical instruments he could bring back to life but finding old diaries, collections of comet shards or fossils and old-style saddles and stirrups and bridles for riding dragons.

Cara slid into the piano bench beside him at some point, pushing him playfully, and Hassel finished the song and realized how stiff he felt from sitting, that his hands were aching, that he was still grinning stupidly.

Cara beamed right back and held up a deformed gold coin. It had been perforated by a large fang–Hydreigon’s fang, in fact. Most dragon tamers wore theirs as medals or clasps on their capes, but Hassel had made his into a purely decorative brooch. It typically summered in his winter boot and wintered in a sandal, but he had fished it out of retirement and fastened it to his lapel for Cara’s ceremonial battle. There was more hole than coin, on Hassel’s coming of age trophy.

“Well done,” Hassel breathed, beaming. “I knew you and Vibrava-oh, sorry, Flygon, I knew you could do it!”

“You were right about the Sandstorm-”

“It was brilliant to use it defensively to diffuse the Hyper Beam!”

“I never would have been patient enough with the buffs-”

“Your timing was amazing-”

They stopped interrupting each other and laughed. The ballroom had emptied of guests without Hassel noticing, and now caterers and servants were filtering in to clean up the dishes and debris of their celebration. Late spring snow was falling beyond the gauzy curtains of the tall windows. The night looked bright with it. But nothing looked as bright to Hassel as Cara, her hair grown out to frame her forehead and ears, her Pokeball back on her belt, her face more relaxed than he had seen it in months.

“I’ve got to come clean about something,” she said suddenly.

“Is this about your mysterious study breaks?” Hassel raised an eyebrow but his voice was gentle as ever with Cara.

“Ah, yes, I figured you’d catch on eventually,” she said, looking down at the piano keys. She began to play with several, to sketch out a simple tune. She never had learned very much, but Hassel had taught her some basics when he had taken up piano a decade ago. Cara had always loved to dance.

Hassel waited, and then added a countermelody. Cara broke off, smiled to herself and said,

“I’ve been seeing someone… and I know this will cause you problems with father, but Hassel, we want to get married. It’s the only way that we can start living together and you’ve got to believe me when I tell you, mom’s been cold as Glaceon since you left, and father’s just angry. He takes it out on Mikan and not me as much but you’ve seen him… trust me when I say he’s been so much better since you got back. Will you stay, Hassel? Please? And will you forgive me if I leave this time?”

Hassel’s stomach swooped. At first he thought he was happy for his sister, and he was. But then he recognized–with a delay, because the champagne bubbles had crowded his thoughts–that this feeling was dread at the topic of marriage resurfacing in their household. At their parents’ reaction to the first marriage being that of their youngest child.

“I know that’s why you left,” Cara went on, now looking anxiously into Hassel’s face. “They were pressuring you into spending more time with Frida, with the Wagner clan generally but with her in particular.”

Hassel’s face twisted from an open expression to a grimace and he looked down and shook his head.

“Cara,” he said, looking up at her again. “Cara, don’t worry about that–I will take care of it. I’m so happy for you! Please tell me about your beloved?”

Cara’s face brightened once again. Hassel’s own face gradually recovered color and relaxed as his sister told him about Noelani and his ambitions of becoming a chef for Pokemon. She described how she’d tagged along to remote mountain villages to find rumored ingredients; and how Noel made delicacies from different regions to enhance Vibrava’s flying, and his Alolan Exeggutor’s flexibility.

“I’d like to meet him,” he said sincerely, when Cara paused.

“And don’t give him the big-brother talk. I’m pretty sure he’d faint. He adores you, says your leaving inspired him. It inspired both of us. I know you’ll need to leave again, Hassel, but we want you to stay for our wedding at least?”

“Of course,” Hassel nodded. “But… how are you going to pull it off? Mother’s going to want to invite her side of the family, father will want exhibition matches, and they’ll see it as another strategic move to gain supremacy over the Wagner clan, or the Drake clan, or whatever.”

“You’ve been away for a while so it makes sense you don’t know, but I’m surprised you haven’t heard. The Wagner clan is now allied with the Drake clan, who have overtaken the south of Galar and even parts of the continent. Well, I say overtaken but it’s not like we conquer places in war anymore. It’s all projected power based on influence and wealth, isn’t it?” Cara frowned. “Still, it’s clearly had an effect. Father holes up in the study for hours reading history. I think he was ready to have Mikan marry Frida, but Bastian Drake proposed and that was that. Good thing, too, poor girl was feeling so uncomfortable being passed around like that.”

“As long as she’s happy,” Hassel said shortly. He didn’t like to remember the burden of expectation. Being forced to converse awkwardly with Frida Wagner, while Gible sat and stared at Goomy and both sets of parents threw amused glances their way from the covered gazebo as they stood on the garden path and struggled to find topics of conversation. It had been the final straw. He’d packed up and left the next day.

“I’ll stay for your wedding,” Hassel said. “Provided you don’t invite her.”

“Oh now you’re just being petty,” Cara laughed. “But don’t worry. Noel wants to have a traditional Alolan ceremony and that’s just close family, the beach and the ocean, our Pokemon partners and traditional costumes. You’ll love it, they play the ukulele there, Noel said he’s had an old one repaired and tuned up.”

Hassel nodded as Cara continued to speak about her upcoming wedding, and he felt that coming back home had been the right choice.

* * *

Approximately a year later… in the night sky, coordinates unknown.

 

It was the fog, of course. He knew to wait it out but he’d forged ahead.

He got turned around somewhere over Kiloude City. He had been heading northwest, toward Glittering Cave, but he must have veered further south because suddenly there was sea where there should be land.

The wind whistled in Hassel’s ears. Strands of hair flapped beneath the straps of his goggles. He had cut it shorter for Cara’s wedding, but it was growing out again.The longer he waited, the more conflicted he felt. It felt like a mistake and like the right thing to do, both. He still had doubts, but he had to prove to Mikan that he cared, and perhaps now that he was older, Hassel might convince their father that he was not the best suited for the role of the firstborn son. Hassel kept telling himself this. He kept doubting.

The cold mountain wind from the west, the lack of lights that way, the sea stretching north all directed him south. Dragonite obeyed the lightest of touches, steering her flight to where Hassel wanted to go. When he saw the massive city, the lights sprawled in an hourglass shape, bridges, towering buildings, lights shining up into the sky, Hassel was intrigued. When the fireworks started, he grinned and nudged Dragonite. The fog had blown away over the sea, and the night was clearer and lit up by the city, and Hassel wanted to move among people again. A pang struck him. He had not left home for a long trip like this in months. Stretching his legs, exploring unfamiliar streets, seeing a bright city all reminded him of Lumiose and the art cafes and the music in the streets.

Dragonite found a convenient roof to land on – it had a big red X and landing gear, so they must receive aerial Pokemon here often – and then Hassel sprang lightly from her, stumbled a little from stiffness, shook himself out and leaned on the railing of the fire escape to watch the show in the darkening sky.

“Well, we got the glittering part,” he muttered, patting Dragonite’s flank as they both gazed up at the fireworks. “Not so much the cave. Mikan won’t know if we take a break, and I don’t think I can navigate until I take a look at where we are on a map. This looks almost like Wyndon, all the tall buildings and the stadium over there… but it’s more compact, the wrong shape, and the lighting is beautiful… like Lumiose, remember?”

Dragonite nudged Hassel away from the fireworks, then, and he turned to the clanging of running feet. His stomach dropped, wondering if they’d be in trouble for their unauthorized landing. He forcibly reminded himself of what father said: Dragon Tamers belong at the top. Of the hierarchy, of the mountain, of any building that had the structural support required to withstand a dragon landing. He’d learned that one the hard way once in Hulbury, crashing through several wood floors of an abandoned row house. He’d been lucky to get off with a fractured arm and a startled Dragonair.

The clanging of jogging feet up metal stairs grew closer, and a door burst open. Three people in white coats and wearing earpieces ran directly past Hassel and Dragonite as if he wasn’t even there. Hassel, who had steeled himself to look comfortable and confident, stared after them. Dragonite tilted her head.

“...-tient male, maybe twenty, found unresponsive in the forest northeast of Art, East Province-One. Pallor described as Cursola white. Acute dyspnea, witness said erratic and decreasing respiration, pulse,” the oldest newcomer spoke rapidly, tension in her voice reined in by a professional calm. “It had better not be you…” she added to herself. She had a piercing stare that was focused on the radio in her hand. Her comments were noted down by one of the others in a little notebook. Her voice rose when she cast an eye over the roof, again ignoring Hassel and searching for something, then coming up short. She barked, loudly, “Where’s the ambulance Pokemon? I didn’t hear them deploy tonight!”

“Uh, there was an incident, Doctor Miguela,” began the note-taking young man.

“Spit it out! We don’t have time. A man is dying! Where’s Corviknight?”

“Asad’s Tinkaton got away from him and there was a lucky throw, and we thought it was fine at first because Corviknight didn’t seem to be hurt,” the younger woman said hurriedly. “But then, he wasn’t perching right and I asked him to carry the emergency sling and he couldn’t move his left wing… it was terrible, I was so angry I hadn’t noticed it sooner! I took him to the Pokemon center and made an announcement…”

“Damn that Tinkaton,” the doctor said gruffly. “I hope this doesn’t end up costing a life. We need immediate emergency transport. Who has wings, teleportation, anything?”

“I’ve got Cyclizar,” said the young man, and the doctor visibly restrained herself and counted to five before exhaling.

“We need to get the patient here, ten minutes ago!” she barked. She cast her eyes around the roof and alighted on Dragonite’s minimal riding gear, and then on Hassel, who had been standing a little meekly, because there had been no chance to put in any words with the pace of the conversation.

“You! Can your Dragonite reliably carry two people?”

Hassel licked his lips and nodded at once. “Yes. Yes, she can do-”

“I’m requisitioning your Pokemon for tonight. No time to explain now. You will be compensated and your Pokemon will be returned perfectly fine. Nurse Anxo, give this young man my radio frequency and information.”

“You want to fly her yourself?” Hassel said sharply, too surprised to feel bad for interrupting. “Do you have experience with dragon types?”

“I have a patient who’s going to the funeral home and not the hospital if I don’t make it there now,” the doctor said firmly, pushing past Hassel and staring into Dragonite’s face. “Can you take me where I ask you?”

Hassel opened his mouth to offer to take the lead, to tell Dragonite to obey, to contribute something, but Dragonite looked into the doctor’s eyes and nodded and roared. Everyone covered their ears too late. Hassel, who had no intention of allowing a stranger to ride his Dragonite mysteriously off into the night, found himself helping the doctor up onto Dragonite before he realized what he was doing.

“We’ll be back as soon as I can get him stable,” the doctor shouted from Dragonite’s back. The fireworks had ended, and Hassel was just about to clamber up after her when she held a hand up to forestall him. “I’ll be lighter and faster alone. Hatije, prepare a bed in the ICU and diagnostics for heavy metal poisoning, biotoxins, study the toxicology of any substance you can think of that can inhibit pulmonary and respiratory function. I’ll narrow it down for you when I have eyes on the patient. Have the dialysis equipment prepared. Get me a list of screenings necessary with available resources, prepare Chansey and get the general O.R. set up, just in case. Have staff help you. Anxo, I want you to run down to Levincia East Pokemon center and call up Artazon’s PC. I got a tip that there’s something affecting Pokemon in that area, and it might be the same contaminant. Get info on symptoms and treatments in Pokemon. You–” she turned to Hassel. “Thank you. I promise I’ll get her back to you safely.”

“What Pokemon poisoning?” Hassel began, but Dragonite had already taken off, somehow understanding the urgency. Hassel watched them fly off, the doctor’s voice fading quickly as she gave further instructions over the portable radio.

“Yeah, she has that effect on people,” said the younger woman. She wore a pale green headscarf tucked neatly into her white coat, and smiled easily at Hassel, gesturing him to follow her back through the door inside the building.

“Doctor Miguela will keep her word,” said the young man, joining them. “Although the idea that we can learn about treating people from treating Pokemon sounds crazy…”

“Oh? You have information about a novel contaminant, then? I didn’t think so,” said the woman. She turned to Hassel, then, and said, “Oh, um, I’m Hatije, it’s nice to meet you, stranger. You were in the right place at the right time to save a life today! At least I hope so. Come on, I’ll get you a coffee and find you a waiting room. Thank you for going along with the doctor’s orders.”

“Oh. You’re welcome,” Hassel said. “Listen, you’re sure she’s not going to get Dragonite hurt, or poisoned? She’s not trained to ride dragons, is she? How did she manage to fly so well?”

“Doctor Miguela forgets everything when it comes to patients in need,” said the young man. “She acts invincible, and it’s like the world believes her. I’ve seen her commandeer Pokemon before. It’s only afterward she remembers that she hates heights, or gets motion sickness, or isn’t a strong swimmer… I’m Anxo, by the way, I’m a nurse here.”

“Nice to meet you,” Hassel said automatically. “Wait, afraid of heights?”

“It won’t bother her until the patient is back here,” Hatije assured him. “We’ve seen it. The doctor will take good care of your Pokemon. She values life and health, she wouldn’t be here during Levincia Days celebration and fireworks if she didn’t! Most of the doctors took the night off, it’s why we’re short-staffed and only had Corviknight…. Hey, Anxo. Find out how Corviknight’s doing, when you talk to folks at the Pokemon Center. Let me know, yeah?”

“Right, right,” said nurse Anxo. “What were you doing on our roof, anyway?”

They had emerged from the metal stairs leading from the roof down into a clean, white building. Hassel’s eyes adapted to the fluorescent lights, the bland artwork on the walls of electric Pokemon, the tile floor and ceiling.

“I saw the landing pad and came down. We flew a bit off course, I’m afraid,” he said, fighting not to sound sheepish. “I was running an errand for my brother, wanted to take the scenic route and got turned around.”

Anxo looked at him skeptically from over his rectangular glasses and then shrugged. “That’s lucky for us, then! Right, I’m off, I’ll take Cyclizar and fax over any info directly to radiology and the lab, but I’ll send you copies and an update on your overgrown crow. I’m sure he’s fine. See you!”

“You said this is Levincia?” Hassel asked, as Anxo walked away from them toward another elevator bank and Hatije steered him toward the elevator she’d just called. “So we drifted far into Paldea!” he muttered to himself, laughing a little.

“Your Dragonite must be a fast flier, if you can drift into countries accidentally,” Hatije said, smiling. She pressed the button for the twentieth floor and they descended. She began to count off on her fingers, mentally cataloging something. Hassel’s hand rested on his Pokeball belt. Dragalge had evolved recently, and become strangely nocturnal. Gible was sleeping, Dragonite had been recruited to be an ambulance, but it was his newest companion that had been giving him trouble.

He had thrown a Pokeball at a Dratini swimming in the shallows of Galar’s Lake of Outrage, hoping to catch another stable companion to pass on to his brother or sister–whoever needed protecting most, or a fast escape route, or both… but the ball had never reached its intended target. It collided with something invisible and there was a light, and then Hassel had inadvertently caught what he was finding to be the cutest and shyest of small dragon Pokemon. His own incompetence, or perhaps strange luck, had rendered him silent and staring at the unknown Pokemon inside the Pokeball with a frown frozen on his face.

The small, arrow-headed amphibian dragon had gills, yellow eyes that blinked up at Hassel, and greenish skin or scales. It was hard to tell because it was one of the fastest Pokemon he had ever encountered. Once it felt comfortable around him, it took to flying into his coat sleeve and perching gingerly on his forearm, very rarely peeking out of his sleeve back at him.

Hassel had resisted the reflex to start shaking his arm and waving it around until the dragon flew out again. This was typically not the best way to treat dragons, even very small ones. He had taken to walking around with Dreepy hidden inside his unworn hood, or inside a loose sleeve, just to try to socialize it more and to get Dreepy to feel more comfortable in the open, but the results were mixed. Perhaps it needed a Drakloak or Dragapult around? He had visited the Lake of Outrage at night but failed to find any of Dreepy’s evolutions. There was probably an expert somewhere, or some special training that could be done, but for now Hassel allowed Dreepy to lurk in his loose clothing and admitted to himself that he found it adorable. He’d wanted to sketch it for weeks now, but there was always training or work to do back home, and travel had been far from leisurely.

Now he reflected, Hassel realized that watching fireworks had been the first time in over a month he’d stopped running around to fetch things, or do training his father advised, or attend an event at his mother’s request… mother’s interest in gallery openings had only increased of late. Hassel and Cara had theorized that she was looking for something that wasn’t there, because she always left looking like a child who had been denied her favorite flavor of ice-cream.

When Hatije had found a waiting room and a hot beverage machine for him, leaving him with a portable radio and her frequency as well as that of Doctor Miguela, Hassel first got a hot chocolate, and then he took out the small notepad he used to write down training goals and began to sketch. There was Dragonite’s upturned head from below, looking toward the stars. Dreepy peering out from inside of a sleeve. A self-portrait… Hassel did not appreciate the last one very much and turned the page again, then set the notepad aside and began to tune the radio, ready for an update.

Hatije had told him what floor she’d likely be on, but had advised he contact her via radio because she would be running around. As he searched for her frequency, Hassel came across a Jazz station and paused, listening. He had loved listening to such improvised performances live at night, in the darkness of some bar when the songs would stretch long and be met with whoops and applause.

He listened for some time, identifying and isolating elements, tuning out the piano to focus on the saxophone, then bringing his focus back to the piano. Hassel's body echoed the music, foot tapping, fingers twitching along to the piano, head tilting. The radio muddied the jazz, making some sounds grainy, others screechy. Hassel decided he didn’t like it. It was probably the free-flow nature of improvisation clashing with the recorded media, but something felt off, and ominous. A growing pit in his stomach. The lack of freedom rankled. The music should be alive, not… long-distance, remote, detached from the hands and breath making it, the emotions he wasn’t feeling properly.

He turned off the radio. Faintly, he could hear fireworks going off outside. He was surrounded by celebration. He could go out, get some local drink or even something sweet, find a pub with live music. It was a big city, there were probably shows and real theaters here, not like the places he’d played. It would be so easy to disappear in this foreign country, blend into the life of this city, explore the music scene here…

The hospital lights buzzed quietly above him. A tank with Corsola and Arrokuda occupied his stare for a while. Hassel found his thoughts drifting back to Dragonite, to Doctor Miguela’s description of the young man with the pallor of a Cursola. He wished he’d gone with her, instead of trusting an inexperienced rider. He could fly higher, faster… he hadn’t even thought to give her his goggles. Would she make it in time to help the dying man? He was so young. Had there been an accident? Would he be dead, if Hassel’s Dragonite hadn’t spotted this particular building and landed here tonight? Would he die anyway?

Twenty was only five years younger than Hassel, but it was far too young. Hassel had his fair share of injuries growing up, but he’d never been taken to the hospital for them. Father always had the doctor and nurses make house calls. Even when he’d fallen off of Dragonair in a thunderstorm, tumbled down a rocky slope and landed with a nasty crack. He thought he was dying, but father had peered over from Salamence’s back, and flown low not to pick up Hassel but to calmly tell him to get himself home, he’d call for the doctor, no need to cry about it. He had to act his age. Falls happened. He needed to learn to fall correctly, this was primary, really, Hassel, I expected you to know this at twelve years old.

He thought he’d be coughing up blood with the way it hurt to move, and later it turned out he’d broken three ribs and fractured his femur. He had managed to get up and back on Dragonair, muddy in mind and body, pained and struggling not to panic. Dragonair assisted by wrapping her tail to secure him as he nearly passed out from the pain, as his grip slipped in the rain and he cried both from pain and frustration, because he knew how to fall. He had just been surprised when his hold slipped. Hassel shook his head to dispel the memory, wincing. Some errors rankled even years later.

He was pacing now. He went back to the elevator he’d taken with the nurse, and saw that it went only up. He needed fresh air, and part of him hoped Dragonite was already back. When he stepped out on the roof, he caught the grand finale of the fireworks display, the blasts crackling across the sky in showers of gold, red and green. The acrid smell of gunpowder and whatever colorants in the mix, the smoke that painted the sky after the glitter had twinkled out, obscuring the stars. And through that smoke, a trail of condensation, the flight of Dragonite with two riders. Hassel had never contemplated how he looked riding Dragonite, but he noticed the elegance of Dragonite’s flight from afar. Even encumbered by two people, she flew fast and light.

Dragonite made a sound of greeting when she spotted her trainer, and Hassel’s grin faded when he could make out the riders. Doctor Miguela was speaking rapidly into her radio headset, just as she had been when she flew off. She had looped Hassel’s (largely decorative) bridle around Dragonite’s body to secure a person about her size between Dragonite’s wings and tied the ends to her own waist. It was unsettling to see long limbs dangling lifelessly from atop Dragonite. The person lay prone along Dragonite’s mid-back so the doctor could keep her eye on their face during the flight. Dragonite’s flying looked fine, Hassel noted urgently, and there was no immediate sign of poisoning or any status condition afflicting her. She landed as lightly and gracefully as ever, mindful of her passengers and carrying something in her short arms, perhaps the doctor’s bag? She looked fine, and Hassel let out an enormous relieved breath. The same couldn’t be said for the unconscious man that Miguela was disentangling from her own seatbelt contraption.

Hassel had run forward to take Dragonite’s head between his hands and peer into her eyes, which looked clear, intelligent, calm. Satisfied with his rapid check-in, Hassle moved to help hold up the patient. He was shockingly light, and Hassel was alarmed suddenly when he couldn’t detect his breathing. A mass of dull green hair, tangled full of thorns and leaves, obscured most of his ash-pale face. There was a smudge of something dark on his cheek. A pair of nurses, different from before, bustled over with a stretcher. They took the man from him just as there was a flash of light. The doctor had sent out a Clefable.

“Use Life Dew again,” she said abruptly. “Then the ICU. You’ve prepared everything as I instructed? Has Doctor Chavez answered his pager? You did get Souza, at least?”

The nurses responded but the speech washed over Hassel without registering, like the background lull of an ocean. He had seen fierce battles, and tended to his siblings when they got sick–mostly this involved Cara getting the flu every winter–but he’d never seen anyone die before. It rooted him to the roof’s landing pad, weighing heavy in his stomach, and he could feel it, the immanence of it, the gravity of every moment. Something significant was happening here, a presence touching them and the monochrome, late-night world. He was a stranger walking down the street, peering into a window on someone else’s tragedy. For the first time he felt unreservedly relieved that he had gotten lost that night, and Dragonite had assisted the doctor. At the same time, he felt he was intruding and he shouldn’t be here. The dying man was just about Cara’s age. Dragonite nudged him to break the moment, bending down to touch his head with her chin.

Clefable closed its piggy eyes and made a strangely graceful gesture with its stubby arms, its ears and tail swayed back and forth, it stood on its toes and made sprinkling motions with its fingers. The full moon surfaced from behind a cloud. Hassel had been flying earlier that night and he was sure there had been a new moon…

“Cleffaaaaaay,” the Clefable intoned, soft and high and oddly musical.

Hassel was standing close enough to feel the air condense and the humidity form droplets. It was an impromptu rain that smelled like mountain snow and some flower, that one his mother liked, what was it? Lilies-of-the-valley, maybe… He leaned forward without meaning to, body wanting to feel the strange, cool rain, and found himself leaning over the man who looked rather like a garden gone to seed and covered with early morning dew. Hassel saw, up close, that it wasn’t really thorns but only hair resembling them, that the man’s skin was ethereal in the moonglow, even though it covered sunken eyes and hollowed cheekbones. He heard the faint rasping of his breaths, and the sound was ingrained in his memory among the most awful sounds he ever heard in his life. Something squeezed in Hassel’s chest as he felt the droplets fall on his face and soothe wind-chafed skin. The man’s eyelashes had droplets in them, too. They fluttered, and then Hassel was gazing into a pair of eyes that felt familiar, even though he would remember seeing someone with silver eyes like the moon.

He was conscious. Had the Clefable done that? Hassel watched colorless lips attempt to form words. Was he going to make a request? Hassel was no coward, but he felt afraid of what this dying stranger might say.

Not much, it turned out. The rasp worsened, the stranger shut his eyes, opened them at half-mast and seemed to make a final effort. Hassel and the doctor leaned so close their faces were centimeters from his, and their foreheads brushed each other’s. But they were intent on the silver eyes and bluish lips.

“Sss-ssample. Bah-bag,” the man managed, gaze boring into Hassel’s eyes. It was a choked whisper, barely that. “Suh-” he broke out into a noiseless cough, almost a seizure, face scrunching in pain. Hassel smoothed his hair from his forehead before his brain caught up with his hand. The man’s brow was burning hot and wet with sweat and dew, and Hassel let his hand linger to cool it. The man made a superhuman effort and croaked out, “Kern?”

“Fine, they’re fine,” Doctor Miguela said from right next to Hassel, who had no idea what this meant. The man’s face relaxed and then consciousness fled.

“Move!” the doctor commanded without waiting, bodily shoving Hassel away as the nurses raced the gurney with the man toward the elevator. Hassel spared a moment to be impressed that the small woman had managed to move him, especially now that he had actually attempted father’s insane training regimen and bulked up. But most of his mind was on the man whose nearly skull-like face had come briefly alive.

“Sample. Bag. Uncle? Succor? Corn?” Hassel repeated to Dragonite.

Dragonite shrugged and offered the backpack she had been holding patiently up until then.

Hassel hesitated. This was a stranger, looking through his things was inappropriate. He remembered the urgency in the striking gaze, the effort expended in the few words. He took the bag and peered into it. Then he recalled Dragonite, and ran after the doctor and nurses.

They were gone, of course. Hassle took the elevator back to the waiting room Hatije had shown him, then to the floor she told him she would be on. There were frosted-glass doors off a long hallway, leading to labs of all kinds, here. Hassel raced past them, toward the one where the light was on, and knocked feverishly.

After a short pause, Hatije opened the door. She had a paper cup of coffee and a stack of papers in her hands, and a pair of goggles hiked up onto her headscarf.

“Oh, you, right,” she said. “I’m so sorry, the doctor came back but I can’t fetch your Dragonite just now. I just got some information from Anxo that points to a novel contaminant that’s been wreaking havoc with the forest Pokemon, and without a sample I can only make guesses about what it does and how it might interact with a human body!” She said all this very quickly, then looked up at Hassel and frowned at his expression.

Hassel held up the bag, catching his breath.

“I think you’re going to want to see this.”

Notes:

Sorry too for the Cara and Clara name similarity heheh. Clara is ofc the gym leader before Clair in Blackthorn, Johto (can you tell which is my favorite region?) and Cara was named for the oranges... eh.

Chapter 6: 2. Coming Home - ST-19

Notes:

I'm so sorry it's been a month. There's been no time, I don't understand it at all.

Bit of science-fiction flavored fanfic here, hope you don't mind?

Warnings? Well... There's hospitals, death mentioned, scary machines (ventilator) which freak out Hassel a bit. Allusions to abuse, both personal and professional (hassel's family dynamics are let's say Not Healthy and Brassius doesn't find much help from Big Science). I try not to get too graphic but there's some descriptions of unconscious patients looking half-dead, this sort of thing, not excessive I hope. A night of poor sleep and back pain. Real mundane horrors this halloween, I guess? Eh. enjoy?

Ch6, encounter 2 continued...

 

* * *

Hatije moved the microscope aside. They bent down over the torn pages, laying out the notes and sketches across the lab counter, her brown eyes and Hassel’s amber ones scanning the messily written notes.

“Paging Lucía,” Hatije muttered, after running her eyes over the notes twice. “Come in, Lucía–got some labs I need you to run stat. Acute biotoxicity and chronic effects, we have a patient in ICU-ah, you know? I’m going to send down two samples…”

Hassel heard her make arrangements but his brain was mostly processing the story unfolding before him, filling in the blanks between the sketches, notes, and observations over several weeks’ worth of pages torn from a sketchbook.

It had started with sketches of Sunkern, done in charcoal and then in watercolor, the sun-burned yellowed look of their head leaves, the droopiness to their movements conveyed in mini-comics and doodles. The sketches conveyed the progression of illness. Notes began to appear. Tried spray bottle–no improvement. Installing a water filter into the fountain had seemed to help at first, but the symptoms had returned several pages later. Grass type Pokemon in various stages of wilting littered the pages, and the artist noted the weather was not unusual, there was no drought, the lethargy seemed infectious… there was a note on the absence of Squawkabilly from the forest and meadows. Hassel did not know this Pokemon but gathered that they were indigenous to the region.

A heartrending sketch of a collapsed Deerling in the middle of a road had Hassel sniffing. The artist had brought it to the Pokemon center and written down that the nurses were examining it. The page on the next day had no sketches, only text. The nurses did not know what had sickened the Deerling, they had ruled out bacteria but not viruses. The handwriting was shakier than usual, and Hassel imagined how he’d feel if he started coming across sick Pokemon in the Valley of Dragons, and had no means to help them. He heard Hatije handing off two labeled samples to the lab technician, but his attention was fixed on the story.

The next several pages were only illustrations, without any text at all. There were pictures of landscapes, greenery going wild, bushes overgrowing and breaking fences, tree roots tearing up concrete walks, encroaching on a playground, weeds overtaking a gravel battle arena. The grass Pokemon were not thriving, but the plants seemed to be going into overdrive. A week later, it said: Sunkern and Deerling not recovering. Wrote to Arturo. Going to test forest water and soil at Levincia’s sci-tech district tomorrow. Mom’s hair clogging drain, complains arthritis bothering her. I see her struggling through the pain, Victreebell looks worried. Wrote to Calona, asked her to come take care of mom if her condition worsens. She still refuses to see a doctor. At my wit’s end.

This may have been the moment the writer began to suspect the mysterious illness of the Pokemon was spreading to humans, thought Hassel. He did not write it down because he did not wish to even contemplate this idea.

“It says he tested the water and soil in the sci-tech district?” Hassel said, turning to Hatije who was looking something up in an enormous reference book.

“I saw that. I’ve got no proof but I’ve got a theory,” Hatije said, looking up from her book but leaving her finger on a page to mark her place. “See, we’ve got many scientific start-ups here, Levincia prides itself on technology. Not all of the businesses are entirely ethical regarding copyright and patents, because the competition is so fierce and people have stolen formulations from each other, made false allegations of unlicensed practice, and so on. If someone thought their funding would be endangered by a public incident, they could’ve conveniently lost the sample. Or if they thought they could get away with reverse-engineering something profitable, or extorting the original creators.”

“Wouldn’t it be better to falsify the results?” Hassel ventured.

“In the long term that might be uncovered. Lost samples happen all the time–you can’t prove malice there. Well, it’s more difficult to legally prove it, I suppose,” Hatije muttered, her eyes going back to where her finger rested in the reference tome. She was making notes in a chart, eyes running quickly along dense text and then returning to double check her work. Her concentration encased her like a bubble, impervious to Hassel's worried looks, responding only to specific, verbalized questions.

Hassel frowned and looked back down at the loose pages. Several pages on, observations questioning the disappearance of bug and flying Pokemon from the region.

Seems absurd to theorize when I am no researcher or expert in the matter, but I’ve been observing them my whole life. The Combee are gone. I have not seen a single Oricorio for weeks, neither dance nor song nor even the flash of a feather. Consulted Gym Leader Abilene today. Reports of sick grass types in the wild but did not seem to think this was strange. She invited me to be a gym trainer! Me! I told Bonsly at once, but he loves the idea… I don’t know. I’d like to, I think, but it’s difficult to imagine… she said I’d be a natural. I think I froze when she offered. Need to graduate first, and at this rate I may need to take a break to help mom. Arceus, I hope the town’s Sunkern recover. And mom, too.

There was a comic of an excited Bonsly that made Hassel smile briefly. And on the next page, I wish I went to school for medicine, or for science like Arturo at times like this. Followed by unprintable words, scratched out drawings, and several jagged, wavy green hairs somehow still on the page from when the writer must have run his hands roughly through his hair. Hassel winced and kept reading.

Called Levincia lab again. Promised they’d call back within a week with results on the water and soil testing but no word. Receptionist remembered me but when she transferred me to the lab they denied receiving samples.

A sketch of a nervous looking Pokemon that resembled an olive from several perspectives. Squirting something from the olive on its head. Looking contented. Sleeping in a lined basket near a sunny window.

A week later. Called again. Must have been mislabelled or lost, simply not in our records, we apologize for the inconvenience. I begin to wonder. Mom’s doing poorly. Am now considering following the livelier Sunkern around, observing what they interact with. I can’t conduct the tests myself but I can use the skills I have to try to solve the problem in front of me. That’s what mom used to tell us as kids, I think. Running out of ideas. She finally agreed to rest. May need to trick her to get her to the doctor soon. Or bring Miguela down here for dinner?

The following pages documented a day in the life of a Sunkern, making Hassel laugh with delight in places despite the dire story unfolding before him.

The expressions on the Sunkern clearly differentiated individual Pokemon, and Hassel marveled at how well the artist must know these town Pokemon to give them expressions that so well matched their actions. When the evolved Sunflora pushed its sibling into the public fountain, he could see its eyes crinkle with laughter. The expressiveness reminded him of the sketch he’d been gifted in Lumiose, but Hassel didn't pause long enough to make the connection. The urgency of the night did not allow thinking back, only anticipating and mitigating the worst outcomes. Hassel felt like the artist, then, that he was no doctor, no ambulance, but he had used the skills he had to help solve the problem he’d landed in front of. And the more he read and saw, the more he wanted to help find a cure to the mysterious illness, the more he admired the persistence of the amateur investigator in the intensive care unit, with the silver eyes and the worry for Sunkern. He was worried for the Sunkern now, too.

The next pages were filled with images of Sunkern playing together, Sunkern bringing honey in a leaf to a sick Sunkern, Sunkern resting on a pillow of moss in the forest. There was a list of potions and supplements the artist had administered with notes on miniscule improvements. Barebones sketches of Sunkern jumping in a creekbed. Sunkern sneaking under an iron wall, a stark and imposing contrast to the forest that surrounded it and the tiny infiltrating Sunkern.

Then came the notes with rougher, faster sketches. The hidden underground mag-lev train, the strange facility, the samples of reddish crystals stolen from the midst of a workday. The pages were wrinkled, like they had got wet and then dried again, and Hassel flinched back from the powdery red grains on them when he spotted them.

“Don’t worry,” Hatije said from across the room. He hadn’t noticed her move, but the nurse –was she a doctor–had several large books open around her, and she was typing away on a computer, looking energized. “The exposure is toxic chronically. I think the patient’s case is acute because he was exposed to it over years, really, and then got a large dose at once. We should be fine so long as we don’t sniff or lick the paper. Wash your hands before you touch your face, though,” she added.

Hassel went to the sink and scrubbed his hands. He did not have any grass Pokemon but he did not want to experiment on himself or his partners.

“Did you read all of it at a glance?” he asked, and Hatije shook her head.

“Skimmed and got the gist. Medical school taught me to read fast and extract important information. I didn’t really look at his pictures so if there’s any hints you’ve seen there, I’m all ears.”

“Reddish powder leaving the facility via groundwater, the creekbed, the soil,” Hassel said, recalling the orange tinge to Sunkern’s bottom in several of the drawings. He laughed at himself for speaking in the same tone the reportage was written in. But then the memory of the deathly white face with a dark smudge and half-lucid silver eyes made him shiver. He’d never heard the sound of lungs before, and he wanted to unhear it.

“Good news is, I think there’s a few similarities in the pathways of the byproducts of acute exposure to things we know how to treat, so we have a chance to stabilize him… but I’ve got no idea on the chronic effects and if it’s even possible to treat that…”

Hassel turned to reply and realized Hatije was speaking to someone on her headset. She switched channels and said, “Anxo, I need you to urgently get in touch with experts on Terastallization here in Paldea, and crystal polymorph researchers at the post-graduate Academy in Wyndon and the research hospital in Lumiose, perhaps? Send out feelers, find the experts and get their feedback on the toxicity pathways I’m sending your way. I need diagnostic ideas, treatment, any critiques they can give, stat. Pagers and medical emergency numbers, urgent priority.”

There was a pause as Anxo responded.

“Sending the references now,” she said, typing on the computer. “I’ve had reports from Joy of successful treatment with chelating agents and oddly, NaCli appears immune, so there’s potential there. Right. Doctor! Yes, I’ve sent Anxo to get experts. No, no confirmed human results, all theoretical and some Tandemaus or Rattata tested at this stage, doctor. Yes, yes, I’ll disinfect and come in to assist and advise.”

Hatije snapped off the latex gloves she had been wearing and tossed them into a biohazard bin that shut itself, then she sent off something on the computer and rushed to the door and turned off the lights. Then she remembered Hassel and apologized.

“It’s fine, go,” Hassel said wryly. “I’ll be in the waiting room you showed me earlier, unless there's something I can help with? Let me know once there’s any news?”

“I’ll do that,” Hatije promised, her face softening before the stress overtook it once more. “Thank you, Hassel. You’ve been a sweetheart. I’ll come by or have another nurse let you know the general status.”

Hassel watched her half-jog away before he sighed and took the elevator back to the waiting room with the aquarium and the couch. He moved several chairs and then let his long, muscled body lie over the couch, trailing over the chairs. He stared up at the fluorescent lights, then over at the aquarium bubbles.

Dragalge left its Pokeball to wander around and tease the aquarium Pokemon. Hassel drifted, drowsing, dreaming of Clefairy dancing in the rain, Sunkern frolicking in a meadow, and then a red sandstorm sweeping over everything, extinguishing the sun and moon. He woke suddenly, struggling to breathe. Dragalge had rested against him and covered his face with an algal fin. It looked startled and a little offended at his violent awakening, so Hassel caught his breath and patted it.

“Uh, hi, good morning,” said a small voice from the other side of the waiting room.

Sleepy-eyed and not well rested, Hassel squinted through the aquarium at the Corsola–no, the pink-clad young woman behind the aquarium. The very short young woman. The identical pink blobs in his sleep-blurred vision resolved into two distinct beings.

“Good morning,” he said, rushing to get off the chairs and couch and look presentable. The stiffness of his uncomfortable sleeping position made itself known and he knocked over the chairs before he managed to get to his feet, fix them, and turn to the young nurse with an apology on his lips for the clattering and the mess.

She was younger than he thought, and struggling valiantly not to laugh. In fact, she was just a child.

“Are you lost?” Hassel said, concerned.

“No, no, mama told me to tell you that Mr Brassius is finally nearly stable and they’re keeping him in the eye see you,” the young girl recited, putting a hand on the aquarium in greeting. The Corsola trod over and hopped and floated down, clearly happy to see the child. Dragalge tilted its head and then retreated back into its Pokeball.

“Mama? Mr who?” Hassel said, and then he went over to the coffee machine and pushed a button, procured a cup of the hot beverage, poured in several bags of sugar and drank it black. After the pause, he said,

“You’re Hatije’s daughter?”

The girl nodded happily.

“I’m Miri,” she said, “and mama said you can come to the eye see you. She was busy so she sent me!”

“Ah,” Hassel said, after he finished the hot coffee. “You’re doing an excellent job, Miri. We'll go see your mom and her patient. Let me just run to the restroom and we can head over.”

Hassel made quick work of brushing his teeth with hospital supplies, ignored his stubble and the need to shower, wiped himself down with wet paper towels, washed his face and promised his Pokemon that he’d get them breakfast soon. Then he followed the young girl to the intensive care unit, where doctors were still bustling around several patients. The young man from earlier was nowhere to be seen.

“Ah, Hassel, right?” said a voice.

Doctor Miguela looked exhausted but pleased. She was shorter than Hatije, grey-haired and gaunt after a sleepless night, but her presence was solid and reassuring even when she was half Hassel’s height.

“I cannot disclose confidential patient information,” she said at once, sorting through papers on her clipboard and walking, forcing Hassel to speed up his walk. The girl waved and disappeared down another hallway, and Hassel waved back too late.

“However, you helped us greatly last night, and Hatije told me you brought the samples that we used to identify ST-nineteen and then find a neutralizing agent for the novel polymorph…” she continued to speak but the medical language was unfamiliar to Hassel, who licked his lips and tried to follow, blinking. “Ah, I apologize,” the doctor said, finally catching on. “It’s been a long night. Brassius has been something of a long-term patient of mine, and I consider him a family friend. It’s hard to believe that we almost lost him, last night. He’s in a coma now, to allow the neutralizing agent to do its work. It should last several days at least. We shall see how his body handles the treatment. If all goes well… He’s a good kid,” she turned to Hassel suddenly, the paperwork scrunched in her hands, clipboard creaking under her grip. “Thank you for helping us.”

Hassel was used to servants bowing to him at home, though he never liked it. To have a professional do it now felt just as wrong.

“Please,” he wavered, “You did the hard part. I’m just glad Dragonite could be helpful,” and then he recalled that dismissing favors, perceived or actual, was rude, and he gave a magnanimous: “You are most welcome,” though it came out a little teary.

Doctor Miguela looked up out of her bow and smiled at him.

“My shift ended an hour ago, and I’m going to go rest in rooms we have reserved for staff on occasions like this. I imagine you did not sleep most comfortably. Since you assisted us and acted as staff last night, I believe I’ll grant you the accompanying privileges. Here’s a keycard to the rooms on the twelfth floor, yours to stay and rest as needed. You will find limited supplies of food and Pokemon food in the cafeteria, and much healthier options for both people and Pokemon in the gourmet deli just across the street from the hospital’s main entrance. Here is my card, my pager number and radio frequency are written on the back. Tell your Dragonite hello for me.”

“Thank you,” Hassel said automatically. “But can I see him?”

Miguela paused and sighed. “Officially, no, but I am off shift… and coma patients respond to stimuli in their own way. And you, a dragon trainer with such a well-behaved and helpful Dragonite. Yes, I imagine a friendly voice–nothing stressful–would not cause harm. You may turn on some soothing music or television, or simply speak calmly to him, if you would?”

Hassel nodded gratefully. The doctor was beginning to slur her words and he wondered if she was indulging him out of weariness. She pointed him toward an elevator, told him a room number, and walked with slumped shoulders down the hallway, barking orders into her headset moments later, voice echoing.

Hassel, who had grasped the layout of the hospital after wandering around half the night, now discovered the busier sections. Nurses rushed around nurses’ stations, devices beeped, Chansey and Indeedee muttered as they rushed by, forcing Hassel to step aside. He could hear groans of pain coming from a room, and was relieved when it was not the one he was looking for.

The end of the hallway turned and there was room number 856, the door half-closed, the curtain drawn. He knocked politely and Hatije pulled the curtain aside and made him jump.

“Hassel,” she said, looking manic with dark circles under her eyes and excitement within them. “Success! Well, in a limited capacity, but we stabilized him and devised an experimental treatment all in a night. I’ve never seen Doctor Miguela and Anxo work this hard. Lucia had pharmacy come in at half past four and work with the lab. We did the impossible, thanks to them. And you helped! I think there’s probably four papers in this, once we unpack all the biochemistry involved… but that’s all secondary of course. Oh, you’ve met Miriam.”

The girl in pink peered out from behind her mother and looked curiously at Hassel.

“I didn’t see your Pokemon before!” she said, zeroing in on his belt. “Just the big seahorse. But Mama said you have a Dragonite! Can I see it, please?”

“Not now, Miri,” Hatije said softly, and Miriam immediately pouted but did not ask again.

“I’d be happy to show you later, maybe outside?” Hassel suggested. He could see the bed, the different machines connected to someone on it, beeping, making all sorts of frankly frightening noises. How was Miriam not alarmed? Was Hassel the only one uncomfortable here?

Hatije noticed his gaze and moved aside, directing Miriam back to the nurse’s station where her stuffed Teriursa was waiting for her. Then she turned to Hassel, who had paled.

This was a good outcome, he reminded himself. The thick tube running down the man’s throat through his mouth, forcing his chest to move regularly. The loud artificial breathing of the ventilator. The myriad tangled IV lines branching from both inner arms, the bandages splinting the left wrist, the dirt and leaves on the pillow, the face that wasn’t dead but lacked so much life that it felt wrong. The bags of mystery medication and fluids, the screens reading unknown numbers, flashing, beeping, clicking, meaning nothing…

“Hey,” Hatije was tugging on his hand. Hassel breathed, wondering suddenly why this was getting to him. Father would dismiss it as part of life, nothing really, just some stranger making bad decisions.

But Hassel had read about the young man’s decisions, and they had been brave, and caring.

“Hey,” Hatije said. “It’s ok. I know it looks scary but he’s in good hands. He will recover. It’ll just take some time. And we might need to be inventive again, and he will probably not be at a hundred percent but he will be very happy to be alive. And he’ll thank you when he’s feeling better. Doctor Miguela knows him, and I’ve seen him on and off for years. He always drew comics for Miriam when I brought her over. You did good. Relax.”

Hassel swallowed and then Hatije was hugging him and he might have cried. Hatije wouldn’t tell anyone, and the patient didn’t open his eyes. Hatije left promising that someone would come by with some food for him, and he could stay as long as he needed, and there were several very good graphic novels that were not really for his age range but maybe he would like to read aloud, and she had to get Miriam to school but she would be back later that day.

Hassel watched her go in a post-cry daze of relief. The past year and a half with his family felt far away and unreal, here. He left his jacket folded in the room and walked down, through the hospital lobby and out the main entrance. The gourmet deli across the street supplied breakfast for him and his Pokemon, and he bought lunch and dinner, too, packed in sturdy paper bags. The day was warm, sunny, beautiful. There were loads of events happening in the city. He could see and hear crowds from here. Usually he’d love to just wander around, soaking it in.

He went back to the hospital and to the young man’s room. Gible sat with him for a while and then went exploring, tripped an Indeedee, and ran back to Hassel, who was sitting beneath the window and sipping another hot chocolate on the sliding table, books stacked before him. The television was on at low volume, an orchestra playing classical music. Hassel’s eyes kept drifting to the stranger’s hands, slim and dirt-stained. He stubbornly finished the hot chocolate before he went into the ensuite bathroom, wetted a towel with warm water and brought it back to carefully clean the man’s hands.

He had not anticipated the intimacy of this action, but he gritted his teeth and proceeded anyway. His broader, tanned hand held the cool, slim hand. He applied the towel, getting most of the dirt off of fingers that had calluses, smaller and in different places than Hassel had. The usual writing callus on the middle finger of the right hand, but rougher, and several on the outside of the palm and inner thumb, and the sides of his fingers as well as fingertips. There were several Hassel couldn’t guess at, though the latter were clearly from drawing or painting. The cool hand grew warm in Hassel’s grasp, and when he dried it, though the nail beds were still grimy, the skin was much cleaner. He moved on to the other one, but it was splinted and so Hassel was much more tentative in his limited ministrations. He dabbed this one dry, too, and realized he had been humming as he worked.

“I wish I’d brought my guitar with me,” he said, after he’d gone through the song. “I was on an errand for my brother, and traveling light. And then we got turned around rather badly. It was my fault, we should have landed rather than guessed at direction when the clouds obscured the stars. It turned out well, anyway.”

He had gone back to sit in the chair at the side of the bed, hands holding the cleaned left hand gently, warming it again. It looked pale and slim in his hands, and through the fatigue and the strangeness of the situation, Hassel felt a familiar stubborn feeling at the back of his throat. This man should have had help, he should have been protected, he should have had backup.

Every lesson he received as a boy had been: when unsure, be strategic, have backup on hand. This was taught to the weaker members of the clan, and when he turned ten his father told him that he was expected to manage without help, he needed to show strength and independence, he was to lead and this required sacrifice, stop crying, dammit. But everyone who wasn’t Hassel or his father, everyone who was not expected to lead a dragon clan should have the sense to ask for help. They should not have to walk alone into the unknown.

It was grotesque, the thick tube stretching the man’s lips and keeping him alive. Hassel averted his eyes again. Perhaps it was because this man was the same age as his sister, whom Hassel loved fiercely, but Hassel’s anger spiked whenever he thought of the notes documenting this man’s investigation. He rose to pace, thinking to calm down, but it was only when Dragonite reemerged from her Pokeball and placed a heavy clawed arm onto his shoulder that Hassel managed to calm his nerves. She nudged Hassel and then pointed at a lump he had assumed was a pillow beneath the sheet next to the man. The lump twitched and a frightened, pale brown eye peered out from beneath the sheet. Hassel stared a moment and then turned back to his carefully packed provisions and opened a container of fresh Pokemon food. He did not know what this Pokemon liked but he took a mild, sweet berry from the top of the packed food and placed it very slowly near the Pokemon.

Bonsly ignored the berry until Hassel looked away, and then the berry was gone. He felt quite proud for having fed most of the food in the container to the shy Bonsly in this manner. He was halfway through reading the children’s book aloud when another nurse came in.

“Who are you?” he said abruptly. The nurse was about his age, with brown hair and eyes and a classically handsome face. It took Hassel several moments to realize that the lab coat he wore was different from the scrubs and white coats of the nurses and doctors, respectively.

“Sorry, did Hatije not tell you?” Hassel began, and paused. “Who’re you?”

“Arturo, I’m a friend of Brassius from our school days,” the man said, and this should have been reassuring but for some reason it stung. Brassius had written to this person, asking for help. Why was he only here now, too late? Hassel shook his head and tuned back into the man’s words. “I just heard what happened and Artazon’s Joy filled me in on the progress toward treatment.”

“Artazon’s Joy… oh, how are the Sunkern doing?”

Arturo gave him a bemused look but responded.

“The Pokemon are sleeping it off. They have been treated. Joy said the results look very promising. She mentioned that Pokemon are more resilient to ST-nineteen. Their type will resonate and cause the structure to change to ST two or four, which is less toxic for normal and grass types. Whereas the hospital report suggests that people don’t have the same biochemistry and so nineteen is taken up as it is and interferes with pulmonary function, building up to eventually contract the muscles in paralysis before it inhibits liver and kidney function. There’s evidence of microclots, joint inflammation, and other toxicities… I didn’t read the full report, the researcher’s writing was sloppy toward the end and so much of it is speculation at this point. Honestly, much of it reads like science fiction! Joy said she had found traces of four in the Sunkern and two in the Deerling, so that confirms some of the theories. According to Joy, the neutralizing agent this hospital devised last night has broken up nearly all traces of both polymorphs in the Pokemon she treated. Apparently they did it on the fly, I’ve already seen several revisions come in. I’m on the mailing list, you see, my advisor specializes in novel synthetic methods in material science, developing new substances, drugs, all sorts of things… but I’ve only begun to study. To answer your question, I don’t know the details but theoretically, the Sunkern should be cured.”

Hassel straightened up and waited patiently for the man to finish speaking. Evidently Arturo felt he had a lot of knowledge to share. But the part about Sunkern came as an unexpected relief.

“That’s wonderful.”

“It is, quite,” Turo said dryly. “Ah, what did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t,” said Hassel smoothly, “I’m Hassaku. You mentioned S. T. nineteen? What is that?”

“I don’t think–” Arturo began, suddenly much less chatty. “Are you family? How do you know Brassius? I don’t want to give this information to just anyone…”

“I was the ambulance trainer,” Hassel said, and it was technically true, in a manner of speaking. “I helped Hatije decipher his notes. I was worried and came to see him. I’m not from around here, but I was passing through just when they needed my help.”

“I see,” Arturo said. “Then you probably know more than I do, of what went down. I’m not really supposed to share this, but I trust you will keep it confidential due to your obligation as a medical professional.”

To Hassel it seemed that Arturo was not terribly concerned with secrecy. Rather, he was excited at the new discoveries, though whenever his eyes drifted to the ventilator or the man in the bed his face stiffened and his enthusiasm waned. Hassel looked down to his hands, which were twitching nearer to Brassius’ own that lay still and woven with tubes and wires. Hassel stilled his hands and withdrew them, bemused by the strange desire to hold the sick man’s hand. This wasn’t Cara, he wasn’t family. How awkward, to wake and find a stranger holding his hand!

…but if it were him entangled in machinery and tubes, said a small voice in Hassel’s mind, he would welcome the comfort.

Arturo turned toward the window and spoke without looking at Hassel or the patient.

“Not from around here, you say? I’ll begin with the fundamentals, in that case. You probably know that a unique phenomenon occurs in Paldea and no other regions, a phenomenon known as Terastallization.”

“I’ve never seen it,” Hassel said, “But I have read about it, yes. There are some kind of crystals or minerals that augment a Pokemon’s type, right? Is it similar to Mega Evolution in that way, I wonder?”

“Augment, yes,” Arturo nodded. Hassel noticed that the daylight accentuated dark shadows beneath his eyes, too. Hassel wondered fleetingly how many people had consulted with each other last night, scrambling to invent a medicine and save the life of the unconscious young man. “But primarily, the Terastal phenomenon is known for the potential it gives you to enhance or to change a Pokemon’s type. This potentially enhanced or different type is referred to as a Pokemon’s Tera type.”

Hassel tried to imagine a dragon Pokemon becoming a fairy type. Such a phenomenon would completely upend battles back home! It was wild to contemplate a Pokemon changing its type… or having some tertiary hidden typing… But Arturo went on, as if this wasn’t the interesting part.

“These crystals occur naturally in certain places in Paldea, and possess a curious energy that we are still researching. This energy can alter the functions of living beings. My advisor has theorized that it can optimize machinery as well, but that is very much to be tested. When it resonates with the energy exuded by a Pokemon, this Terastal crystal energy can cause the Pokemon to Terastallize according to its Tera type. There’s a hypothesized resonance in energy between the crystal and the Pokemon’s Tera type which… well, to put it simply, it alters the structure of the crystal itself, and shapes the unique headdress on a Pokemon’s head. If the altered structure is brought into contact with a Pokemon and a Tera Orb, it can augment the energy or the attacks particular to that Tera Type. We haven’t really found it to affect humans, however. Not in any way we could detect. Until now.”

Hassel wished Arturo could speak more directly. He nodded along, reminding himself to be patient. He knew his mouth thinned and his gaze sharpened a lot like father’s when he let this emotion overtake him.

“That’s the very basic gist, at least,” Arturo finished. “But it has come to light, thanks to Brassius’ unofficial investigation here—he will remain anonymous in the papers, of course, Doctor Miguela made sure not to release his name—it’s come to light that significant funds and resources have gone into developing and testing a synthetic Terastal crystal.”

Arturo turned back to Hassel and met his eyes, looking more animated by this topic than anything else so far. He was gesturing now, too.

“This kind of work is totally unprecedented. I had not even conceived such a thing to be possible. You understand, this could take the Terastal phenomenon beyond Paldea, but it could also provide a means to generate almost infinite energy. To power up Pokemon, to power cities, to understand the nature of the Terastal phenomenon itself—though that last one is less lucrative, naturally.”

“So S and T are Synthetic and Terastal? But what’s nineteen?”

“I’m getting to that,” Arturo said mildly. “You recall I mentioned the structure changes when in the presence of energy that resonates with it? Depending on the resonance, the structure will adapt into one of eighteen different structures we have discovered. The shape changes, but the composition remains the same. It’s the same molecules but they’re arranged differently in each polymorph, and this gives them different properties. Imagine…” he cast about the room and spotted a bowl of grapes that Hassel had been snacking on. He took these and detached them from stems, and stacked four in a square. Then he said, “Imagine a crystal is made up of different arrangements of grapes. Atoms or molecules, simple building blocks. You have a NaCli when you have this base arrangement, and the next layer goes like this,” he tried to stack the grapes and predictably failed, but gestured at the mess, “You get the idea, on and on, repeated patterns of this structure, rotated forty-five degrees on each alternating layer. Now, if the base looks like this,” he recovered six grapes from the pile and pointed to an imaginary second layer in the air over the hexagon, and off to the sides. “Right, that’s ST four. The numbers are based in the order they were discovered, not in the base number of grapes, I mean molecules. Each Pokemon Tera type will resonate and produce a different structure, a different arrangement of molecules.”

Hassel nodded slowly along. “So what type is ST-nineteen?”

“It’s new!” Arturo exclaimed, forgetting himself for a moment. “No one’s ever detected it before. And they synthesized it! I don’t know if they were attempting to make the base form, ST-zero, as it occurs in nature. It would have been fine, I expect, had the company not been cutting corners. It appears that there was some leakage, and ST-nineteen was seeping into the surroundings. And it’s bioactive in humans, we are unsure to what degree. Another issue is that it is cut with impurities and structurally unstable, so it breaks down into particulate matter and becomes easily dispersed by wind and water. You notice the discoloration, where the other crystal polymorphs reflect all colors, this one absorbs green, blue, indigo, violet… so it appears red. It’s been affecting people nearest to the facility.”

“And poisoning the Pokemon,” Hassel muttered, recalling the sketches he’d seen.

“The town, too,” said Arturo. “I tested my blood and found significant amounts of ST-nineteen this morning, and I’ve been away from home for months.”

“But you came up with a treatment, you scientists and doctors,” Hassel said. “The neutralizing agent, you called it? And it helped Sunkern.”

“The problem is that in high doses like those required to break down the accumulated amounts that Artazon residents were exposed to over time, the neutralizing agent has side effects of its own. It’s why they’re keeping Brassius unconscious for the treatment.”

“Side effects?”

“Oh, I suppose we will find out,” Arturo shrugged, looking away uncomfortably. “The probability of seizures is lower when he’s out, so that’s good. It’s unclear how violent the reaction itself will be. When I did the math, there were some unexpectedly endothermic byproducts. I mean, it’ll take a lot of energy and heat from his body. Energy he might not have,” Arturo frowned. “Also, I don’t know how much scarring and inflammation the interaction might provoke. I imagine the doctors are hoping to minimize it by introducing the medicine slowly, so that it breaks down and leaves his system along with the nineteen, but keeping someone in a coma comes with its own risks.”

They stared grimly ahead, and the sounds of the artificial breathing machine filled the room. The man hooked up to it looked lifeless, like a puppet being periodically filled with air.

“I am not a medical doctor, you understand. I am studying the Terastal phenomenon, but I have only just begun my graduate work. I had no idea anyone had managed to synthesize Terastal crystals. It is unprecedented, and a highly significant discovery.”

“Why would they keep it secret?” Hassel wondered aloud.

“That, I do not know,” Arturo said, surprising Hassel. He smiled ruefully. “I would have made it public for the funding potential alone! And the research should be shared. I was only planning a short visit to Artazon to see family and close friends, but then we heard that Brassius got hurt, the doctor reached out to my advisor. Joy said he’d been investigating Pokemon in the forest. And we heard the explosions in the forest, early this morning. That’s when I realized the gravity of the situation. Apparently Brassius was not the only one worse for wear after visiting the forest facility. He did a number on them, too,” he grinned. Hassel’s mouth fell open and he frowned but Arturo kept talking. “I remember when we were kids and there was a real estate company chopping down trees to expand Artazon. We never told anyone about this, but we snuck in after hours and I kept watch while he started up the heavy machinery and steered it toward the sea cliffs, using a stick where he couldn’t reach the pedal. I thought he was just going to throw some nails in the gears to jam the works, but he drove the entire thing and only jumped out at the last second. We had loaded it up with all the chainsaws beforehand, along with anything that looked like it could be used to fell trees. We watched that wood chipper fall into the sea. Fairly confident we bankrupted that company. They never chopped another tree down in our town.”

“I’m sorry, there were explosions?” Hassel repeated, filing away the second anecdote for later. “This morning?”

“Just in the facility,” Arturo said lightly. “There was no risk of wildfire, thankfully. And it serves them right. I hope the Mayor files a lawsuit. Or maybe Artazon’s gym leader. She’s getting older but she was always very insistent on protecting the forest, even if she prefers the meadows and has challengers work to plant flowers all across the city. Old Abilene will be devastated when she hears about this. She’s always had a soft spot for Brassius. He’d constantly be doing community service, gardening with her in the gym after being caught blocking the pokeball factory’s pipes where they expel waste down the river, or throwing red paint on those fancy new gyms they installed what, five years ago? You saw the one here, all white metal and glass. I find them to be perfectly fine. But apparently for Brassius, they are ‘aesthetically offensive and a poor counterpoint to the Windmill.’ He said something about ruining the architectural feng shui of our town and that it was akin to murder and warranted red paint. Of course, Abilene made him scrub it off himself.”

Hassel blinked and decided that he must one day visit this Artazon place, and also that criminal behavior still didn’t merit the kind of consequences this Brassius seemed to be experiencing now.

“I’m glad he’s alive,” Arturo finished anticlimactically, looking back to Brassius and then walking over and bending down next to his ear. Hassel strained his ears but couldn’t quite hear what he said.

After several moments Arturo rose, nodded at Hassel and closed the door behind him, leaving Hassel to marinate in the hospital room with the unconscious man and the new insights on both his condition and history.

* * *

Notes:

I cannot, I cannot, I cannot be the only one who saw ScarVio's raids, the crystal dust caking the Pokeball and encasing it and bursting, and thought --- holy hell that's got to be murder on the lungs. Am I? The only hypochondriac in the audience? Well, if so, here you are, that's what inspired this xD

"If you or a loved one have developed mesothelioma after working in Tera Raid dens..."

I'm sorry, but you see there's some lightness! There's stories of eco-terrorism, and we have them holding hands... well, kinda sorta. oh, poor boys!

This is about as far as I've got with the story, the next parts are written out of order or not yet written, so hang in there and I'll try to get my butt into gear and figure out which scenes go where, and write the ones that need writing. (comments and kudos might help winkwink)

we're due for a brassius perspective but i'm gonna skip ahead a bit because there's only so much depression we want to face at once, eh. Their next meeting will be under different circumstances. But before then -- you'll get some of Brassie's dreams. A hint: I traded him Iron Leaves for Sunflora. (and I don't regret it)

Chapter 7: 2. Coming Home -- Conclusion

Summary:

Brassius recovers and dreams.

Hassel moves on.

Brassius reconnects with some old friends.

Notes:

I'm sorry that it's been so long since I posted! Merry Christmas! Happy Hanukkah! Happy Holidays, if all else fails.

This continues to move at a glacial pace, but here we are. I have much of the next (third!) encounter written already though I'd like to do a bit more before I post it. Need to spice it up with a little more conflict before it's done... navigating how much to leave out and imply, also. Not wanting to go too much darker in these dark winter months, when we all deserve cozy nights and comforting fiction.

Warnings? More of the same from previous chapters, chronic illness and recovery. Mentions of (implied) child abuse (Hassel's earlier family life). More specifics: POV & descriptions of (medical) intubation and some consequences. I mostly summarize the recovery so it's less detailed but it may be triggering.

Ch 7.

Meeting 2. Coming Home - Conclusion

* * *

There was nothing, and no consciousness of it, which became preferable to the intense discomfort of limited awareness returning. He caught sounds, and every time his chest rose and fell regularly it sounded like a thunderstorm raging across his eardrums. It was his heartbeat, or perhaps a hurricane, it was impossible to tell the difference. Breathing had felt difficult before, but it was easy now, strangely easy, but that wasn’t the unsettling part.

No. The horrible, unimaginable part was that it was involuntary in an entirely new way. Not in the “not thinking about it” way but in the “happening whether he wanted it or not” way.

His mind didn’t quite comprehend this, on the edge of consciousness, but a deep-seated horror took hold of his body. His jaw, tense from nightly teeth grinding, felt welded with pain. He couldn’t feel most of his body, his throat, his hands and arms, his feet and legs all outside of his control. There was no sight, and the sounds were distantly alarming. More alarming — and simultaneously less alarming — because the alarm was muted by a veil of hazy, dissociative numbness. He felt his chest move and his breaths come and go steadily, mechanically. Intense discomfort and itching but no piercing aches in his ribs or sternum. Even the choking nausea couldn’t phase him due to the (involuntary! forced! screamed some submerged part of his awareness) steady, deep breaths. He felt grimy, sandy, and like he’d been hit with an earthquake attack and then a solar beam, or perhaps a hyper beam… steel beam, maybe. Perhaps literally.

There was beeping, voices but no snatches of conversation, no comprehension beyond the brusque tone of voice. He drifted, halfway between numbness and pain, all artificial blankness. Thoughts drifted beneath the surface of consciousness and refused to form, like ink in water, diffuse and shapeless. Feelings were less than half felt. Impressions didn’t penetrate the fog. There was no identity, no before, no after, and no real conception of what the now was supposed to be.

But it felt like it was not supposed to be this.

That was the thought that he surfaced with, that he was supposed to be doing something somewhere, that was not this. His eyes felt a little dry but it was nothing compared to the pain in his jaw, throat, and chest. Brassius gasped at the pain, and a distant beeping quickened, and soon there were rapid footsteps and a mutter and eventually, relief. He sagged back from tensing and noted, distractedly, that there was a person in his peripheral vision, an IV line pumping painkillers into his spindly arm, and some commotion further away. He caught a glimpse of his inner arm, white and purple-green with veins–Noivern colors, a stray thought darted through his mind–thin and barely responsive and mottled with needle marks. The fluorescent lights and white, beige-speckled ceiling tiles. His lips twisted bitterly at his impotence and consciousness retreated.

* * *

This time, he was back in the forest walking along the desiccated creekbed. Rather than find a facility behind a fence, he kept walking, and the gully deepened into a ravine. The trees grew taller, older, and darker, the canopies spacious and overlapping, the forest sounds changing pitch in the shadows. He trod on old leaves that had unfamiliar shapes. The mosses crawling up trees in strange colors blended into blue-black shadows. Textures of plants looked different in the half-light, of the soil and rock itself… And there were curtains of hanging moss, vines and barely-there movements, like Pokemon were peering out at him and hiding before he could turn his head. Rustling, almost but not quite like wind.

The ravine was largely empty of undergrowth and comfortable to walk along, and free of the red dust that had plagued the forest. Brassius glanced down and saw that there was clear water running beneath and over his feet now, that he was barefoot and ankle deep in transparent water, the rocks beneath it sparkling in the light from a gap in the canopy, tiny golden leaves floating down from somewhere high above and drifting slow spirals in the light like feathers. He did not fear slipping but walked smoothly on, taking joy in the cool water and forest air.

It reminded him of the temple he had visited as a child in Mesagoza with his family: the tall pillars of trees holding up the shadowy roof, branching near the vault; the mosaic of wet pebbles glistening on the ground, the rays of light coming through stained glass–here it was breaks in leaves–designed to fall dramatically onto the altar. And the hushed air of reverence, even amid whispering tourists visiting the building, the breeze shuffling the foliage. There was something sacred here that he was drawn to, something Brassius felt was calling him, something he wanted very much to catch a glimpse of…

There was a louder rustling breeze. He turned his head, following the movement and sound. When he looked ahead again, he froze.

A deity of the forest, ancient and timeless and somehow out of time, had appeared before him. An enormous stag, crowned by sweeping horns that curved out and then in on themselves, boomerang-like, edged in blades. A severe pointed face, eyes that suggested screens gazing directly at him. Brassius stumbled back a step, barely keeping his balance. His hands darted to his belt but his Pokemon were not with him. Nor was a bag containing a sketchpad or pencil, or any other way to capture this astounding image or feel like he had some protection, some illusory control over the situation.

It was green like fresh grass, and its hide looked to be armored or even metallic. A brilliant, glowing red triangular blaze ran along its head from snout to the back of its head, scarlet and sparkling with white specks. The same coloration was at the tips of the leaves along its neck, Brassius noted, wondering if this was an indication of poison or some other adaptation. What Brassius noticed more than the colors and details that resembled armor rather than fur was its bearing, the speed and power implied but held back by the creature’s stance. It was waiting, watching him.

Brassius wondered briefly if he was going to be gored or simply sliced in two. Then he slowly approached, because the feeling of being drawn forward had only strengthened, and every part of him suddenly wanted very much to be near the very sharp wild red-eyed creature, to understand it and be understood, consequences be damned. This was inspiration, this was unique and unlike anything he’d ever seen before, this was avant-garde…

He raised a hand and the Pokemon lowered its proud head, until the red blaze on its brow touched his palm. It was warm, smooth and hard like metal or glass, and most of all it was wonderful. To touch the heart of the forest, to have it come meet his hand and lay its head along his palm, the delight was heady and hot and so exciting it was hard not to squirm and squeal and laugh with it. So Brassius laughed, softly, with wonder. And then with delight and glee at the beauty and fright of it all, moving his hand gently to caress the enormous creature, muttering how beautiful it was, how amazing the forest looked, whatever nonsense came into his addled head.

When he stopped, he saw that it had opened its eyes again – they had flickered back on and onto him, from where it had rested them as he petted it. He let his affection fill his smile, and then allowed his hand to fall away, knowing his reward was over, grateful and awed still. He felt the delighted tears in the corners of his eyes. The Pokemon, enigmatic and unsettling as it was, raised its head to tower over him once again. The blaze he had touched glowed brighter with white stars in vibrant red, and changed shape and elongated into a great blade, a horn that shone and protruded from its head. Then it turned and in the fog that had arisen there appeared, like an image faintly projected, the end of a creekbed, a steel fence tipped with barbed wire, buildings beyond it. Brassius recognized the hidden compound in the forest at once.

The Pokemon glanced at him and suddenly sprang back an easy thirty meters, eyes narrowed, head bent, and horn and leaves growing in brightness. The leaves on its neck elongated, too, until three sparkling red blades protruded, two from the neck and one from its head. Then it swung its body forward and angled its head and neck in a deadly swipe of three gleaming blades. It was almost too fast to see.

The fog dispersed, or rather, was sliced into four horizontal pieces and then faded away. The image of the hidden compound melted away with the fog. Brassius stared with huge eyes as the Pokemon straightened, the blades vanishing back into its head and neck. Then it seemed almost to smile at him, and inclined its head. It was less a bow than an acknowledgement.

And then it sprang away, so swiftly that it simply vanished just as it had appeared, out of and into nowhere. With it went the forest, the ravine, the brook… but the freshness and wonder lingered.

He would never be able to capture that creature in a painting or sketch, Brassius knew. He might as well try to sculpt dance, or draw music. But to have seen it, to have been acknowledged by it, humored by it, really… he blinked.

It was night, the blinds were open on city lights, the hospital room held more equipment and beeping machines than he could shake a stick at–not that he would be doing anything so physical anytime soon. Most of them were connected to him, like he was some piece of technology that had to be given artificial life. He saw where his mother had left him a bag with his Smoliv blanket, the corner she must have been reading in when she visited. A lump weighing down the mattress near his middle suggested Bonsly had cuddled up to him, insofar as a rock could cuddle, beneath the hospital sheet. Everything felt muted and numbed, like he wasn’t fully awake, and he felt out of place in his body, like it wasn’t really his.

Time passed in fits and starts. It was dark or light, he could not keep track or continuity, only he sometimes saw parts of the room and the rest of the time nothing at all. There was a voice, soft, melodious, low. It was probably the most soothing voice he had ever heard. It worked to ease the pain and coax him into a deeper unconsciousness.

Sometimes when the voice was quiet, the pain filtered back slowly and escalated. Brassius tried to recall the details of the Pokemon he’d dreamt to block it out, or of his own partners. He drifted.

A soft snuffling snore punctuated the inorganic sounds of the machinery. A new feeling overtook Brassius then. He was floating above his body in a hospital room… was he really so thin and grey-white and angular, so sallow and sickly? He looked awful, corpse-like. He looked away from his body in distaste, and focused instead on the stranger sitting slumped over the rolling table beside his bed.

The person had a belt-ful of Pokeballs in the chair next to them, and they were slumped face down on their arms which stretched across the rolling table, so that all Brassius could make out was an ear studded with several glints of metal, shoulder-length light hair that obscured their features and fell haphazardly across their arms, and hands splayed toward him. The size of the hands and the careless number of scars, the musculature and hairiness of the forearms, the breadth of shoulders he could only guess at… all suggested masculinity in contrast with the silky hair, but who was Brassius to judge? The pain was pulling him back into his body, nearly suffocating in intensity, so Brassius redoubled his attention. The stranger’s nails were trimmed short and there were calluses on calluses, and Brassius didn’t know many professional musicians but he suspected the stranger to be one. Guitar? Violin or cello? Perhaps it was simply from lifting weights–he looked like a farm worker, but the cut and fabric of the clothes looked far too fine for that, even in this dim light. The machines sped up their beeping as the pain increased and Brassius remembered to breathe, though it stung and ached fiercely through his parched throat and bruised chest. He was back in his own body and the pain was unbearable. The fleeting thought came and went: had anyone gotten the trainer ID of the Copperajah that had run him over?

Darkness again. Out of time, out of consciousness, out of focus.

* * *

Hassel did not typically think of himself as a great rule breaker. He had always obeyed his parents in everything up until his conscience told him to be gentle to his Pokemon, and then he obeyed his conscience or lived to regret it. Any punishment was worth his relationship with Gible and Dratini and then Dragonair, as a child. He grew up with that awful doubt, the suspicion that he was a disappointment as an eldest son, and sometimes he even relished it. There was no classical piano music he hadn’t adorned with some jazz improvisation. He always chose the most popular beer at pubs, even when he hated it. His rebellions were unconventional but no less thrilling. He had more conventional rebellions, too: he ran away from home three times as a teenager, and left definitively for months in his twenties. He rejected the structures and hierarchies of his birth, class, and rank in the clan. But he’d never thought to rebel against systemic injustice. It was fascinating, criminal, alarming. Part of him wished he had thought of it himself. The freedom, the absolute freedom of thought and actions, to exist outside of rules and expectations, to bring heavy machinery crashing into the sea, or do expensive amounts of damage to hidden laboratories polluting his hometown. He wished he had grown up around children like Arturo and Brassius! He had not appreciated, up until now, just how isolated their upbringing was.

Probably this was why he came running to help Cara, why he was trying to win back Mikan’s regard, to get his brother to at least talk to him. Because they really were all he had. He shook his head. He had his dragons, too.

Hassel had known from an early age that injustice was a given in the universe, a part of the world that would always exist. Father had taken him to see battles among wild dragons, fierce struggles between trained dragons, and Hassel had learned that this was how it was. When he was older, he began to see the violence hidden just beneath the surface of society, violence that appeared to be no one’s fault, that slid into your head and made you blame yourself when you failed, when you were underpaid, when you were taken advantage of. Violence that became manifest in shaking, in a shivery heartbeat, in the panic or sudden anger that made people lash out at others who weren’t to blame. Hassel had seen his father behave unforgivably toward his own Pokemon, and his mother. He tried not to remember those moments.

What could one person really do to change the way things were? It felt inevitable, hopeless, much of the time. Rebellion gave him some space to breathe: flying away on Dragonair as a kid, flying away on Dragonite now to fetch his brother a gift, the mineral he had been searching for. But small things were in his power. And sometimes big things… This young man had infiltrated a hidden facility with a Sunkern of all Pokemon. Hassel had a Dragonite!

The depressing thought occurred to Hassel that his father would never permit him to do community service. He had left home at twenty-four, gone for six months without contact, and at the same age he had returned when summoned by the Wyndon Times announcement of Cara’s coming of age battle. Then he hadn’t thought twice to stay because Cara had asked him to, and then she was married. Hassel leaving now would be leaving Mikan alone with their parents. Mikan, who would barely say two words to Hassel even at Cara’s wedding. It was out of the question.

Hassel had tried everything to get into his good graces, but it was not until mother had pointed out what it was that Mikan was searching for that Hassel had understood the depth of the problem.

He too wished that Mikan had been born first, had been given a Gible and a Garchompite, the inheritance and the leadership of the clan. Not now, of course. Hassel loved Gible. But originally, in a different life. But these prizes, as father called them, were awarded to the eldest son by the right of primogeniture. The dragon clans kept the ancient customs of Galar. Hassel’s wishes, Mikan’s dreams, none of them mattered.

Hassel could help Mikan accomplish his goal, though. Mikan who trained with Tyrunt and Pupitar, who searched endlessly in the caves and delved into rock not only to perfect their rock type moves but in search of the pale green gem with a swirl of vivid red and black. Mother had said, Mikan wishes to exceed his potential in your father’s eyes. He’s always wanted what you rejected, Hassel. Take your brain out of the piano and think for a moment. What was it your father gave you, when he took Mikan’s Tyrunt away. Before Cara stole it back–yes, I know about the secret passages, I’m not blind, you know. Your sister was right to do it. Aurantio never listens to me but I would have done it myself. Separating a novice trainer from his Pokemon is barbaric as punishment. It’s unproductive. Your father has some very archaic notions regarding raising both Pokemon and children. Thank Arceus I was able to steal all of his belts, she had walked away, shaking her head before picking up another one of the glossy catalogs she kept ordering and perusing. Hassel and Cara had still not figured out what she was looking for. But thanks to mother, the mystery of Mikan’s efforts had become clear.

Hassel had written to the now retired Concombre, who had suggested where his quarry might be found. And Hassel had been en route to the Glittering Cave in the south of Kalos on his quest to find Tyranitarite. Except he’d gotten turned around, somewhere in the vicinity of Kiloude City, and drifted somehow into an entirely different region. Just in time to help the man in the hospital bed.

Hassel didn’t regret the detour. His hands had found the cool left hand and he had been lightly massaging warmth into without him noticing. Hassel held the stranger’s hand and then instead of humming another song or falling back into thinking, Hassel told him about his sister, his brother, and his plan to repair his relationship with Mikan by finding Tyranitarite for him.

He spoke for a long time about his hunches and his own dreams. He told the man he hoped he would wake healthy and recover swiftly. That he, Hassel, would follow the story in the news, that the Sunkern were better and that Hassel hoped the town, too, would recover. That he had more things to see in the world, more Pokemon to meet and projects to sabotage. That everyone in the hospital seemed to love him. That his Bonsly looked so healthy and so sad at its trainer’s illness that it made Hassel tear up several times today.

Feeling like he did after a good cry, tired and relieved, Hassel grew quiet and began to idly pick leaves and debris from the pillow and then, very gently, from the tangled green hair. He hummed low as he worked, feeling like a Mankey or a Pidgey, preening–or perhaps pruning!--the patient’s wild hair.

When night fell, he left his own sketch of Bonsly on the visitor’s chair and quietly left without saying goodbye. Dragonite carried him from the roof and they flew north, where Hassel would search for Tyranitarite. As they flew through the early night, Hassel hoped that the young artist would recover, and then read the short note on the back of the get-well Bonsly drawing he’d made. The note consisted of a standard but sincere message wishing the man a swift recovery, but Hassel had signed it with his full name and details on how to contact him (by advertising custom shoelaces in the Wyndon Times). Hassel had found it difficult not to make the note into a letter, but in the end he decided that if this man wanted to know him, he would reach out. Any long letter would be an imposition on the man’s already fragile state.

Though it was hard to get the image of the unconscious man out of his mind, Hassel focused on his senses and the cold air whipping his clothes and biting at his face.

If, weeks later, he sometimes woke with the impression of the sound of that strained breathing, the pained expression and the desperate silver eyes with silvery eyelashes covered in dew hovering in his mind’s eye, well, this was just because he naturally empathized when he witnessed suffering.

 

* * *

When Brassius awoke, his mother was next to him in the guest chair, holding his left hand and looking like she belonged in the hospital bed herself. Brassius struggled to sit up and tell her so, but failed on both counts. It would be days before he could speak. Meanwhile his mother hugged him, the nurses spoke, and he discovered that he could drink water, with an enormous effort and a good deal of pain.

When his mother handed him a napkin he made a gesture and she procured a pen from her purse, at which point Brassius sketched a rough Sunkern and a question mark.

“Ah, our Joy did say several forest Pokemon had made friends with Bonsly and Smoliv and didn’t want to leave you, when they had you airlifted out. Arboliva of the forest carried you to our Pokemon Center! It caused a stir, apparently. I’ve never known her to leave the forest before. The wild Pokemon followed the whole way to the Pokemon Center. Then Miguela arrived and brought you here. I’m sure the Pokemon received any treatment they needed there, hijo. That was weeks ago now. You should rest.”

Brassius frowned at his mother, unsure how to convey his worry for her, head far too fuzzy to think clearly. Then he wrote, Have you been ill? Are you alright? To which his mother nearly burst into tears and immediate reassurances, holding his hand and murmuring what a good boy he was. Brassius and the nurse exchanged glances and then he covered her hand with his other hand and let his mother cry with relief, a valve for the stress of sitting vigil at his bedside for weeks.

“Turo suggested some unusual tests be conducted, but we haven’t had the results yet,” his mother told him, when she regained her composure. “I wonder what he knows…”

But by this time Brassius’s head had gone far too cloudy for conversation. His mother noticed his eyes glaze and petted his forehead gently.

“Sleep, hijo. I’ll be here.”

 

* * *

A month later

The Sunkern all but cheeped when they saw Brassius exit the air taxi in the town square, beside the fountain. The air taxi waited patiently for them, his mother and doctor Miguela and Anxo still inside with the folding wheelchair that Brassius had staunchly refused. Squawkabilly landed atop the cabin and preened their feathers, stretched, and appeared to kiss gently as they preened the feathers around others’ beaks. The oxygen tank had been moved from the wheelchair to a bag that Brassius wore over his shoulder, his hands toying with the strap of it, the thin cannula tube running up to his nose. It was most probably a temporary measure, Miguela had said. Depending on how your lungs heal, we’ll be tracking your blood oxygen levels. You want a probability on whether you’ll ever breathe on your own again? Really? Well if I had to quantify it presently, about fifty-fifty, but we’ll know in a matter of months.

Brassius didn’t fiddle with the oxygen cylinder or the cannula but his fingers picked at the strap of the shoulder bag.

He only had to make a couple unsteady steps before they swarmed him, faces upturned and sunny as he remembered, leaves a glossy green, eyes clear and shining.

Brassius knelt down slowly and stiffly to sit on the edge of the fountain. His muscles were out of practice after the long bedrest, and he was shaky on his feet. Still, this was important, and Doctor Miguela had allowed it after he’d wasted his paltry breath asking and nearly passed out twice.

He petted the Sunkern gently on the side of the bulb and they chittered excitedly up at him, nuzzling up into his palm and bumping against his bent legs where he sat, and hopping around him as if seeing him brought them relief and joy. Brassius’ wan, colorless face brightened a little when he saw the green of their head leaves and the vivacity of their movements. His mouth curled up on one side into a crooked smile. The single Sunflora seemed to waltz over to him from across the square, and it paused at a short distance and gave a very low bow, its face nearly brushing the cobblestones before it straightened to its usual pose of reaching toward the sun. Its peaceful smile stared at Brassius, but it was not really smiling so much as swaying slightly and radiating some kind of feeling that Brassius couldn’t identify. Only that it tugged at his emotions, and he wanted to cry but wouldn’t.

Brassius was reminded of the Pokemon in his dream, which had only slightly lowered its rather lethal antlers in its own grateful bow to him. He invited the Sunflora over with a gesture and cupped its head in gentle hands, simply holding it a moment before letting go. It looked a touch mournfully at him and then smiled again as if all was right with the world.

Miguela, the wheelchair, his mother and his house awaited him. Weeks of slow recovery awaited him, progress made by centimeters and inches, half-steps and less gasping breaths. Physical therapy, respiratory therapy, emotional therapy (the most torturous and painful of all, perhaps, because speaking was still hard and he wasn’t about to incriminate himself in blowing up someone’s precious business, even if they had deserved it). Breathing into tubes to move small plastic balls along another tube, doctors frowning and shaking their heads. Brassius constantly having a headache and getting light-headed from doing too many breathing exercises, getting lightheaded and ill from not doing enough… and there seemingly was no correct amount that didn’t involve intense discomfort, a measure of pain, sweating through his clothes and being left a shaking wreck on the bed.

He was grateful his mother gave him privacy after his sessions. Grateful that Levincia hospital had set up a respiratory clinic in one wing of Artazon’s Pokemon Center, and been doing blood work for the whole town, courtesy of Leader Abilene teaming up with doctor Miguela to organize long-term monitoring for affected residents (and Pokemon!). Grateful that Abilene had had Turo and his advisor set up soil, water and even air testing sites around the town and the forest, bringing in a group of researchers to examine the breakdown of the ST-19 that had leaked into the environment. Grateful to hear their results–that the contaminant was breaking down into inert matter, slowly but surely, and that the region’s Pokemon life was beginning to return and recover now that the leak had been sealed. The explosion of plant life had calmed, and by that fall the farmsteads just outside town had a rather large harvest, and that was that.

Of course, Brassius thought they should burn the food rather than eat it or let a wandering Pokemon nibble on it. The researchers had assured the townsfolk that, at the current rate of breakdown, their water and soil would be free of ST-19 in any significant amounts by next year, and completely within several years.

He watched with satisfaction the bonfire at the end of the harvested field, surrounded by large rocks and blazing voraciously away, devouring the pumpkins and tomatoes, the potatoes and carrots and turnips that had been picked but not yet eaten when the farmer heard of the contamination. Other farmers disregarded the news and continued to eat and sell their produce, but it had to be sold at a discount that year. Most of Artazon’s residents bought imported produce or settled for canned, frozen, or fermented produce from other regions.

He coughed lightly into his hand, feeling the smoke of the bonfire tickle the back of his throat. Any feeling of brushing against his throat, if he sipped water wrong or swallowed a bigger bite than intended, threatened to set off his gag reflex and made Brassius feel queasy. He suspected this was some form of trauma from being on a ventilator but thankfully he did not recall the experience beyond this physical reaction. He cleared his throat and walked along the side of the field, upwind of the bonfire smoke. The furrows reminded him of Diglet trails. He recalled the prognosis Miguela had given him, and how much work it had taken before he was able to maintain relatively normal blood oxygen levels via unassisted breathing.

He marveled at his breathing, which felt almost normal now. He ambled slowly along, enjoying the crisp autumn smell of drying leaves and fire. Gym leader Abilene had promised to take him up over the forest on Tropius once he could walk briskly without losing his breath. As summer turned toward autumn and the forest leaves changed and began to fall, Brassius kept intending to take her up on this offer -- and then delaying. He had not gone into the forest on his own for too long. At first he was not strong enough physically, and later he realized he was avoiding it, taking walks along the fields or into the dusty canyons toward Mesagoza. It felt like his territory had been wrested from him, and he wanted to win it – but another part of him never wanted to step foot in there again.

In the end, Brassius had taken to hanging around Abilene’s gym with Bonsly and Smoliv, watching the gym battles. He observed silently for a week, and then began giving challengers pointers when they failed.

“You are not paying nearly enough attention to your Sprigatito’s body language,” he told one young trainer after watching him lose.

“What do you mean?” the trainer frowned up at Brassius who realized suddenly how young this kid really was.

“You’ve got to battle as a team, right?” he said, crouching down to be on the same level as the kid. “Have you spent a lot of time just observing what your Sprigatito does, how she eats, naps, plays? You’ve spent time traveling together, playing, resting, battling wild Pokemon, right? So you know how she usually reacts, what her preferences and strengths are. Some Pokemon are tricky, like Bonsly here – others are fast, or good at dodging or coming in for close attacks. Your opponent is important, sure, but you gotta figure out what your Pokemon is feeling and play to its strengths. I imagine Sprigatito’s great at jumping and running, right?”

“She is,” the kid said, beaming. He’d nodded along to Brassius’ speech.

“Does she know Quick Attack?”

“I don’t think so…”

Feeling suddenly ambitious, Brassius said, “Do you want to teach her?”

 

And that was how he and Bonsly ended up in their first gym trainer battle – though Brassius considered it only as tutoring a move. He described the mechanics of it and the kid called it a “fast tackle” which wasn’t entirely wrong, and Sprigatito was practicing landing hits on Bonsly, who did not seem to react.

“Normal types are not very effective against Rock,” Brassius explained. “Now try to have Sprigatito change directions several times to confuse the opponent, then come in at an angle and hit Bonsly’s trunk with its shoulder. That’ll dodge any moves thrown at it and strike unexpectedly. Speed is key here, and that means coordinated footwork, and no tension until the impact.”

The trainer bobbed his head but Sprigatito’s eyes expressed more understanding than her trainer’s did. She practiced pouncing, then jumping side to side, and tried to hit Bonsly but bounced back.

“No, no, that was good,” Brassius said through a smile. “Now you just add power.”

The trainer practiced it too, outside of the gym on the gravel path, leaving trails from his sneakers where he skidded to change direction before charging at his own chosen target, a tree that sent him sprawling. Brassius helped him up and then pointed silently to the Pokemon.

Bonsly was standing firm but it had slid back leaving a similar trail in the gravel from where Sprigatito had landed a quick attack.

Looking out the window of the gym, Leader Abilene nodded to herself and her lip curled up when she saw the young trainer and Brassius jumping in their excitement.

 

“Saw you the other day,” Abilene said.

“Oh. Hello?” Brassius was thrown off.

“You taught that challenger a new move. He came back to challenge me this morning and won.”

“Oh,” Brassius scrubbed at the back of his neck self-consciously and frowned. “That’s… good?”

“It was. You haven’t been back to see Arboliva since she saved you, have you?” Abilene frowned right back at Brassius. “Now that doesn’t sound very grateful.”

“I was waiting,” Brassius began, but he stopped because he knew the ST-19 had already broken down. “I wasn’t feeling-” he cut himself off again, sensing deception and growing frustrated.

“You’re feeling better now, aren’t you?” Abilene raised an eyebrow.

Brassius nodded at her, mouth thin.

“Excellent. I’ve been wanting to go check on her. She’s in another part of the forest as you know, but it disturbed her, all this commotion and poisoning the forest and town. She wasn’t ill, don’t you worry, now, but she’ll be irritable a while yet. She’ll be glad to see a friendly face, I’m sure of it.”

And that was how Brassius found himself flying astride Tropius, sitting a respectable distance behind leader Abilene and surveying the forest from a different vantage point. Many of the trees had lost their leaves, but there were some green and yellow canopies remaining among the skeletal branches of late fall. The landscape had shifted with the season, Pokemon prepared for hibernation, and the smell of dead leaves invigorated Brassius.

They breathed in the clear air. From above, they surveyed the sinkhole where an explosion had damaged the structural integrity of the underground facility, and the police tape and “do not enter” signs posted around the entrance to the lab facility. They did not fly closer.

“Didn’t have permits to be leaking unknown chemicals into our water and soil,” Abilene had said shortly, looking suddenly and uncharacteristically severe. “I had the other gym leaders take it up to the Elite Four and Los Primeros. They called in the environmental crimes and public health resources at once, they have connections like that. Anyway, no more of that now. We have a happier mission. ”

They flew further, where the old forest grew and the trees still had their leaves, browned and coppered by the frost but attached stubbornly to gnarled oak branches, or late-falling yellow beech leaves. They landed in what was, among the few people who knew this location, called Arboliva’s clearing, a small secluded glade ringed by evergreens.

It took Brassius several moments to adapt to the dimmer light and make out Arboliva against the other trees. Her gaze was already on him by the time he saw her.

She swayed a little under his notice, and Brassius left Tropius and leader Abilene and walked slowly over to the giant Arboliva, feeling suddenly that same sacred feeling that he had always felt here, in the presence of this mighty Pokemon. It was the feeling from his dream, where the forest resembled a temple worshipping some ancient pagan deity. He wished he had brought some offering, a Miracle Seed or even a basket of berries. But she simply swayed gently without wind as he walked over, watching him silently with dark eyes.

Leader Abilene watched from across the clearing as Brassius and the Arboliva communed. It was remarkable that the ancient mighty Pokemon allowed him so close. Abilene had never been tolerated within branch striking distance. No other human that she knew of was so well-liked by Arboliva of the woods. This had been the final confirmation of Abilene’s own instinctual feeling that, despite his mischief-making, that quiet but excitable kid Brassius would one day carry the mantle of Artazon’s grass-type gym.

Abilene’s eyes widened when Arboliva lowered both branches to envelop Brassius in greenery. Abilene stepped forward and paused, hand going to her belt of Pokeballs. Tropius nudged her gently in the elbow with its head, looking up from where it had settled down upon a mossy patch of ground. It gurgled in its throat, low and soothing. Abilene said,

“Oh? You think they’re fine?” and exhaled, then sank down beside her Pokemon and watched Brassius’ head emerge above Arboliva’s branches, arms reaching wide to return the embrace.

“What a sight. I never thought I’d see Arboliva glad to see a human, or even let one get so close. Nurse Joy said Arboliva carried him to the Pokemon Center. It’s a real sensitivity, a real gift he has, for grass types… patience, nurturing, consistent care… who would have thought?” she cracked a grin at Tropius, scratching just beneath the chin-fruit where the Pokemon liked best. Tropius grunted in appreciation. “That the impatient little miscreant would be capable of such qualities, eh? But it’ll take time. He needs to go on his own journey first, fulfill some of his ambition, before he can come home properly and assume the role. There’s a reason gym leaders are usually seasoned trainers. Can’t pass on much wisdom or learning if you’ve got no experience, now can you?”

Tropius closed its eyes, head lolling with the scritches. Abilene looked up to where Brassius and Arboliva were resting side-by-side, eyes closed and faces catching the last rays of the autumn sun.

* * *

Notes:

This one's Brassius heavy. You'll get a time skip and a mostly Hassel-pov chapter next time.

Thank you for reading <3 Be well!

Chapter 8: 3. Black Forest Gateau

Notes:

Forgive me for this one, please :D

Hassel's turn. Brassius rescues him accidentally, and it's subtle.

Ch 8.

Meeting 3. Black Forest Gateau

* * *

Hassel fidgeted in the three-piece suit, feeling like a child as he waited for his mother and father to finish getting dressed. He had ordered the private air taxi that would take them to the train, and the butler had taken care of reserving a first-class compartment for their south and east to the very borders of the Black Forest, where the Drake Estate was a dragon-ride away.

He eyed the mirror, and his gaze swept quickly over his blond hair, tucked into a neat ponytail, his black-velvet suit, the crisp white shirtsleeves and the flame-orange tie, the faint, emerging frown lines he tried to smooth into a neutral expression. His gaze found the ukulele hanging on the wall and zeroed in on it, and that was how his mother found him when she bustled in to request he adjust her necklace.

“Just a touch longer, if you would be so kind,” she said, shooing him off the chair and sitting herself down to give him access to the back of her perfumed neck. Her dress was also of black velvet, with olive green and burnt orange stitching in the collar and in panels of draped fabric that added volume to the gathered skirt. The navy shawl draped over her shoulders was intricately woven, which caused Hassel some trouble when the clasp of her sapphire pendant got tangled in the threads. He recovered it from the snares of shawl patiently and his mother sighed, looking put out in the mirror as her son struggled with this task.

“Were you pouting at your ukulele? By all means, bring it along. You can entertain the Drakes and Frida will certainly be reassured that she made the correct decision,” his mother said mildly. Hassel felt his mouth turn up.

He met his mother’s gaze in the mirror over her shoulder and said, evenly, “I am sure the Drake estate already has the entertainment planned for this auspicious evening. However, if I see an instrument worthy of my attention, I shall beg their permission to honor the occasion with a song.”

“That’s the spirit,” his mother muttered under her breath, along with a few words that might have been less kind. She looked at the drape of the shawl on her shoulders, straightened the necklace that caught the light, and rose looking satisfied with her appearance and little else. Hassel had undone the necklace, tangled and untangled the clasp in her shawl, and then fastened it to drape lower on her dress.

“Pray allow me to beg another favor, son,” his mother said, turning to him, and despite the awkward formality Hassel felt something in her gaze that turned his expression serious.

He tilted his head.

“Try to make an effort to establish contacts, would you? At the very least. It would do your father well to see you socializing with his class of people, and I’m sure you have much in common with Bastian, Reiner, and the one, what’s his name? Of the Typhon clan?”

“Leo?”

“Ah yes, Leonidas. Even the barest pretense of keeping up relationships with these three, at minimum, will go far to reassure your father. And they all have sisters, of course. You might consider your age and reflect on what you want out of life, Hassel. I am not going to push you on this point, but your father’s patience is not limitless.”

Hassel’s face had gone expressionless, but his mother recognized the look in his eyes and the stiffness of his shoulders, as if the velvet suit no longer fit him properly. Hassel nodded at his mother and left, his lips pressed tight together.

Portia thought that her son looked more like her husband by the day, the frown lines appearing on his young face, and she sighed.

 

* * *

The Drake manor was built in the slightly reserved revival of Empire style, and the pastel colors were lit up from below, white-pink and pale yellow plaster offset by white cornices and balustrades framing the central windows. The facade, the windows, the cornices and motifs were perfectly symmetrical, down to the rosettes on the railings and the amphorae on the corners of the roof. It looked to Hassel like an Italian castle, except it was on the edge of the Black Forest and the reforested plantings of spruce trees all along the mountain ridge behind the house rose like guards to tower over it, casting a dramatic shadow over the front lawn. And instead of a canal or reflecting pool in front of the house, there was a circular plaza where buses, air taxis and limousines were dropping off guests in a procession. In the center of the plaza there stood a monumental dark shape, hidden beneath huge black tarps tied off with red ribbon.

Hassel paid the veiled monument no mind as he exited the vehicle and held the door open for his parents. He wished Cara could have been present on the ride over, because the stilted conversation left a bad taste in his mouth. In the end, all three of them had taken out their favored reading material and ignored each other, first on the train and then on the final leg of their journey.

He held the door for his mother and father and looked out over the crowd, and fingered the poffins in his pocket. He tossed one up to the Corviknight which caught it deftly in its beak and seemed to swallow it whole, but it made a pleased croak as if it had tasted it after all. Hassel felt his lips tug up at the sound. His expression remained guarded as he followed his parents, who walked arm-in-elbow, and cast his eye over the small crowd already assembled and milling toward the open doors of the manor house.

There were many people he did not know, but he recognized faces from dragon clans he’d met, colors and emblems on buttons, canes, and pendants. He nodded at Reiner, who was waving his arms as he spoke to a group of young people in black with white aprons–the staff?--and Reiner smiled and waved at him. One of the staff turned to look, frowning, as Hassel’s gaze swept on and darkened at the sight of Frida standing beside the door and greeting guests. He scowled before he could school his expression into something more neutral. He turned his eyes away. The cloaked monument was beginning to blend into the evening dark, but there were lights set up around it to light it up once the tarp was removed. Hassel wondered what kind of person made such things for a living, and what such a life might be like, patiently chiseling stone. He pictured an old, bearded and wrinkled man, bent almost in half from slaving over many a block of marble.

He knew it was traditional for dragon clans to commission monuments to celebrate the strength and fierceness of their partners and battles. He wondered what Bastian and Frida had commissioned. Her Goomy had not been particularly fierce… he remembered it as a cute, slimy little thing, and Gible hated getting wet and kept his distance, just as Hassel had answered her questions coolly.

He’d frozen at his parents’ words that should things go well they might proceed with their engagement. While panicking and processing internally, he’d shut down most of his social function. He dreaded to think what Frida’s impression of him had been, and what she would think now. Why had she invited him? Why had he come? Hassel was seconds from wheeling around on his heel and going to blend into the night to wait out the evening on the edge of the forest when he suddenly heard someone call his name.

“Ah!” Hassel gasped as something hit him–no, someone’s palm had made contact with his back. Suddenly Bastian was beside him, hand moving to his shoulder and brushing imaginary dust from the velvet.

“Good to see you, glad you could come, Hassel. It’s been too long.”

Bastian’s easy confidence and low voice had always put Hassel at ease, but that was before he married the woman Hassel had run away from.

“It’s good to see you, too,” Hassel caught Bastian’s gaze to ascertain that this had not been a mere platitude, his amber gaze anxious. “I hope married life is treating you well?”

“Well indeed! The wife seems well-pleased, which is the key thing. I am content in most situations, as you know, but I confess I am enjoying married life more than I thought. There is significantly more conversation about things like curtains, but all the fresh strudel is an unexpected pleasure, and the wife enjoys my taste in beer and theater. I may need to work off all the pastry in some hiking or battling, in the near future…”

Hassel saw that Bastian Drake had indeed filled out further than he’d remembered him, months ago, though he carried much of the weight in his developed musculature and it was only in his waist region and his rounded face where Frida’s delicious strudels had made any difference. He seemed genuinely pleased to see Hassel. The light spilling from the windows illuminated his round face, his wavy blond hair that was already beginning to retreat, revealing a long forehead, fluffy blond brows always climbing up it in slightly condescending amusement.

“That sounds delightful,” Hassel responded slowly, warming up to his old acquaintance. But he had to acknowledge his faux-pas before moving past it, now. “I did wish to check if I was welcome, Bastian. I know my past behavior was horribly offensive to Mrs. Drake and I would hate to elicit any unpleasantness for either of you.”

“Nonsense, nonsense,” Bastian waved away Hassel’s words, shaking his head and smiling, his brows relaxing from their raised state. “Frida said you were having disagreements within your family, and that there had been miscommunication regarding the engagement. She asked me to reach out to invite you specifically, in addition to your parents, hoping that since you went back home perhaps you’ve patched things up. …I know, it’s nosy of me to say, but I am happy to see you getting on with your clan. It’s such a great responsibility, being the first son. I understand taking a break. But it’s not so bad, and I am very pleased at how things turned out…”

Hassel let Bastian’s contented voice wash over him, and realized he was disappointed not to be asked to leave. He tried to ignore this traitorous feeling and find something to bond over with Bastian that wasn’t his wife. When a break in Bastian’s speech presented itself, Hassel said,

“So I’ve heard you commissioned a fountain for the occasion?”

Bastian’s self-satisfaction increased visibly. He actually flushed a little with pleasure, and said, “Well, you know, one-year wedding anniversary. Wanted to mark it with something special. Reiner actually recommended the sculptor. I didn’t find them very talkative, but I’m happy with their work! Reiner said they’re very well-known in Kalos and Unova, and have got a great range, but all I know is that they’ve got a great commission!” he snorted a little as he laughed. “They’ll be here soon, and we’ll do the unveiling as it’s scheduled after dinner but before the fireworks show. There’s programs, just have the butler give you one, or the caterers should have been handing them out, too. Hmm…”

“You!” he called, and a slim caterer smoking a cigarette behind the doorway of a nearby garden shed glanced up, eyes shadowed by the tilt of head and hair. The other caterers held trays with champagne flutes and glasses of colorful cocktails and juice for the younger visitors, or stood by the door offering to take coats and umbrellas. This one held a cigarette in one hand and a Pokeball in the other. “Yes, you! Quit lazing around and give my honored guest a copy of the schedule for tonight. I’m not paying you people to take breaks!”

Bastian didn’t spare another glance in the direction, confident his command had been heeded. Hassel looked over his shoulder as they walked past to see the caterer exhale smoke through a scowl and stub out his cigarette on his apron, burning a hole straight through. It was hard to see in the half-dark but the burn was stark on the white half-apron. Hassel turned back to Bastian, thinking he would be better off asking someone else.

They walked past the caterers doing their jobs and through the doors of the manor, past the procession of guests and to where Hassel’s parents were already seated on a sofa near the wide windows, which were dark and curtained, beside a piano which immediately beckoned Hassel over.

He resisted, of course.

Bastian greeted his parents and lamented that Cara could not come, and then aunt Morag and Bastian’s uncle Albrecht had joined the conversation and settled in the nearby armchairs. Soon they were reflecting on Cara’s coming-of-age battle, and wondering if she and her husband would throw a second wedding for a larger crowd, because really a tropical island is nice but it’s not very cosmopolitan is it? Kalos and Galar are right here. That way the clans can all gather and celebrate them just as we’re doing here. Is she expecting yet? Not yet? Oh, well, I suppose it’s different for young people these days, eh?

Hassel backed slowly out of the group, careful not to bump champagne-holding elbows or shoulders with his tall, wide frame. He had been exercising more even than father’s training methods called for… mother had sent his jackets and shirts to be tailored after he tore through one accidentally, his upper arms suddenly too large for the narrow sleeves. Despite his size, he walked with awareness and blazed a tight smile at anyone who greeted him. Away from the piano, before habit overtook him. Away from his parents, who wanted him to find a woman to marry and provide grandchildren. Toward the table with the hors d'oeuvres, finger sandwiches and caviar crackers and the kegs of beer at the end, where the men his age were gathered. He walked through a cloud of cigar smoke and gave the bar a wide berth.

“Hassel, old man!” a voice cried in his ear, and an arm was suddenly around his shoulder–no mean feat!

“Reiner Sablestone, as I live and breathe,” Hassel imitated Sablestone senior's usual greeting. Then he cracked a more honest and quiet smile. Reiner was nearly his height but thinner, and his hair and eyes were the trademark Sablestone-clan brown-black, his gaze perpetually amused, laughing, or glinting with the anticipation of some secret future pleasure.

He was a couple years younger and a talker, so Hassel could relax. Even more of a disappointment than Hassel, Reiner had grown up in the shadows of his siblings, quite content with sleeping his way across Kalos on the couches of bohemians, artists, and students. Typically, his hosts would be drawn in by his sparkling wit and wake up in a few days, hungover and supplied with funny stories once the embarrassment faded. Somehow, even if those around him were left worse off, Reiner always managed to have a smashing time.

“What were you instructing the caterers in just now? The fine art of spiking the punch bowl?”

As a third son, Reiner had been practically unsupervised in childhood and had found ways to divert himself. He had been notorious for gambling at the Rapidash races, on League battles and even gym challenges. He’d also rejected the first several dragon Pokemon presented to him, and chosen a partner much later in life than the clans deemed acceptable, and completely out of left field.

“Come now, Hassel, we aren’t school boys. I was only consulting them about the food. I would hate to see Mrs. Frida Drake’s guests be served red wine with fish.”

“Arceus forbid such a tragedy,” Hassel muttered. Then he met Reiner’s smile and said, “How’s tricks? How's Treecko?”

“Grovyle, now, actually,” Reiner smiled brightly. “Beer?”

“Oh, yes, I think so.”

They walked through the throng surrounding the kegs and grabbed a stein each.

“How’s Dragonite? Old man Gible? Anyone new?”

“Dragalge and Dreepy, now,” Hassel said, taking a sip. The foam hissed. There was no place quite like this for beer.

Hassel wasn't big on drink, largely because he was so big that he had to drink a lot for it to have any effect, but he did not think he would be sociable today without some synthetic courage. He drank deeper. It was a dark lager, malty and bitter. He could appreciate fine things, especially after tasting the cheap stuff on his low-budget escapes. He accepted a finger-sandwich from a passing caterer and then a caviar cracker from another, and the cold sick feeling of dread began to fade a little.

“You do draw the dragons to you, don’t you? It’s damned impressive," Reiner sounded envious. "I remember when you were a kid, we visited your clan for some feast or other and you’d always be out with your guitar and the Noibat followed you around, you know the one? It impressed Werner and Franz and me. Especially since most of the Pokemon in Galar’s Valley of Dragons are so fierce. But there you were, playing music soothing all the powerful dragons and befriending the funny small ones. The dragon piper.”

“I haven’t thought about it for ages,” Hassel felt the warmth of the memory and the beer both glow in his chest. He thought about drawing dragons, suddenly, with ink and paper and smiled at the idea of recreating this memory. “I wonder what he’s been doing all these years. Such a sweet Pokemon, always helped me tune my instruments… It was a remarkable little one, I brought the flute, the guitar, the violin, it could help with everything. I wonder where it is now…”

He edged out of the circle of conversation that had formed around the people next to them and leaned against a column.

“Grovyle and Hydreigon get along now,” Reiner was saying, “But I had to keep sending letters to your aunt to learn how to regulate Deino when it evolved into Zweilous. We aren’t all natural-born dragon whisperers like you, Hassel!” He went on for a while, paused, eyed the women across the room and said, suddenly, “Have you noticed? Clem, she’s over talking with Hanna and Frida, they’ve been giggling and looking at you. Perhaps they like your physique. I gotta say, you’re making the rest of us look lazy. You looking to start training the fighting type instead?”

“What? No,” Hassel looked around. “Who’s Clem?”

Reiner laughed incredulously. “You don’t know? Clementine’s from the Drake clan, she’s Bastian’s younger sister. Adopted, or half-sister, or something like that, I always forget. She was completing her apprenticeship longer than usual, which is why she made a big splash when she came back last year. Before that, boarding school, you know how the old families do it... Everyone’s making bets and just pushing to court her. She turned poor Leo down just last month, he’s been hitting the bottle at my usual club. Clementine! Not know her! She’s only the greatest catch in all of Galar right now. Not that we’re in Galar. And I don’t think you’re fishing, despite your lovely muscles, old boy. At least, not for that kind of fish, am I right?”

Reiner raised an eyebrow and Hassel stared at him blankly.

“Fishing? What?”

“Ah, nevermind, perhaps I was wrong,” Reiner shook his head, smiling and confusing Hassel further. “Don’t worry about it. But look dapper! I do think she’s coming over.”

To Hassel’s alarm, this was true. And the traitorous Reiner ducked away with his stein, getting them refills just as the freckled, flame-haired young woman walked over with (oh dear!) Frida and Hanna.

“Did my no-good brother just run away as he saw us approaching?” Hanna said, voice cracking with laughter. She had the same dark eyes and hair as Reiner but her eyes currently held mirth and not Reiner’s amused distance, and her hair was long and wavy and decorated with a delicate net of fine silver chain and pearls. Her dove-grey dress, too, was decorated with pearls and a belt of what appeared to be shed Milotic scales that glimmered in many colors.

“He said something about getting more beer. Would you like some?” Hassel felt foolish immediately because the ladies were holding champagne flutes, but the politeness was automatic.

“Thank you, no,” Clementine said, and her hazel eyes had something charismatic in them, something mischievous and bright, more innocent than Reiner’s strange, knowing looks but just as compelling. But Hassel was more uneasy by the second, waiting for Frida to speak. Her lilac dress, her white shawl, her hands both holding the champagne flute, the large diamond ring… he felt absurd, staring at her as if she was a bomb about to go off and not a sweet young woman.

At last, she said,

“Hassel. I’m glad you could make it. It’s been too long,” and they exchanged kisses on each cheek as if nothing had happened between them, as if there had been no expectation and then non-engagement… and just like that, the past was swept under the rug. Hassel’s face relaxed with relief into a warmer expression.

“You know Hanna Sablestone, of course, and this is Clementine Drake. I don’t believe you’ve been introduced? Clementine, this is Hassel, firstborn of Galar’s famous clan Solaris.”

“I believe we’ve met?” Hassel muttered. A flash of orange curls and freckles, piano… “Were you at Cara’s coming-of-age battle last year?”

“Just the celebration portion,” Clementine Drake beamed, freckles disappearing into a pretty blush. “You play wonderfully!”

Reiner had sidled up and handed Hassel his stein, and Hassel took a large sip to avoid thinking about how to respond to this compliment. Too large. He coughed, the foam catching in his throat. Someone offered him a handkerchief and he dried his mouth, excusing himself.

The conversation went on, supported largely by Hanna and Reiner correcting one another, Frida inquiring after their friends and relations, Hanna and Reiner managing to respond and ask about Frida… Clementine smiled a little shyly and leaned toward Hassel, her embroidered green and gold dress catching the light with its tiny glass beads.

“Are you a musician?” he asked, throat dry and beginning to close up in the all-to-familiar fashion. He had always disliked these events. What had he been thinking, agreeing to come to Bastian and Frida’s with his parents? He could feel the stares of the room and they constricted him like a vice squeezing his head, temples throbbing with pain. Was he expected to give the family toast to Frida and Bastian later? What if he just hopped on Dragonite and flew away, right this moment? Was it always so warm and close and sweaty in here? Had he eaten a bad canapé?

Clementine touched his hand and Hassel jerked away.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m not a musician, not really. Not like you. I just sing a little and I’m learning piano. But you look like you could use a moment outside, perhaps?”

Hassel’s mind caught outside and that was all he could think of.

“Yes,” he managed. The air was too warm and too close with all these people. He followed the head of bright orange curls, winding through the crowd with an absent grace belied by his large shape. Rather than head for the front doors, which were congested with people, Clementine brought Hassel to one of the balconies at the side of the house, from where a curving stone staircase descended to the front lawn.

Hassel breathed deeply, the cool night air fresh against his sweaty face. He tried some slow, deep breaths, techniques he had learned from books and childhood acquaintances whose parents hired counselors to help with their worries.

Hassel had always thought, before he met Leo and Reiner, that he was the only one who would get sweaty and shaky and overwhelmed with dread until he froze up, until his body seemed far away. He had thought that these wretched fits of unmanly hysteria, as he overheard his father complain to mother one evening, were a mysterious affliction caused by some defect in his character, some weakness of spirit that he had to train out of himself.

He’d been training with father and little Mikan and he’d frozen mid-battle when Dragonair took a vicious hit. The twelve-year-old Hassel stood and stared in horror, and Haxorus’ attack would have hit him had little Mikan not tackled him out of the way. Father had shouted, but Hassel remembered feeling very strange, and he couldn’t remember anything father had said. Then he and Dragonair had been seen by doctors, but not the kind Reiner and Leo told him about.

The fourteen-year-old Leo had words and strategies for these mysterious fits Hassel was prone to. Leo said he and his sister both felt similar dread, and that it was the pressure of expectation, that this was common among Dragon tamers. Reiner had shared that his eldest brother had similar issues, and that Reiner himself was forced to discuss dumb things like motivation and responsibility in his counseling sessions. They tell you you have narcissistic traits and then make you try to relate to stupid stories, the young Reiner had complained.

As Hassel matured and grew stronger, the fits waned in frequency and he mastered techniques to overcome their intensity. Music had been a miraculous balm when he first discovered it, but it seemed there was no cure, only patience and breath.

Now, too, he felt his racing heart grow calmer and his hands stilled on his Pokeballs.

“Do you want to let them out?” Clementine asked, after a long pause.

Hassel glanced down to where his hands were at his belt, and he smiled mirthlessly.

“I suppose I do. I hadn’t even meant to bring them, but their presence strengthens my resolve. And the night air is so fresh here. Would you mind?”

“Not at all,” Clementine smiled, and hid her face behind her champagne flute. “I’ve been curious to see the Solaris Prince’s Pokemon, to tell the truth. They call you the golden boy and the dragon whisperer. Reiner and Hanna say you can enchant dragons with your voice, singing songs that tame the wildest of dragons. That you’re all honeyed music one moment, and a fierce battler the next! It’s quite a dashing account.”

Hassel blanched and quickly muttered, “That’s all nonsense, you mustn’t believe everything Reiner says. It would be quite dashing, certainly, if there was a drop of truth in it…”

He unclipped his Pokeballs from his belt, one by one. The balcony was large, and apart from the stairs leading to the lawn another stone staircase curved up to a second-story balcony that protruded halfway the length of the one they stood on. There was a small, faint light up there, fading in and out.

Dragonite emerged in a wash of light that blinded Hassel after staring at the dark forest before them. She approached Hassel and booped him lightly with her snout on the side of the head, then waddled to the edge of the balcony. With a grace and strength that seemed to come out of nowhere, her small wings lifted her and she hovered near the top balcony, making curious sounds.

Gible emerged next, looking a little grumpy but then he sensed Hassel’s stress and came over to lean against his leg like a loyal hound. Hassel crouched down to give him a pet and a head scritch.

Clementine had made eyes at Dragonite, which ignored her, and now she oooh’d at Gible, who seemed to like the attention.

Dragalge emerged and floated off into the forest immediately without even saying hello, but that was its way sometimes and Hassel spared it a fond look. It would wander back when it was ready. Dreepy had come out without him noticing and Hassel only realized its presence by the cool sensation inside his right sleeve. Clementine stared after Dragalge, puzzled, then turned back to Gible again and giggled. She straightened back up and said,

“They are very dashing Pokemon, anyway!” and then she tossed a Pokeball into the air and a tall, spiky Pokemon emerged.

Hassel gaped at the Tyrantrum towering over its very slim and feminine trainer and he grinned.

“Mikan, my brother, trained a Tyrunt until it evolved. He loves Rock types. I never would have guessed,” Hassel paused, rewording his thought. “That is, it is an unusual choice for a young woman.”

Clementine smiled sweetly and said, “I’m an unusual woman.”

Hassel was aware then that she was standing closer to him, and that Gible and Tyrantrum were communicating beside them through soft grunts, and that there was a murmur of conversation above them. He smelled cigarette smoke and then the floral perfume Clementine wore, but this only made him feel anxious.

It wasn’t this way when he had run away from home. Then, as a child and later as an adult, he’d been friendly with other people. In Lumiose on his last, yearlong “sabbatical”—as his mother had ironically dubbed Hassel’s escapes—he had even experimented kissing young men and young women, taking art students out for coffee or having a picnic on a rooftop with a bottle of wine and a book of poetry and a baguette with cheese. He’d even brought a couple of them–one at a time, of course–back to his rented mansard room for a fumbling few hours, at first, and then smoother sailing across seas they co-discovered. So Hassel knew for a fact that it wasn’t intimacy that frightened him.

Nor did he believe he was scared of commitment, despite what Mikan might mutter sullenly. No, Hassel had no problem committing to his Pokemon, his training, his music… but as he froze, completely unable to move as Clementine’s lovely, full lips travelled closer to his own dry ones, Hassel did not feel the excitement or the intimacy such encounters elicited from him in the past. He felt, rather, that an inevitable weight was approaching, coming to claim him in the form of this pretty and diminutive young woman, and that when he was branded by those beautiful lips, that weight of responsibility would fall upon him and there would be no getting out from under it. He could feel it crushing his lungs already… and then there was the sound of breaking glass and someone nearby, just on the balcony above them, cursed hoarsely.

“Oh!” Clementine stumbled back, blinking, and Hassel felt nothing but relief.

He stepped away and looked around. Then the lights on the front of the house came on. Had he and Clementine been kissing, they would have been visible to everyone. Dragalge was in the treeline, squinting at him in the now-bright lights. Gible and Tyrantrum seemed at ease. Dreepy he could feel in his sleeve. Looking up, Dragonite had settled on the second-story balcony and was making the soothing, low sounds it made when it met smaller Pokemon that needed calming.

Hassel said, “Excuse me!” and tore up the stairs, torn himself between relief, confusion, embarrassment and curiosity.

He slowed down near the top of the stairs. The illumination was dim up here far from the spotlights, and it revealed that Dragonite was crooning at a person. Hassel hadn’t seen her do that before, not since Dragonite had allowed the strange doctor to ride her ages ago… The slim caterer whom Hassel had spotted smoking earlier stood with his back to Hassel, facing Dragonite. Dragonite lifted its arm and swatted the cigarette from a relaxed hand. The caterer watched it roll across the stone balcony, sparking and going out.

“Don’t care for the smell?” the caterer said hoarsely, keeping his hands open and low.

Dragonite made a displeased gesture that Hassel read easily: she didn’t care for him smoking. This was so novel and strange that Hassel nearly laughed, but the caterer shrugged as if he didn’t understand.

“I don’t know any dragons,” the caterer said after a pause. He stepped closer, carefully, and raised a hand.

Dragonite met his palm with its own, extending its shorter arms to mirror the gesture. The caterer snickered and tried this with his other hand, and Dragonite played along.

Hassel, who had never seen Dragonite play like this with a stranger before, watched with fascination.

“It’s passing strange,” the caterer said softly. “But I do feel as though I’ve met you before…”

In the dim lighting of the second-story balcony, Hassel suddenly had the same impression, though he couldn’t think where he might have met the waitstaff. Where the caterer could have met Dragonite.

A voice rang loud through a microphone, then, reverberating across the open front lawn to the stone cliffs behind the house where it was echoed slightly back.

“I am pleased and honored to be here today, and to welcome each of you to the celebration. As you all know, we are marking the occasion of Bastian and Frida Drake’s first wedding anniversary! Let’s hear it for the happy couple!”

A cheer went up, and Hassel spun around to see that the guests had filed out onto the front lawn, the taxis and vehicles all dispersed or parked further off, and the guests stood in a semi-circle around the black tarp-covered monument. Just in front of it, between the monument and the guests was a raised wooden platform where several people were standing. The announcer–Hassel recognized Leo’s voice and his large figure–waited for the cheer to die out before he went on, claiming it was his privilege to introduce the artist whose skill had realized Bastian and Frida’s vision, and so on and so forth, listing more flowery compliments and awards and prizes than Hassel could shake a stick at.

Dragonite walked up beside him, and on his other side the caterer’s face was rapt on Leo. Hassel frowned, turning away from the speaker.

“Are you by chance from Paldea?” he said, but the caterer just shushed him (rudely!) and stared with wide grey eyes at the speaker, the artist coming up to the microphone as Leo stepped aside with a short bow.

“Shhhh! Eva Morisot is unveiling her new sculpture,” the caterer whispered furiously, face all contorted with stress so that Hassel began to doubt his recognition.

“Thank you, my lovelies,” said the middle-aged woman. Her voice was high and quite pleasant despite the strange familiarity with which she spoke. Hassel couldn’t quite place her accent. She was dressed all in black, except a thin, long, brick-red scarf wound several times around her neck that matched the Boldore which stood behind her with one of its stone limbs extended to the tarp covering the monument.

“And congratulations to the patrons who made this possible, Mr. and Mrs. Drake! It is their paper anniversary, but we shall commemorate it with stone and water!”

At a dramatic gesture of her hand, raising her arm above her head and bringing it down, Eva Morisot froze and her Boldore flared the black tarp over the statue it covered and swept it away.

Then the lights inside the fountain switched on.

It was a diamond-shaped structure, a Kingdra perched on a cliff-like rock in the center. Its snout was angled into the air, fins and horn pushed back as if it were performing a Hydro Pump attack. Below it, in the shallow round pool there stood a pair of Goomy.

Hassel stared because the stone looked like it had turned to goo, to slime, and he wondered if the lighting created this illusion.

“Closer,” muttered the impolite caterer, fixated on the fountain and moving with thoughtless purpose down the stairs and through the small crowd. Hassel’s Dragonite nudged him in the back and retreated into her Pokeball and so he followed, until they stood in the very front row of spectators and he could see the Goomy looked hyperrealistic from up close, too. Eva Morisot was gesturing and speaking, Boldore nodding along behind her. The audience shifted impatiently. Hassel was relieved that he couldn’t see his parents. He spotted Bastian and Frida near the front as well, and Reiner was chatting with Leo who raised his eyebrows when Hassel made eye contact. He turned back to look for the caterer, but he had disappeared. No. Had he fallen down? Hassel bowed his head down and was astonished.

The caterer had knelt down, got on all fours and laid his head on the ground, looking sideways at the front of the fountain. Hassel stared at this bizarre behavior. Several of the dragon tamers he knew laughed and pointed, but most ignored him in favor of the artist, who was still speaking.

“And without further ado, let us bring this stone into harmony with the water of these elegant dragons!” exclaimed the artist, and brought her hands together, clapping wildly. The spectators permitted themselves another round of applause. And the caterer said, very quietly so that only Hassel heard him, “Ah-hah!”

Hassel got on his haunches to see and the caterer muttered, “See, she’s going to have Boldore switch it on, it’s a mechanism hidden in the side panel disguised as part of the foundation, just there.”

And just in time, Hassel saw Boldore nudge the place the caterer pointed out and a moment later there was a faint gurgle and water shot out from the snout of the Kingdra, up into the air, describing an arc and streaming back down to collect in the basin.

“There’s almost sure to be a secondary mechanism once the pool fills, where either the Goomy will interact or the lilypads on the bottom will rise to the surface,” the caterer went on, grinning with delight. “Morisot is known for her flourishes. There is always a second act,” he said, sitting up and telling Hassel because Hassel was listening and staring at him.

“That’s marvelous,” Hassel responded, partly because the delighted gleam in the caterer’s eyes prompted him to and partly because it was. “Are you staying here to watch?”

“I…” the caterer blinked, and then he rose up, swayed from the speed of his ascent, and tore off his apron. He wore all black beneath it, and Hassel got a glimpse of Pokeballs clipped to a belt, three of them. A professional trainer, then, despite his odd choice of hobby. He had a moment to wonder if Bonsly was among those Pokemon.

“Eva Morisot,” the not-caterer said, in a voice not so hoarse and infectious with joy but lower, smoother. “I’m Brassius, of Artazon. I wrote you several times.”

The sculptor, who had finished speaking to applause and was admiring her own fountain beside them, perched atop Boldore, turned curiously to Brassius just as Hassel was struck with recognition of the name and face, warmth blooming in a wide smile on his own face.

“Brassius of… oh, the young artist from Paldea?” Morisot said, and her expression shifted to something warmer but reserved. “You ask a lot of good questions, Mr. Brassius.”

“And you provide very few answers, Madam Morisot.”

Morisot laughed. “I make it a policy to never answer fan mail,” she said coyly.

“What about professional correspondence?”

“Oh, is that what it was? Well, let me be frank, because I liked what you had to say. I have enough apprentices getting under my feet. I am not looking to take on any more at this time, though it is nice that you know and appreciate my work. If I had a larger studio, I would consider taking you on, young man.”

“Show my work in your studio,” Brassius said then, and Hassel noticed he was clenching the fingers of one hand in the other, as if he was trying to tear off his own callouses.

“Do good work and submit it to my annual competition.”

“Your apprentices take all the spots.”

“Then you know who you need to beat, don’t you?”

Brassius opened his mouth and then reconsidered his words and his face fell. He nodded and muttered, in a flatter tone, “Very well. I will apply for your competition again next year. It was an honor to meet you. Thank you for your time, Madam Morisot.”

Hassel watched Brassius walk off a few paces, light another cigarette and burn through a third of it on a massive inhale.

“Please don't do that," he found himself saying, moving later than he meant and raising a hand to Brassius’s shoulder, whether in comfort or to turn him around or to slow him down, Hassel himself did not know. What he did know was that he was happy to see this man again, alive and sparkling with enthusiasm, that he wanted to tell him they were acquainted, that he wanted to hear more about the fountain and his own art.

But the evening was getting away from Hassel again: the smell of cigarette smoke made his stomach lurch and he remembered Clementine’s lips rising up toward him like a curse, he remembered the sounds and the pallor of Brassius, years ago and near death, and he felt his heart beating too fast again.

Brassius twisted out from under his hand as if it had burned him and narrowed his eyes at Hassel.

“I don’t work here,” he said, on a smoky exhale. Hassel noted the smoke curling from his lips as he spoke and thought of Charizards he'd seen mid-battle. “I apologize for the deception, but I could find no other pretext to gain admission to this event. I am not a dragon trainer and I had hoped… I have meant to meet Eva Morisot for months. If you want a drink fetched, I suggest you do it yourself. As I am not on the clock, I will smoke as I damn well please, and you rich dragon snobs can bugger off.”

The last part was said slowly as if savoring the provocation, and concluded with a gratuitous exhale of smoke directly into Hassel’s face.

Hassel coughed before he could respond.

“Oh dear, I expressed myself poorly. I did not mean to be paternalistic. Please, I only meant…” Hassel trailed off. Brassius arched an eyebrow, or would have, if his light-colored eyebrows were distinguishable from the rest of his face–it looked more like an asymmetrical contortion of the forehead.

“I only meant that I believe we’ve met before, in Levincia General Hospital, and we may have a shared acquaintance in Doctor Miguela,” Hassel tried again. He did not expect Brassius’s face to twitch at this name, however. To look frozen for a moment–and then–

“Since I do not recall you, I would prefer not to discuss that time,” he said coolly. “I’ve spent a long time watching illness progress and I would rather not revisit the experience.”

In spite of his upbringing, Hassel knew what boundaries were. But the words left his mouth unbidden, “You look so much better, and you’re smoking–are you not well?”

Brassius must have seen the genuine concern in Hassel’s eyes because he softened a little then and said, “I would thank you not to judge a stranger’s grief.”

He left then, walking toward the balconies once more, and Hassel stood there and mouthed the words stranger’s grief and tried to understand what had gone wrong.

“Who’s the slender goth?” said Reiner, walking up to him with Leo behind him. “He turn you down?”

“Pardon?” Hassel blinked and looked away from where Brassius had dropped his cigarette and stepped on it.

“The one you were just talking to, prickly-looking fellow,” Reiner said, matching Hassel’s stare.

“Oh, it’s just someone I’ve met before, but I think he was disappointed with Madam Morisot not offering him an apprenticeship,” Hassel muttered, frowning.

“An artist?” Reiner’s dark eyes lit up. “You do know the most interesting people, old man.”

Hassel and Leo watched Reiner wander off after Brassius and offer him a light for his next cigarette. Brassius looked a little surprised but accepted, and soon they were chatting like old friends. Hassel wondered how he had gone so wrong.

“Did Reiner insult you?” Leo said, snapping Hassel out of his nascent pity party.

“What? Why?”

“You have something else on your mind, then? Perhaps someone?”

“Don’t talk like my parents, please,” Hassel snapped, and Leo laughed.

“Yours and mine both,” he confessed. “I wanted to greet you properly… and to ask about your intentions toward Clementine Drake.”

For a moment, Hassel felt the rotation of the earth beneath his feet. He resumed breathing and looked at Leo properly, Leo who was several years older and must be feeling the same pressures as he himself was.

“None whatsoever,” Hassel said lightly, satisfied with what he saw. “I only officially met her this evening, and she seems like a lovely young woman. Do you know her well?”

Leo’s relief was so obvious that Hassel actually smiled.

“Not very well, but I’ve been seeing her attend events the past year. I have rather decided to court her,” he said, voice quieter now. “She was not terribly interested last month, but I believe I can win her over. You were speaking to her earlier. Did she mention me?”

“Not that I recall,” Hassel tried to keep his expression neutral. “She showed me her Pokemon, that was it really. She’s perceptive, saw when I needed to get some air. I wish you luck.”

Hassel watched Hanna and several young women wander over to where Reiner and Brassius were smoking and talking. Brassius took Hanna’s proffered hand and glanced into her face before he pressed a brief kiss to the back of her hand, a crooked and charismatic smile curling his mouth when he let go. Hanna laughed and then Clementine was offering her hand. Hassel angled himself to block the view for a moment, lest Leo decide to take this as a challenge.

“Thank you,” Leo nodded. “She seems to be musical. I was considering gifting her a piano. I have the catalog here, actually,” to Hassel’s surprise, Leo reached into an interior jacket pocket and pulled out a folded, glossy catalog. “I was hoping to get your input, since you’re the most expert musician I know. Which one of these would she like, do you think? She tells me she favors classical music, and she says she’s a beginner but I’ve heard her and she’s wonderful, Hassel.”

Hassel watched Leo unfold the crumpled catalog and his eyes fell across several of the pianos and the hefty prices. He thought back to Clementine and to Brassius’s words about rich dragon snobs.

“Perhaps you might consider an alternative? There are musical Pokemon. Kricketune, for instance, or the legendary singing Lapras, or Exploud, even… then there’s Chatot. Has she ever considered involving a Pokemon in her music? You could research a few, see where they live, go out and catch one together, and spend some time getting to know each other. Or perhaps simply observe them in the wild and partake of her hobby in this way. Then even if you don’t catch one, you will have advanced your cause.”

Leo nodded slowly to himself, folding the catalog absently. Somewhere behind Hassel, Clementine, Hanna, Brassius and Reiner were laughing about something. Hassel looked over his shoulder.

Clementine was holding out a dainty hand, showing off nails painted gold. Hanna’s hand was splayed next to hers in the air, manicured fingernails pearly with a blue sheen. Brassius brought a hand up to his face to flash his black-painted fingernails and Reiner laughed loudest of the group.

Leo glanced around Hassel, saw the laughing group and said, “Hanna and Reiner are such children.”

“I suppose you can afford to be when you’re not the eldest,” Hassel reflected with a sad smile.

“What is that sound?” Leo said suddenly, and at first Hassel thought he was referring to Reiner’s laugh which rang in his ears but then he heard a sound as of grinding stone, and glanced around to place it at the fountain. The Goomy were rotating and bobbing in the filled fountain, and the lily pads had indeed risen to reveal that one of them was a Lotad. Eva Morisot, who was standing near her fountain and speaking with Frida, Bastian, and several older couples, Hassel’s parents among them, was smiling from ear to ear.

Hassel glanced immediately back to the group, but Reiner was showing something to Brassius who looked intrigued.

“May I accompany you on a stroll around the fountain?” Leo offered, and Hassel wondered how he’d stolen the words Hassel had wanted to use. Clementine gave a long-suffering half-smile but acquiesced and she and Leo were walking arm-in-arm, speaking quietly and admiring the fountain. The looks Clementine kept shooting Hassel did not bode well for Leo’s ventures, but Hassel pretended not to notice.

What was impossible not to notice was that Reiner had walked Brassius over to the table with the outdoor drinks and they were sketching something on a napkin, bending over it and talking inaudibly. Hassel waved to Hanna who wandered over.

“Reiner’s trying to rope another one into his gallery project. I swear, it’s a new one every month with him,” she rolled her eyes. “I see you gave Leo your blessing. Mighty big of you, old boy.”

“...thank you?” Hassel guessed. “What gallery project is that?”

“Oh, he’s bought space in some gallery or other, he wants to have someone glorify him in art and then he’ll display it. He keeps playing the patron, hiring artists to paint him, draw him, write music inspired by him… it’s such a bore. And he’s interested for a while, but then he finds someone new. I suppose it’s a good income for the artists. His taste is terrible, though, we’ve got rooms full of portraits with him dressed up in all sorts of stupid costumes. I mean the artists aren’t all bad, they try, but I think after a while their feelings start to manifest in the art, either that or Reiner just gets too controlling and they take the money and give him something kitschy like he wants.”

“That could be a comical exhibit,” Hassel mused, and then wished he could take it back when Hanna cackled loudly.

“Oh you have no idea,” she wiped tears from her eyes. “Come by sometime, you’ll see, it’s truly the stuff of nightmares.”

After their walk, Leo went off to get drinks and Clementine gravitated toward Hassel and Hanna. The caterers (minus Brassius) were coming around with dessert courses, cheeses, mousses, and rather hefty cubes of the regional cherry-chocolate cake. Hassel put away a serving without even noticing, feeling his stomach churn as he navigated the conversation with minimal input, wishing Clementine would look more to Leo, who was staring at her, or that Leo might notice Hanna. Hassel remembered her childhood crush, and the way Hanna grew talkative and nervous with Clementine suggested that she had not forgotten the sentiment altogether. The upshot of all this unrequited attention manifested in Hassel nervously eating his way through a plate of every kind of dessert. He blamed his workout regimen for the increase in appetite.

When Leo was called away by old friends, Clementine asked Hassel if he perhaps had a sweet tooth and that the cake looked so tasty she really wanted one, could he get her-ah, thank you!

Hassel had waved over a caterer and received an unasked for second slice of cake, in addition to Clementine’s. He set it down on the small round table they were gathered around, but Clementine kept smiling at him and looking at his cake.

“Would you like this?” he said finally, unable to ignore the pointed glances.

“Oh, no, one was plenty, I just thought, with how much you seemed to enjoy the desserts earlier, you’d like more. You’re very muscular. It must take a lot of energy to train so many dragons!”

Feeling vaguely nauseated, Hassel took a bite of the rich cake, another that unfortunately consisted only of globs of buttercream. When Reiner walked by with his arm around Brassius and the smell of cigarettes hit Hassel’s nose again, he gagged and had to find a receptacle for the cake coming back up.

Clementine apologized and hovered until Hassel excused himself. Gathering his Pokemon at the edge of the lawn where the forest encroached on the property, Hassel let himself cry silently for several minutes, alone in the dark. He hated these events, and the dancing hadn’t even started. His friends and family would all think him drunk. He felt stupid, clumsy, unlucky, like he had missed an opportunity even as he was relieved he’d dodged Clementine. It didn’t make any sense. Dragonite hugged him before retreating into her Pokeball, and Hassel wiped his face on his sleeve. If his stomach rebelled, then he would take advantage of the excuse to head home early. He ignored the niggling in his roiling stomach, the feeling that was compelling him to turn back, to ask, to just explain…

*

Notes:

Again, I'm sorry!

Next chapter almost done, apologies for the slow updates! Please leave me a word or two if you've made it this far? And thank you so much for reading :'D

Chapter 9: post-3. The Patron

Notes:

Thank you so much for the kudos & comments. If you want quicker updates, you know how to motivate me <3 xD

This one is on the shorter side and from the perspective of an OC, I hope this is nevertheless agreeable? It should explain some of what went wrong with 🍊🌻 interaction in the previous chapter.

This chapter got too long so I broke it in half. I am genuinely trying to edit myself for concision, believe it or not.

See the end notes for warnings. Anything with Brassius, even an outside perspective, will feature some depression & grief at this cloudy moment... no sunshine 🍊 in this one, sorry! Not quite yet. Though a family member cameos.

Ch 9.

Between meeting 3 & meeting 4 -- interim. The Patron

Brassius surveyed the mock-up he’d drawn on a cocktail napkin at the dragon tamers’ party and mentally calculated the cost of scaling up the size of such a sculpture. He put out his cigarette distractedly and jotted down the number, one he considered ridiculously high. This was why he had advised working in wood or clay or even another stone. Marble was prohibitively expensive, in his experience.

Reiner didn’t even glance at the number before agreeing.

Brassius insisted Reiner take a look.

“I cannot recommend such costly material, considering the work itself will incur additional costs,” he said flatly.

Reiner waved his hand to dispel the notion that costs could pose any problem for him, but seeing Brassius’s dour expression, he gave an oily smile and looked over indulgently.

“I see… well, if you say fine marble costs this amount, who am I to disagree with an expert? Let’s double it, to start?”

Brassius licked his suddenly dry lips. He really had not expected Reiner to be serious. He had been sure the past fifteen minutes of conversation was all empty boasting. Perhaps this affair was not a complete loss after all. Eva Morisot had refused to train him or display his work, but Reiner seemed sincere, and not even particularly drunk, if unreliable. Still, he’d believe this man when he saw a contract. Or a paycheck.

“Right,” Brassius said, after a pause, and then paused even longer. “...there’s one other thing. I don’t sculpt people. I do Pokemon.”

“You can do my Pokemon, too,” Reiner said readily. “That’s a fine idea! I hadn’t thought of that.”

“And I’d need a studio space to work,” Brassius added, since this was turning into a semi-serious discussion. “An advance to pay rent on it, and to purchase supplies. I don’t typically work with marble, though I have some experience. I would make a smaller scale sculpture first in clay and then in marble, to refine my technique. Of your Pokemon, to be clear.”

“Certainly, certainly, just make a list and I’ll have someone get it,” Reiner yawned.

“I’d prefer to select the material myself, if it’s all the same to you.”

“Hm, that could be an interesting errand,” Reiner glanced over at Brassius mid-stretch and smiled. He was remarkably cat-like in his smugness. “I’m busy until the end of the month, but I know a guy that knows a guy. I can get us in Silph wholesale’s warehouse. Exclusive access. That’s in Kanto, ah, I see you do know it. Leave me your number, I’ll be in touch. Brassius, right? Ah no, the pleasure’s all mine.”

 

* * *

 

Ever since he had hired him, his new artist had looked strangely morose. Of course, he’d been that way when they met, before Reiner had hired him, too, but he had grown animated at the prospect of work when Reiner offered it.

Reiner watched the artist watching the snow outside the rented studio window. It was warm in the studio, the windows were fogging near the frame but the view of snow falling, illuminated beneath the streetlamp’s yellow glow, was rather lovely.

Reiner didn’t understand why his artist looked so miserable now. Sure, he’d had a significant loss, but surely the prospect of working with Reiner was exciting enough to distract him? It was enough for most artists he’d met. Well, perhaps Reiner would have to be more creative in his entertainment.

They had spent the day consulting specialists in marble, and Reiner had spared no expense in ordering the best of the best. But after he’d evaluated the samples and made his choices, Brassius had wandered away from the stone and into the terracotta section, running his hands over various samples of pottery. Reiner took care of the details and arranged delivery, of course, but he couldn’t see what could interest the talented young man in such lowly craft as pottery. He’d pursed his lips and followed, admiring how tactile (even sensual!) his artist was, even if his hands were wasted on such inferior material.

Next, they commissioned the tools Brassius would need to be made to work with these materials. Brassius had produced a tattered fabric case containing worn chisels, knives, gouges, and implements that looked more suited to a dentist’s office, or perhaps a torturer’s toolkit. The wooden handles had grooves from Brassius’ fingernails, the paint had chipped in places, but the tools themselves were clean and free of rust. Reiner didn’t really care about this part, but Brassius had heard of this artisan and seemed excited when they walked into the dingy shed adjacent to the Silph warehouses. The walls were covered in displays of what, to Reiner, appeared to be identical files, butter knives and chisels. Tiny hammers and large hammers. Wires, and implements with rounded tips and more tools than Reiner knew words for. It was dim and smelled funny.

“I’ll need a variety of sizes for the half-rounded rasps,” Brassius was saying, and the toolsmith nodded as they discussed specific numbers that meant nothing to Reiner. Reiner bought the respirators and masks for sanding recommended to him by the sales assistant as he waited, pouting at being ignored in favor of fancy wires.

Reiner had taken his artist to the Silph wholesale warehouses in the industrial district of Saffron, specifically, because this was where they transported the famed Celadon marble of Kanto. Reiner wanted only the best, and he had been pleased at Brassius’s discernment. The artist had zeroed in on the most expensive marble though the prices had not been marked, and had nodded approvingly at several other materials which Reiner would never have noticed on his own.

“I will require the clay I examined earlier for an initial model,” Brassius told Reiner, as the toolsmith took casts of his tools.

“Certainly, certainly,” Reiner agreed. “And are you sure you don’t wish to use any power tools? It would speed up the process significantly.”

Brassius frowned and shook his head. “Certainly not. I require fine control when working in such a brittle medium. It will be time-consuming and laborious… as it should be! But the result should justify the expenditure.”

Reiner loved it when his artist showed a little passion. He smiled indulgently, told the toolsmith to do his best work, and followed Brassius back to the ceramics warehouse. Tall shelves stored various industrial quantities of materials in crates, towering over them. The rows of shelves bore lists and labels of what they contained, and Brassius walked quickly, glancing at the labels and peering into the aisles between shelves before moving forward. His black peacoat whipped about his legs when he made a sharp stop to peer into an aisle.

“We really do need to get you something to wear that isn’t black, old boy,” Reiner said, when Brassius paused to stare down a row that housed different kinds of clay, packaged inside boxes in sealed plastic bags, the contents further detailed in shorthand on the boxes. “Just so I can take you to some gallery openings. I don’t want you disappearing in dark corners when you should be shining in the spotlight.”

Brassius might have scoffed or coughed, or simply disregarded this statement and proceeded down the row, eyes running quickly over labels. He paused in thought over earthen clays from various locales.

“Are you sure polymer clay won’t do?”

Brassius turned to Reiner as if he’d been slapped, his grey eyes wide and stormy. Reiner raised his hands into the air.

“All right, of course, whatever my artist commands! Far be it from me to intrude on your process. Just thought it might be easier.”

Brassius turned back to perusing the shelves and sniffed. “I procure my own clay, but if you insist on working in Shalour City… Best to order, hmm, at least twenty-five pounds of this,” he reached forward and tapped a box. Reiner jotted down the identifying number in his notepad.

“Excellent, that’s the last one, then. The tools will be made and shipped to us, along with the rest. Silph wholesale never disappoints. Do you want to look at crystal, or perhaps jade?”

“Why would I…?” Brassius paused. “No, this is enough. Don’t you need to pay them?”

“They know who I am, they can bill me,” Reiner said lightly. “I’ll call to confirm the order. Now, come with me. There’s a little get-together in Shalour tonight, and I have a space I want to show you after I introduce you to a few people. But we should eat first, I know a place… Are you sure you don’t want to change? We could go shopping, Saffron’s mall stocks some very decent brands.”

“Are my clothes in some way inappropriate for the occasion?” Brassius asked, looking skeptical about traveling to another region to attend a party that very night.

“Well, no, it’s only…” Reiner looked him up and down. Brassius’s tapered black jeans, worn leather boots, black peacoat, grey scarf and black turtleneck were a stark contrast to his pale skin. “You look like you’ve come from a low-budget funeral, or a goth convention. Did someone die?”

He was joking, so when Brassius looked at him solemnly and said, “Well, yes,” Reiner’s mouth fell open.

“My mother, some months ago now. I will… take your advice into consideration.”

“Oh, Brassius, damn. My condolences,” there followed a slew of sympathy which Brassius appeared to listen to, but Reiner could tell he had tuned out, and he was glad because he knew sincerity was not his strong suit when it came to grief. He would feel relieved if his parents weren’t around. He babbled on, steering Brassius by bony shoulders to the door when he made his way to look at more clay. They had plans, after all.

Reiner was used to eccentric artists but Brassius was either a very good actor or the genuine article, for he did not seem to notice or care when Reiner dropped hints about celebrities he knew, or contributions he’d made to museums, or offers to buy something nice for him like a new wardrobe with actual color. This was strangely refreshing and Reiner was increasingly charmed as he presented temptations that went ignored throughout the day. It also felt like a challenge–like Brassius might deem to notice if Reiner dangled something truly tempting before him. Reiner had not been challenged in a very long time.

He took them to a small restaurant, a hole-in-the-wall place in Saffron off of a side street where the chef came out to greet customers personally. Brassius only cottoned on to how expensive the meal was when he noticed the jewelry and manner of the other customers. Reiner liked observant ones, the way their eyes and hands and posture gave away their awareness. He’d chosen the place because the cozy size, the pastoral oil paintings on the walls, the smells permeating the dining area all worked to conceal the exclusivity. Brassius had less than half of his portion of mushroom ravioli while Reiner tucked away all of his spaghetti and meatballs and they both had strong double espressos. Resting after his day of travel, cupping the espresso in his hands and savoring the flavor, Brassius looked as usual, exhausted and inscrutable. Reiner had been shooting him calculating looks but all he had learned was the obvious: the artist loves coffee and doesn’t eat much.

“I’m perfectly content to work in ordinary clay. I’d require only a few steel rods for support, if you decide against the marble,” Brassius began, but Reiner waved his hand impatiently and he relented.

“Stop that, stop stop stop. No more about the cost, please, that’s not your concern. I want to know more about you. You’ll find our trip will go faster now you’re traveling with me. Tell me, really, Brassius, was it any trouble to rearrange your living situation to come work with me in Shalour?”

“Not really,” Brassius said, lifting his eyes from the espresso. It was getting dark outside, and the restaurant had switched on additional lamps in stained-glass shades, casting reddish light to render Reiner’s eyes into dark, glittering rubies. Reiner had a spot of tomato sauce on the side of his mouth. Brassius frowned and looked back to his espresso, or rather the dregs of it.

“Well, I’m glad,” Reiner said, when it became clear that Brassius wasn’t going to elaborate. “I told you I had a rented space and I’ve been showing off work in Shalour for several years now, right?”

Brassius nodded and Reiner went on, “Well, I’d like to introduce you to the artists I know there. Most of them describe their work as abstract expressionism, with a few conceptual artists and such. Oh, a few musicians, too. Ah, and Morisot might come to the party, along with a few of her former apprentices–they have a sculptor’s workshop sometimes, it’s all very exclusive but I’m sure I could pull some strings for you if you’re interested. It’s in the Avon Wing of the Smack, that’s what we affectionately call the Shalour Museum of Art and Creative Kitsch, though some people say Crappy or Common for the C. The group came out with that last bit, obviously.”

Brassius shook his head, “I can manage my own introductions, thanks.”

After Reiner picked up the check, I insist, my good man, they taxi’d to the airport where Brassius picked up his backpack from a locker. Brassius confessed that he had only flown on Tropius, and a handful of times on trips or to school, though he preferred the train to Lumiose over flying. He loved watching the Paldea and Kalos countryside go by. He could fill sketchbooks and his heart with the scenery.

Reiner’s private plane made the journey to Unova much smoother than Brassius’s journey to Kanto had been. Reiner knew immediately, even without the artist's words that Brassius had clearly never flown on a private plane before. His surprise that they were the only occupants amused Reiner, who took such things for granted. Determined to stay on lighter topics of conversation, Reiner kept up a steady stream of mildly entertaining chatter, telling Brassius about the art world in Unova and gossip that was at least two weeks out of date.

“It’ll just be getting dark when we fly in, so I’m afraid we might need to eat dinner a second time,” Reiner said, turning to Brassius. The artist had been looking so tired and growing so quiet that it did not surprise Reiner that he had nodded off. Reiner felt his mouth curve up at the sight and unbuckled his seatbelt. Going over to the storage bins in the back, he put aside the medical kit, the parachute packs and flares, and brought out a handheld camera. Then he moved back to snap a photograph of Brassius reclining in his seat, head drooped onto his right shoulder, face largely obscured by strands of hair that had escaped his low ponytail. Feeling mischievous, Reiner sat beside him and turned the camera onto the two of them, leaning gently into Brassius and smirking into the camera.

After he had snapped several more photos he put the camera into his coat pocket and found that Brassius had shifted minutely to lean against his shoulder, so Reiner stayed put, turning his head to inhale the odd, not unpleasant herbal scent of the artist’s shampoo. He raised the armrest between them and situated himself alongside his new artist.

Reiner adjusted himself and Brassius slowly, so that the artist was leaning against him, and he watched him and wondered if encouraging Brassius to lean into black and white might do, with the charcoal eyeliner like he’d been wearing back at the Drakes’ party... Or perhaps he might introduce Brassius to the art scene draped in silver jewelry, to match those tired eyes of his. He could get his ears pierced, and the chains would go wonderfully with his thorny long hair, mingling and glinting like fairy-lights in a forest… Reiner could bedeck those bony wrists and fingers with bracelets and rings, and perhaps a bold color on the lips, like plum or even black… but no, his artist would appear sickly if he wore all monochrome… Reiner wanted to see him in different colors. Perhaps gold? Reiner’s striking dark hair and eyes were already a study in contrast, he would be best complemented by the slender artist if he wore violet, or perhaps earth tones would go with that strange hair color… or maybe something silver, eye-catching and a little ethereal on the young, slim figure… the pale skin would look wonderful with red hair, if he could convince Brassius to dye it. It was strange that an artist would be so bland, so conservative, in his personal stye, and Reiner had ideas.

Reiner loved new projects, and this one was turning out to be quite engaging.

Brassius was awoken by the plane landing, the rumble and the shift jolting him from a deep sleep he had not recalled falling into. He had been leaning up against Reiner, and he straightened and distanced himself at once with a self-conscious apology on his lips.

By the time they exited the plane, took another taxi to the party and handed their bags and coats off at the museum’s coat check, the sun had set a second time that same day, or perhaps it was the next day? Reiner didn’t mind. The museum’s Avon wing after dark events had an open bar courtesy of the eponymous donor and Reiner went to get them drinks, making sure to ask for a little extra alcohol in the martinis. He wanted to relax and Brassius looked like he needed it, too. There were appetizers but neither he nor Brassius spared a look at the food.

Reiner approached, drink in each hand, to find Brassius speaking–smoothly!–with the matriarch of the Solaris clan. He hadn’t expected to see her here, but then again, she had been frequenting the art world for the past several years. Perhaps she was simply bored? Reiner nodded at her and handed Brassius a drink, and made a courteous introduction, because he was nothing if not polite.

“Madam Portia Damaris Cudworth, of the Solaris clan, have you met Brassius of Artazon?”

“We were just getting acquainted,” the Solaris matriarch said, turning to Reiner and fixing him with an imperious look. “Do enlighten me, where is Artazon?”

“Southeast Paldea,” Brassius put in. “But Mesagoza is where you see the lovely architecture, I am sure it would be much more suitable for visiting than some backwater province. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Madam Solaris.”

“Please, Portia is fine,” the older woman said, her face donning a faint smile without much change about the eyes. “Has Reiner enlisted you into his army of artists? Are you taking part in his misguided pursuit of eternal life through the constant reproduction of his own image?”

Brassius took this in and, oddly nonplussed, nodded and took a sip of his drink. Reiner narrowed his eyes.

“Every artist needs a patron,” Brassius observed.

“Very practical for an artist, aren’t you?” Portia observed.

“Not particularly,” Brassius shrugged.

“He’s a sculptor, one of the best,” Reiner said, despite never having seen anything of Brassius’s before. He had seen the way Brassius’s tools looked, the way Brassius had been absorbed in choosing materials, and Reiner knew artists. He was confident in his assessment.

“Are you now?” there was a flash of interest in the woman’s eyes, Reiner didn’t imagine it. “Well, be sure to invite me to the unveiling of your commission, Sablestone junior. Artist Brassius.”

She nodded and walked over to Eva Morisot, whom Reiner spotted speaking with several apprentices and the man for whom the wing of the museum had been named. Reiner took Brassius by the elbow to introduce him there but was met with resistance. Surprised, he turned to see Brassius shaking his head.

“That’s enough people for today, I think,” he said a little hoarsely. “It’s been a long day, and you wanted to show me a studio space?”

“Well, yes,” Reiner had never met an artist who’d pass on a party when the booze was free. “But we just got here. Don’t you want to make some connections, have a few more drinks, go for a smoke outside and stare at the stars, get into an angry debate with the expressionists and storm out dramatically?”

“As tempting as that is, I really would prefer to finish our tasks and retire,” Brassius said dryly. Reiner noticed the tremor in his hand as he finished his drink, and his stomach felt heavy with disappointment.

“Well, ok,” he said, surprising himself. “I suppose we can come to see most of these folks another day. But if you want to succeed in art, you’re going to have to learn to schmooze, Brassius. It really is all about making connections, you know. I’m surprised a man of your potential would waste such an opportunity. Very well, let me just have another drink and say hello to several friends and we will be off.”

Brassius wandered over to the far end of the room as Reiner watched him out of the corner of his eye, speaking easily with Morisot and company, then dilly dallying with the abstract expressionists and dropping hints about his mysterious new artist without giving any details. Predictably, the company gave vent to all the typical intrigues, rumors, jealousy, and snide comments. Reiner stayed and laughed a bit, saw Brassius wander further off looking at paintings, drank another drink quickly and followed him.

“There you are,” he drawled, sidling up to his artist, who was surveying a large canvas with a ship painted upon it, and endless details in the foreground depicting a cultivated mountainside.

“Remarkable,” Brassius said softly, still staring. Then he blinked and turned to Reiner. “Shall we go?”

“You know,” said Reiner, when they had retrieved their coats and were seated in another taxi. It had begun to snow while they were indoors, and there was already a thin dusting of white on the ground. “Most up-and-coming artists would pay dearly for the chance to attend an exclusive party like that.”

“Is that how you can afford a private plane, then? Or are you going to request that I pay dearly?”

Brassius’s careless rejoinder made Reiner feel a little giddy and he laughed. “Oh, no, I only choose carefully selected artists to accompany me and work for me,” he winked but Brassius pretended not to notice, or perhaps he really was absorbed in the scenery. He hadn’t been to Shalour before, after all. The snow made the place look festive, falling in clumps beneath streetlamps and in headlights.

“The arts district,” Reiner gestured out the window. They were driving past rows of warehouses, their sides covered in colorful murals of Smeargle and Ditto. “The southeast part of town gets shabbier. Up north there’s the sea and a rather unique ancient monument, the Tower of Mastery. I’ll take you sometime when it’s light out, old boy, you’ll love the bridge. Anyway you can’t see it from here since the landscape slopes up and there’s a steep ridge along most of the shore. It’s rather nice in summer, though it’ll be too cold to enjoy properly now. There’s my favorite cafe, and some half-decent nightlife too–I’ll save my stories for another night. Do you ever go dancing, Brassius? Oh, those old factory buildings were storage warehouses for a while but they were converted into rather pleasant apartments. I purchased a couple in the penthouse, just to have a place to crash after visiting the galleries and having a few drinks. There’s some great jazz venues here too, and the Mudsdale tranquilizers hit you perfectly in the blue lights of the Slowking Room. Oh and the Velvet Vileplume is where the expressionists host their weekly art critiques, and have a drinking game that lands at least two of them in the bathroom losing their liquor,” Reiner smiled, as if this was a particularly joyful memory. “Then Morisot’s spare studio and smaller gallery space is just down the block, she got a hell of a good deal when a fabric store went out of business. Ah, here we are.”

Brassius hmm’d along but did not engage directly as Reiner spoke and then they had arrived. It wasn’t as big a city as Saffron, and when Brassius got out of the taxi he saw a street lit up by streetlamps, rows of two and three-story houses with shops on the first floor and owners or residents living above them, curtained windows glowing. The next block had larger warehouses and he could faintly hear what must be loud music from down the street. The snow was falling softly and muting sound and coating the sidewalk, and Reiner and Brassius made fresh tracks as they exited the taxi. On this block, there was a glass figurine store, and a place that sold vintage clothing and art, and sandwiched between them a tall and narrow house simply bearing the sign Lofts. Its large windows were unlit.

It was to this house that Reiner walked, and Brassius after him. Reiner hit the buttons for the entry code on the door and it unlocked with a click. They ducked inside, and Reiner shook the snow from his dark hair and switched on the light.

The room was long and narrow, all open-floor plan with lights inset in the ceiling and several workstations set up against the walls, easels, paints, desks and drawers, two sinks near the back wall and a shelf high up with a sliding ladder where layers and layers of canvases were stacked like oblong tiles when viewed from the side.

“There’s an art class in here I think,” Reiner turned to the stairs and switched on the upstairs light. They climbed up, past a closed door on the second floor, to the third. There was a key left in the lock. Reiner turned it and opened the door, and they were in a large space, with just one desk out and the same sink at the back, an old couch near the window, and a view of the street and the falling snow. The rest of the furniture had been pushed back against the walls so the space in the room was empty save the couch. The lights made the window reflect the two young men superimposed over the snow.

Brassius nodded his approval and went to look around. Leftovers from decades of projects and sculptures were crammed into the shelves near the sink along the back wall. There was a curtain set up to block a back corner of the room, and a large though tarnished mirror ran above the counter and sink set into the rear wall, reflecting light back toward the window. Brassius turned around slowly to get a feel for the space while Reiner walked to the wall where several stools and folding tables were collecting dust. He ran a finger over the stool and it came away dusty. He tsk’d.

“I’ll have someone clean it up,” he said, just as Brassius said,

“Oh no need, there’s a broom here. The only things I need are my supplies and an air filter.”

“Consider it done, my good man,” Reiner said, as easily as ever. He gestured for Brassius to sit on the couch with him and Brassius obliged, looking out at the snow while Reiner stared at his own reflection. Watching his artist, Reiner noticed how whenever he drifted off in thought, the frown lines that appeared irritated or angry inevitably drifted toward sadness. It was a strange quiet moment. Reiner wanted to entertain Brassius, to give him drinks until he was dancing happily, as he did with his other friends. But he resisted the urge, seeing the exhaustion in the eyebags on his artist's face, and feeling the day of travel catching up to him as well.

“Right! You can plan out your needs and make shopping lists tomorrow,” Reiner decided. “Let’s head to my place. I have a guest room and we can catch some sleep and start fresh tomorrow. If you want your own place I’m happy to give you the second penthouse apartment, but I want to have someone clean it first, it gets dusty in there when no one uses it. My sister has been crashing at my place so it should be ready for us, you remember Hanna from the party? Dark hair, loud laugh, obnoxious and doesn’t shut up…”

Brassius relaxed into the chatter, following Reiner back out into the snow. He watched his breath cloud the air and tucked his chin down into his collar, the piercing cold hitting his cheeks on their short walk to Reiner’s building. By the time they had ridden the elevator up and Brassius was shown a guest room, he didn’t even have the energy to enjoy the penthouse view. He forced his tired body to shower, changed into the crumpled pajamas in his backpack, and climbed into the cold bedding, the feel of clean sheets warming as they brushed over him sending a pleased shiver through him. His insomnia tried valiantly to wrestle with two days of travel and the accompanying jet lag. He shifted around, picturing and planning projects in his mind. The irritated arguing was muted but he could faintly hear voices. His ears tried to pick out words, and the rhythm lulled him to sleep.

* * *

Notes:

Warnings: mentions death of a parent... and i think Reiner is his own warning, genuinely, hah. If you read the previous chapter (8) and this one carefully enough, you should observe sufficient red flags to be concerned. Though I am growing fond of him despite myself. Like any good narcissist, he likes most of all to use people to have a nice time, and if I've succeeded this will come across somewhat subtly at first.

Please tell me if I've pulled off a compelling "outside perspective on Brassius" or failed, or something in between... I fear I dodged in and out of Brassius's perspective throughout, and at the end especially. Reiner is a little slippery and I am trash at focalizing consistently, my stupid instinct is to jump around and empathize with everyone and confuse everything entirely, which is no good at all :D

If you've made it this far, THANK YOU 😍 and please drop me a word/line, it brightens my day when readers interact! Be well in this scary strange world. With a little luck and time, I'll bring our boys together again properly :'D

Chapter 10: 10. post-3.2, The Velvet Vileplume

Notes:

see end for warnings (there are some!!)

Brassie is in over his head, but the thing is, Reiner is smart. They're going to have an interesting patron-artist relationship, let's say.

(not as finely edited, please feel free to point out errors and my apologies for typos!)

10. post-meeting 3 interlude, part 2

The Velvet Vileplume

 

Reiner rose in the afternoon and found no artist in his guestroom. After a leisurely late breakfast in his favorite coffeeshop, Reiner climbed the stairs of the rented studio to find his artist sitting on the floor with his back to the couch, facing the inner wall of the building and staring into space as if mapping something. There was a single stool standing in a beam of light from the window. A sketchbook and several pencils lay next to him, and the place had been swept of dust and felt cool and fresh, though the window was now closed.

“Oh, hello,” Brassius said, taking the double espresso Reiner handed him and ignoring the paper bag with assorted pastries. “I was just considering the light in here. Have you brought my model? I’ll need extensive sketches to start.”

“Oh, are we starting?” Reiner sauntered to the makeshift spotlight and perched onto the stool, popping the collar of his coat playfully. “I was thinking to wear fewer clothes but that can wait until we are better acquainted.”

Brassius blinked at him.

“...I meant your Pokemon.”

Reiner’s face split into a sly smile and he said, “Ah, yes, you did mention that. Well, we can start there, of course.”

He sent out Grovyle in a wash of light, and watched the way Brassius seemed to come alive. The artist rose and circled Grovyle, which turned its head to follow. He knelt down and introduced himself, which Reiner found ridiculous, but Grovyle nodded and soon was showing off the long leaf on its head, the triple leaves on its wrists which Brassius praised for looking healthy and glossy. Reiner narrowed his eyes at being ignored but Brassius turned to him and said,

“I can tell you take excellent care of it, Reiner. Can you lend me your Grovyle for the day?”

“I have a counter-offer. You can sketch him for two hours, and then for the rest of the day, let me show you around town. The space you’ll be showing in, some live music, perhaps a few errands.”

“That won’t take long,” Brassius waved a dismissive hand, “let’s visit the museum again?”

“Well, very well, old boy, if you say so. But why would you want to go there when there isn’t a party?”

 

The two hours he sketched Grovyle, Brassius let Bonsly, Shroomish and Smoliv watch and entertain the other Pokemon. They get on surprisingly well, though Smoliv got bored and envious immediately and only Shroomish looked interested in Grovyle’s posing after the first hour. Brassius asked Grovyle to do a variety of poses which he attempted to capture from various angles, filling pages quickly with shapes and cross-hatching, then working on several poses he liked in more detail.

“Which of these strikes you as most characteristic of your Pokemon?” he asked Reiner, when the latter had come by with large shopping bags.

“Oh, whichever you think is best,” Reiner said, after glancing at the sketches and at Brassius. “Come along, now, I have a few things I want to try before the museum.”

 

Brassius scooped up olive tapenade with a pita chip, sitting behind the kitchen counter of Reiner and Hanna’s apartment and watching Reiner dig around in the large shopping bags. He took out and unfolded artfully torn jeans, a silvery silk shirt, fishnet gloves, a fluffy pink cardigan, and a variety of other clothes and accessories.

“What do you think?” Reiner asked, bouncing slightly to stand on his toes once, twice. “The warehouse called, our order will start coming in tomorrow and the marble will arrive early next week. Meanwhile I thought I’d help us create the aesthetic for introducing your show, your identity, your work.”

“I’d prefer to make something first, if it’s all the same to you,” Brassius said, head tilted ironically as he crunched on a pita chip. He rose to refill his coffee when Reiner took the mug from his hand and replaced it with a wine glass.

“Seems premature to celebrate a job well done,” Brassius repeated lightly. His dour sarcasm was impossible to miss, but Reiner smiled easily at him.

“Relax… Fine wine will go much better with the fine art we’re going to see,” Reiner said winningly, snaking an arm around Brassius’s shoulder to steer him toward the coffee table where he had laid out the clothing and accessories. “Do you think that checked trilby hat is too much for me? What about the dragon fang pendant?”

Brassius took a sip to avoid answering the question immediately, but his face gave him away because Reiner laughed, throwing his head back to reveal a choker composed of multiple, delicate black chains around his neck, a black, horned dragon charm hanging from it. Finally, something caught his artist’s attention.

“Is that…?” Brassius asked, eyeing the jewelry. “Your clan’s mark?”

“It is indeed,” Reiner ran a hand over the necklace. His nails were neatly manicured and painted black. “I commissioned it from a jewelry-maker, a very fine girl. Perhaps I’ll take you to meet her, if I find your work satisfactory.”

Reiner noted with dawning satisfaction how Brassius’s jaw clenched at the mention of his work being judged, his shoulder stiffening beneath Reiner’s casual hold, fingers tightening on the stem of the wineglass. So the inscrutable exterior was, as suspected, a facade, composed in part of the numbness of grief, no doubt, and partly to shield Brassius from his own insecurities about others’ judgments. Well, that was almost too easy… he really was very naive or very sensitive. Reiner itched to break the mask, to see what lay beneath it… but not yet, he had to savor it, patience was key. There was not much thrill in a chase that ended so soon after it had begun.

“Feel this, isn’t it soft?”

“Not unlike a Mareep,” Brassius agreed shortly, petting the fluffy pink cardigan. “Is it for Hanna?”

“For her, or myself, or for you–depends on whose outfit it goes best with,” Reiner said, his voice taking on that easy, buttery quality he used to entertain people with. “I had meant to wear the grey shirt but it fit me a little snug. I might have overindulged in my dining habits of late. I really must do some training… Would you mind terribly trying it on to see if it fits you? The boutique doesn’t take returns and I’d hate to waste all that money.”

Brassius found himself in his room with a pair of form-fitting leather trousers he would never have bought for himself, but which he quite liked the silhouette of once he’d pulled them on. His hips looked narrow, his legs long, and his reflection surprised him with the pleased gleam in his eye.

The cool silk of the gray shirt, roomy and flowy on him, was also a pleasure, but he drew the line at the corset Reiner had somehow shoved his way and pulled on one of his own worn black sweaters to layer for the journey. The silky shirt felt luxuriously cool against his skin, and he shivered a little before he gathered his thorny hair back into its usual low ponytail. Then he shook it out and braided it loosely instead. He took his pocket notepad and pens in case the museum art inspired him. Brassius pointedly ignored the hat, the silver bangles and leather cuff bracelets, and the watch Reiner had shoved into his arms when he asked that Brassius change for their trip.

Reiner’s face brightened when he stepped out, and Brassius saw that Reiner too had changed into houndstooth print trousers and a tailored blue jacket.

“Oh, it fits you perfectly, I’m so glad,” Reiner said with an odd appreciation that Brassius chalked up to money and aesthetics. Reiner revealed that the building had an underground garage, and naturally he had a sports car stored there. He regaled Brassius with stories of mishaps in his Rapidash race betting days as he drove them to the museum and waved his Donor ID at the front desk staff, who waved him in with bows and smiles.

It took some time before Brassius found the painting he had been surveying the night before, but then he stood before it and gazed. Reiner grew bored and wandered off, telling Brassius he’d be in the gift shop or cafe. Brassius took some time to sit on the bench and stare, and then he went up near the canvas and examined the details. He couldn’t say what it was, only that it moved him in a way few things had managed to since his mother’s death.

He stared at the boy drowning, the ship passing by, the Mudsdale plowing, unaware of the death in the other corner of the painting. What was the world worth, why were all these people who did not matter walking around and loving life, when the warmest person he had ever known was gone? When the world was cold and barren and even though Artazon had recovered from poisoning, the most important heart of it was gone? How could he feel, or put anything into his work? He had nothing to give and nothing to say in the face of such gaping, awful absence.

It was the nature of suffering in the world, that it went on unnoticed, alongside everyday life, in his backyard forest or any patch of ocean. And others lived on because they had to, because they had no choice, because such was the nature of things: temporary, fragile… he wanted to make things to outlast him, marble would be perfect for this, but some part of Brassius knew that he would never prefer any medium to clay, which was just as breakable, just as unique to the place and time it came from, just as mutable in his hands as any human relationship he had had or ruined. And though he wanted to make grand monuments, the emptiness of such gestures filled him with a strange despair just then, the ambition so vast as to become impersonal and hollow, full not of meaning but of echoes, expectations, and illusions. If he could create plates that people used, bowls for Pokemon to drink water out of, pots for plants to thrive in… if that awful thirst for worth and recognition would allow him to just be, if he could go back to finding joy in the process without the pressure of mortality haunting his thoughts and his touch… he could animate clay and then make it live, the spark that had caught his imagination when he had first discovered art, hands clumsy with pencil and charcoal and wet clay.

Brassius shook his head. This was a painting by a master. He could take inspiration here but there was no use being absurd. He’d gone to art school for greater things than crafts. Reiner expected something grand, and Brassius would deliver. Avant-garde the monument was not, but he could balance creation and destruction in the claws, the vibrant glossy leaves, the leaf blade edge of Grovyle’s attack, the grace and the draconic potential of the Mega evolution he’d read about when Reiner first told Brassius he trained a Grovyle. Movement, the opposite of marble, that’s what he wanted to capture. The moment of stillness immediately after the leap and the blink-and-you-missed-it slice of the leaf blade. The balance, the suspense, the relaxation into the speed of battle… Brassius cast an eye around, looking automatically for that precarious balance he was picturing in his mind, the moment after Grovyle landed an attack.

The contemporary art wing yielded some interesting sights but nothing spoke to Brassius in terms of balance, the precarity of the moment, the tension of wielding a sword of living leaf.

There were familiar works, he recognized a Morisot sculpture looking perfect, symmetrical and mechanized to move. Where he had previously found this exciting and charming, after his rejection Brassius wondered bitterly how much work she actually did herself and what had been done by her apprentices.

Other art whispered to him in its composition or concept: the wings of a Vivillon flapped with an irregular rhythm, its coloring a regional impossibility. Some artist called simply Ainsley had made a series of abstract sculptures using discarded Pokemon parts, shed Metapod and Kakuna cocoons, the scales of a Magicarp, the quills of a Jolteon.

The only other person in this part of the museum was an older man, grey hair and mustache, carved wooden cane in hand, sitting on the bench and staring at a slowly rotating mobile from which hung broken pieces of coral.

“Cursola?” Brassius said softly, glancing up at it, and the man’s lip curved and he nodded. Startled that his low whisper had carried, Brassius met the piercing gaze of the stranger, who said,

“You know the regional Pokemon?”

“It’s been painted,” Brassius nodded. “I would have left it grey-white.”

“Indeed?”

“Perhaps it’s sentimental, but I would not mask a ghost Pokemon’s remains with pink and blue paint to simulate the rare hues of a genetic mutation. The texture is riveting enough in the original color, and the blue and violet glass suggests the violence of Mareanie without spelling it out.”

“You were with the young Sablestone at the party last night, weren’t you?” said the old man, his gaze sharp and appraising now. “Are you an artist, then, or a critic?”

“Wait until I complete a commission and then judge for yourself,” Brassius shifted his shoulders self-consciously.

“Arceus, an artist looking at the work of others and willingly giving up the chance to brag about his own!” the man exclaimed, and then he broke out into a rolling, chuckling laugh. “Well now, you must introduce yourself,” he pretended to wipe tears from his eyes, which were shrewd and dry.

“Must I?” Brassius drawled, unimpressed with the asymmetry of the conversation. “Very well then. I am Colza, visiting from Lumiose. Whom do I have the pleasure of meeting?”

He gave a shallow bow, eyes sharp.

“You truly do not know?” the older man said, and he was so incredulous, so utterly incapable of comprehending that someone might not know him, that Brassius scoffed outright.

“Now, now, patience is a virtue, but I confess it’s novel to meet an artist who is not trying to ingratiate himself to me.”

“I see you have a high opinion of your name. Should I recognize it if I hear it?”

“Not hailing from abroad, you are quite right. However, it is on the wall just there,” the stranger said in a voice that was still full of laughter, gesturing politely to where the museum signage introduced the Charles Avon gallery.

Brassius felt his expression shift despite himself.

“You are correct about the aesthetics of the mobile. It was a collaboration between Ainsley and one of Morisot’s apprentices, I forget her name… but Ainsley has done better work. I saw you admiring their work just now. Come to the Velvet Vileplume tonight, Ainsley always comes out for Unova blues night. You’ll know them when you see them.”

The big donor rose, then, and walked slowly from the room, cane clacking on every other step. Brassius stared for a moment, then picked up the card he had left on the bench. It was glossy blue with red specks and had the name and address of the Velvet Vileplume written on it. Brassius tucked it into the notebook he’d been jotting names and titles into as he explored, and put a question mark next to the names he had noted down: Ainsley? Charles Avon?

Reiner was sipping a cocktail and giggling over something with the waitstaff when Brassius found him in the cafe.

“Ah, all done? There’s a few errands I need to run before we can go listen to some live music, old boy. I wanted your opinion on commissioning a few things,” Reiner tucked his shiny black hair behind an ear that glinted with silvery spikes.

 

Despite Reiner’s strange insistence on taking Brassius along for shopping trips and asking his opinion on various outlandish clothing, jewelry, and fabrics—Brassius did not pretend to be an expert on any of these things, and he doubted Reiner would share his preferences!—Brassius managed to enjoy the new sights and sounds of the day. Reiner had even brought him to his tailor and commented on Brassius’s features, long legs, and what colors might suit his skin–Brassius had tuned out most of this conversation, assuming Reiner would proceed with his own business and finding a chair in a screened off fitting area to rest his eyes briefly. Despite the frequent breaks, Brassius was exhausted when they arrived back in the apartment and despite his curiosity, the idea of going out again was daunting.

“You were wilting a bit there, old boy,” Reiner commented from the doorframe, where he leaned casually. Brassius had slumped down in the desk chair to rest his legs. “You want something for energy? I have some supplements that’ll fix you right up,” Reiner went on in sing-song.

Brassius shook his head.

“Well, the Vileplume is renowned for its food as well as its music, so let me just change into something a little more…playful. Are you sure I can’t tempt you to try the corset? Paired with the pink cardigan it’ll be simply scandalous.”

The look Brassius shot him had Reiner laughing and closing the door.

 

Brassius choked down the embarrassment of arriving at the Velvet Vileplume accompanied by Reiner, whose black jacket was studded with sequins like stars, and with Hanna, who looked like she had stepped off of a runway in her elegant, slinky red dress. His ratty sweater looked particularly shabby by contrast. Brassius forced himself to straighten his shoulders and walk proudly into the place. He was diminutive enough in height, slouching would only make him pathetic. If he wanted presence, he had to create it.

The entry boasted its own seating, dim lighting, and a hostess who smiled at Reiner and even more at Hanna. They were ushered in ahead of a line of waiting people, down a hallway and into a large dining room, individual tables set elegantly, a bar running the length of the left wall and a dim, unoccupied low stage that took up room along the back wall. People were sitting at the tables and eating, laughing, and talking. There was a group of young people drinking and merrily discussing something. Another, more boisterous group, sat nearby and on the center of their table there was an iron grill, a Cyndaquil perched in it, resting and keeping the cheese fondue bubbling in a small pot.

Reiner smiled and waved at the second group, spotted an acquaintance and struck up a conversation. Hanna took Brassius by the elbow, even as she towered over him in her heels, and directed them to the other side of the table where there were empty seats.

Brassius held a chair out for her and then went to sit, and found a blue Corsola sitting on the chair he pulled out for himself. He paused.

“My apologies. Sola, come here please, love.”

Brassius made his mouth turn up when he sat down and met the gaze of a person of about his age, with warm brown eyes and thick hair feathered around their head. They held Corsola in their arms and it made a soft happy sound.

“Your Corsola,” Brassius paused. “You don’t by chance work for Madam Morisot?”

“Oh, have you seen the mobile? I’m Ainsley,” the artist said, wiggling their fingers between Corsola’s blue protrusions of coral or rock.

“Brassius. It’s a pleasure,” Brassius said, meaning it and feeling foolish for assuming the mobile had been painted. “I went to see your work at the museum earlier today, I just got into town.”

“Another one caught in Reiner’s golden handcuffs.”

“What do you mean by that?”

Brassius had a suspicion he knew. He and Ainsley both glanced up to where Reiner was laughing with several others across the table, martini glass in hand and the other patting his companion on the back.

“Just what it sounds like. Though you shall see for yourself, I suppose,” Ainsley shrugged. “I’m not judging. I’ve done work for Reiner before, though he did not care for it.”

“Did he renege on payment?”

“Oh, nothing of the sort. If anything, he is over-generous,” Ainsley’s mouth twisted. Then their expression shifted and they nodded, appearing friendly and not letting any of the conversation bleed into their greeting of Reiner, who had finally sauntered over to take Hanna’s seat beside Brassius. He had not noticed her rise to speak with the hostess near the bar.

“Here’s a menu, old boy. Tell me what you want and I’ll put in our order. Kitchen’s closing soon. I’d suggest the lobster bisque with the Beef Stroganoff as an excellent sleeping aid.”

Brassius made a selection and Reiner shook his head and tsk’d but waved over a waiter, ordered additional drinks for the table, his own recommendation for himself and the soup and salad Brassius had pointed to in the menu.

“Unovan wine is excellent if you haven’t tried it, genuine competition for Kalosian,” Ainsley shared, offering to pour the pale yellow wine for Brassius after refilling their own cup. Brassius nodded, stopping them at half a glass.

“Thank you,” he drank deep and the faint burning in his throat and chest greeted him like an old friend. On his other side, Reiner was proposing a game of exquisite corpse and pouting as his friends seemed more inclined to talk and drink.

“Did anyone even bring Vigoroth to this party before the music starts? They’re setting up now,” the young man beside Reiner complained, bringing a bright smile back to Reiner’s face, and Brassius wondered if they used Pokemon to help with the music or stage but then there was a tap on his shoulder.

“Would you be a dear and help me with a wardrobe malfunction, please?” Hanna whispered, and Brassius nodded and left his place to follow Hanna across the room just as Reiner and his friend clinked their glasses and Ainsley waved over the waiter.

“No Vigoroth tonight, but how’s Chatotty sound?” Reiner’s voice was lower but it carried.

Brassius didn’t look back, too busy navigating the room which had grown crowded, and feeling lightheaded. Hanna brought him to a secluded hallway leading to the bathrooms where she turned her back to him.

The zipper on the back of her dress had come unlatched at the very top, and in her efforts to fix it it had jammed on the fabric. Brassius could tell by feel how to fix it immediately, and his fingers made quick work of unjamming the zipper and latching the little hook. Hanna sighed and smiled at him.

“I didn’t want to seem tacky, asking the hostess for help. It’s coming on too strong, I think. Thank you, Brass.”

Brassius nodded, feeling self-conscious suddenly about how such insignificant praise went to his head faster than the wine had. They went back past the stage, where musicians were doing sound checks, and circled back to their table, where Reiner was setting his wine glass down next to Brassius’s and giggling across his empty seat at Ainsley’s Corsola, which was launching small, iridescent bubbles to float and pop over the water pitcher.

Brassius sat down just as the waiter brought over their food; there was a general shuffling of breadbaskets, glasses and drinks to accommodate the required tablespace. The musicians began to pick up a tune, joining in one by one, a saxophone here, the drums joining in and falling out, a keyboardist doing a solo… Brassius tucked into the food and began to feel more grounded and less exhausted. Reiner waved a fork with a slice of Beef Wellington to the music, catching one of Corsola’s bubbles by accident and guffawing. Was he drunk already? Brassius glanced over and could not tell. The light had dimmed when the music came on, and Reiner’s dark eyes glittered as brightly as ever, pupil indistinguishable from iris.

Brassius took a sip of wine and another, and began to pick at his salad. The music also began to pick up and speak to him, slowly at first but with growing urgency.

“You’re not enjoying your salad?” asked Ainsley, snapping Brassius out of a stupor, fork spearing tomato and greens raised into the air and forgotten.

“Salad?” Brassius blinked away the violet and yellow spots from his eyes. It was as if he had been visualizing the music. This had never happened before and it had been enchanting, a synaesthesia of violets and blues and yellow ribbons floating before his mind in perfect time with the music. Corsola’s blue practically glowed where it perched in Ainsley’s lap.

He did a breathing exercise out of habit, but the colors dancing before his eyes were unaffected and more vivid than the dark spots he saw when feeling faint. This sudden elation was the polar opposite, a long overdue balancing of the scales…

“I suppose the music transported me.”

He felt light in a way he never had before, though it faintly reminded him of the way creating art made him feel. Brassius watched Reiner drain his entire wineglass and stare at it as if he had expected to find gold coins in the bottom.

Brassius laughed and wondered how he had felt so wretched, so exhausted just half an hour ago, and how the music had revived him. The energy of the music buoyed his mood.

Reiner glanced sideways at him and reached for Brassius’s wineglass but then abandoned the motion, and when Brassius tilted his head and offered it, Reiner shrugged it off with a smile and a grimace.

Brassius refocused and made himself eat the salad. He found that he had more of an appetite than usual.

Some time passed, measured in colorful music, in a rush of energy and empathy that left him warm. He smiled widely at Ainsley for no particular reason and said, “It’s lovely. It’s wonderful!” he punctuated his remark with a toast, and then he drained the wine and polished off his salad in record time.

Reiner was looking at him curiously when Brassius looked up, but it didn’t feel suspicious or uneasy like he’d felt earlier in the day. He felt light, happy that Reiner wanted to speak to him, that the music kept changing shape and color, that he was here with friends, these people looking happily between each other, they could all be friends since they had welcomed him and Reiner and Hanna, and Ainsley’s Corsola was such a pretty shade of blue and shimmering…

Everyone was laughing, Reiner was all dimples and smiles, his friends were staring with glassy eyes at the musicians, his other friend had fallen far back in his chair and was surveying the musicians upside-down, head thrown back. The young women at the other side of the table appeared to be sniffing standard pokemon burn heals, which looked silly to Brassius who ignored everything in favor of the music. This was not his sister’s poor performance in the school band, but real Unovan blues. He had some trouble tracking the movements in the music, more trouble than usual, but he’d never felt music so deeply before, nor enjoyed it on such contrasting physical and emotional levels… it felt like floating along a river, or flying on Tropius, or… climbing trees and resting in the sun-dappled shade, warm breeze caressing his skin. Art was communication, music was communication, wasn’t it? Communion with something transcending language into… his mind lost the words, too swept up in the feeling of the music.

If he squinted, Brassius could imagine the violinist standing in front of the yellow stage light had blond hair which made him nostalgic for no reason so he squinted at Corsola instead. Ainsley was the only one not laughing at their table, surveying Brassius and for some reason Reiner with a bemused expression. Brassius’s attempts to engage with them fell flat but Brassius didn’t mind. When he looked down he found he had finished his wine, and Reiner was pouring them both more.

Hanna had wandered off to speak with friends at another table. When he looked around and stopped focusing on the music, Brassius felt like his eyes were everywhere at once, taking in all the angles and impressions of the room, cataloguing and perceiving movement, music, airflow, the breath of people speaking… he blinked and he and Reiner were discussing impasto and scumbling techniques.

“...no improvement to be made, she’s perfected it, but I enjoy building up textures and playing with light in crisp, concentrated lines,” Brassius was surprised to hear himself confiding. “It’s what inspired me to start sculpting. I realized that a tactile component, the play of light and shadow in three dimensions, the different perspectives all add something essential to my art. I had worked prior to this with inverse perspective, which is going the opposite way, reducing dimensions…”

“I do love your sensitivity to these things, old boy,” Reiner cut in, but his clumsy enthusiasm was more charming than rude, softened by the wine and the music, and he was all but whispering into Brassius’s ear, leaning close, the sequins on his coat and the stars in his eyes glittering. “It’s why I want to treat you, my dear. There are so many dimensions of life you could explore and enjoy and express. And I just love the color of that silk with your silvery eyes. Did you know, I experiment with fashion. It’s my way of paying back the artists for their art. Oh, I pay them of course, but I also help them find their signature look, their contacts, their confidence. You look absolutely magnificent in those leather trousers, my boy. I don’t know how you survive off coffee alone, but I am living for that waifish, oblivious dreaminess, especially in contrast with such a fine arse,” he dissolved into giggles and bit his lip and Brassius, who had stopped listening at fashion and become captivated again by the music, looked back and stared at him, mouth falling open, feeling as flushed as Reiner looked.

After his mind rejected what he had half-heard as ridiculous, he said, “Don’t be absurd. Like I was saying, I tried using inverse perspective to restore and transfigure our own perspective, to illuminate creation by the uncreated light of the divine. That’s the theory of icons made with inverse perspective, at any rate, and it spoke to me more than expressionism or realism at the time. Putting various Pokemon in this perspective, starting with Poliwag and Combee, I played with shapes and endowing power of form to younger and smaller Pokemon… and with sculpture, I never quite found my footing in transposing the inverse perspective. Short of an Ouroboros Rayquaza, that was my final project, but that’s not exactly the same idea, right? Just an experiment. So I took a break and then I wanted to study Morisot’s technique. But naturalism with extra steps is less art than entertainment… at least, it’s neat, of course, but… I haven’t been able to do anything I’m happy with since I graduated-”

Brassius broke off, gesturing.

“You’re not entirely wrong about Morisot,” Ainsley suddenly put in. “I too was disappointed after idolizing her for some years. Although her apprentices do some good work as well. There’s a couple in particular I think you’d enjoy meeting, though you might have opposing views on the function of art. I’ll introduce you sometime.”

“That would be fantastic,” Brassius felt warm, like he was glowing from inside. Agreement, approval, he wanted it all when it shot him through with delight like this, and why not be agreeable?

When Hanna tugged him up for a dance, he found his feet nimbler than usual. It felt almost like floating, and he and Hanna laughed as they spun, the music and the other dancers floating vaguely around them. Brassius and Hanna took turns twirling each other to the crescendo and then stood dizzily panting and laughing as the world spun around them. The dim, colorful lights, the live music, the energy of the people around him mingled into a joyful feeling that overwhelmed Brassius. Next he knew, Reiner was taking his arm and pulling out a chair for him, pouring him wine and insisting he wanted the next dance, his sister was always stealing his friends, this had happened his entire life… Brassius laughed with the delight he felt, and Reiner’s surprised and then pleased expression struck him as genuine and less guarded than usual. He rested his chin on one hand on the table and listened.

 

Next time he surfaced from the music, he saw others dancing. Hanna and Ainsley were cutting confidently through others who danced in pairs or alone, the Unovan jazz now more upbeat. There were fewer people in the restaurant and almost all of them were dancing now, the lights were dim and empty wine glasses and bottles crowded the tabletops. At their table, it was only him and Reiner. Reiner, who was leaning directly into his space, eyes glittering, raised a hand gingerly to draw back the bangs that fell over Brassius’s face. Brassius blinked slowly at this development, confused but still elated.

“You look so much better like this, old boy. We really must try gelling your hair back and painting you some eyebrows, perhaps a smokey eye…”

“I’m hardly a canvas,” Brassius objected. Speaking was harder, his tongue feeling heavy now, mouth dryer than normal. Reiner laughed in response, as he had been doing all night.

“But won’t you be my canvas? Please?”

The wine bottles were all empty and the dancers had dispersed. Brassius blinked again and Reiner and Hanna were helping him walk, leaning heavily against each other and laughing, the street snowy and dark and sailing back and forth beneath his feet.

They were smoking in front of some building, Ainsley and several others giving Reiner, Hanna, and then Brassius sloppy kisses on cheeks and heading off…the whiff of Skunky smoke and a beating bassline when the door opened and the others left.

Reiner and Brassius walked home, stumbling and laughing. Brassius was sure he was drunk, though it was an odd kind of drunk and he worried his lip hoping he didn’t feel like complete shit the next day. Unovan wine was more potent than he had thought! The worries did not linger like they usually did, however, and Brassius had not felt this excited, this carefree, in what felt like years.

He blinked and Reiner was coaxing him into the elevator, coaxing him through their door, coaxing him into the tiny black corset cinching the silky shirt. They were in the penthouse in front of a floor-to-ceiling trifold mirror. Taking in his appearance, Brassius did not—for once—feel critical. He looked sweaty and almost manically joyful, so that the expression on his face felt and looked unrecognizable. It was silly and surreal, and disconnected. Behind him, Reiner was lacing him into the contraption and marveling at Brassius’s skinny waist, murmuring something, probably praise interspersed with personal remarks that usually made Brassius frown. A pang of unease pierced the haze of pleasure then, self-consciousness attempting to reassert itself.

“No, no,” Reiner said to something Brassius must have said aloud. “You’re completely wrong, not everyone needs to be built like a rectangle. You really have no idea how beautiful you can look, do you, old boy?”

The warm hands settling on his waist from behind alongside the whispered words made heat rise in Brassius’s face and in other places. He looked with surprise at his own reddened face in the mirror and the taller form bending around him to smirk over his shoulder, Reiner’s smug, half-lidded eyes meeting his gaze with something powerful and thrilling that cut through the haze of elation. He pulled the laces tighter as if to reaffirm his words, smile widening, tying them into a bow and running his hands over the ribbing. Brassius’s eyes watered and he realized that… When had he put on makeup? The black and silver lining his eyes looked glamorous, if gaudy and wrong. The silver chains dangling from his ears and neck were larger and heavier than his usual small, ceramic or glass bead earrings. He didn’t remember trying on anything like this.

Reiner was pouring hair product into his hands from a small, expensive looking bottle, humming some tune under his breath. Brassius turned away from the mirror to ask him something–maybe along the lines of: Hey, what the fuck?

But then foreign hands were smoothing his thorny hair back and slicking it with product and Brassius gasped indignantly at this unwelcome intrusion, every part of him ready to shout, to lash out, to tell this presumptuous asshole to back off. …even if he did like hands in his hair, he didn’t like whatever this goop was!

 

Except every part of him also felt constricted at that gasp, and every other thought fell away as Brassius choked on his breath.

Then he was gasping, coughing, familiar dark spots appearing in his vision, the laces turning to an iron vice on his ribs. The pain was dulled but present. He sank down, disregarding Reiner’s surprised exclamation. He barely mustered the coordination to try clawing blindly at the ties of the corset behind his back, unable to loosen the thing and equally unable to take a full breath, feeling like a beached Magicarp as he lay collapsed on his side and floundered in panic.

The world was greying at the edges now, and Brassius met his own eyes in the mirror again without seeing himself, without seeing the running mascara and without registering the clinking chains. He was slumped on the ground, hearing his own wheezing gasps without registering their meaning, feeling like he’d die from a dumb costume. Behind him, Reiner muttered something angrily and fiddled with something. The world faded out, then came back as the laces loosened and the wretched constriction was removed from his ribs.

It reminded Brassius of the feeling of inhabiting the wrong body. The dissociation stayed with him even as his breathing improved.

“Shit. Wait,” he gasped out, although Reiner had not gone anywhere.

It was the contrast, Brassius thought, lucidity peering through the drunken clouds. The overly tight binding had restricted his breathing, but feeling out-of-body now was almost worse. Some amount of constriction felt safe, though too much was deadly.

He must have said this aloud because Reiner was embracing him now, carefully, helping him regain his breath and former relaxation as he hauled him to sit up on the floor, embracing and hushing him and muttering something quietly into the side of his head. Brassius couldn’t make out the words but the arms surrounding him held him safely in the present, anchored him to it. After a time he caught a few phrases of what Reiner was saying:

“...weighted blankets for this exact reason, though I wonder if you might find restraint a welcome release from expectations, dear boy. I expect you should feel very good if you could be convinced to let go of that tight control and trust it to someone else for a little while, hm? Something beautifully thorny perhaps, like your rose-thorn hair? Or silk, spun into ropes the color of rose petals, interlacing in patterns over your wrists, your waist, those long legs…”

Brassius felt so hazy and distant that it was easy to ignore the way his stomach dropped and his cheeks flamed, to ignore the way his body became pliant at the very thought and impossibility of the images Reiner was conjuring up. Brassius focused on his breathing, and then he found the world moving, and soon Reiner had deposited him on something soft. He lay beside him for a time, warm arm weighing Brassius down, and tickled Brassius’s ear with whispered, titillating words, which at last overwhelmed Brassius into shameful, ecstatic unconsciousness.

* * *

His artist was late to wake after the confusion with the wine glasses at the Velvet Vileplume. Reiner did not regret the experience, however–he had rarely seen anyone so strongly affected by Chatotty, though perhaps he’d mixed up rather a large dose for himself to compensate for his body’s tolerance to the drug and this might have been why Brassius was so elated and then overwhelmed later that evening. And it was a good supply, potent and expensive, naturally.

There was no getting around it, Brassius would be in for a hard crash. Reiner had only realized their glasses had gotten swapped after not feeling much effect from drinking his own wine, and by then Brassius had drunk his entire glass. He could have swapped them back at this point—Reiner could see the white residue left at the bottom of Brassius’s glass–but Brassius had been so affected that part of Reiner wanted to see him take the rest of it, and he’d poured more wine to dissolve it and toasted Brassius, watching his throat working as he swallowed and was suddenly sharing that charming laugh, that bright, full-faced smile. Reiner had never seen Brassius smile like that. It couldn’t be wrong to want more of that for his artist.

Besides, he had finally opened up! It made sense: many people needed a little liquid courage to socialize. Reiner would be generous because the results were so much fun. Finally, a way to party with the artist that they all enjoyed! He’d been growing a little bored with the silence.

The new wardrobe would be forthcoming from his tailor, and once that was ready, he could toss the awful old sweaters and if Brassius felt cold, well, the fluffy pink cardigan was right there. Reiner grimaced with the thought, unwilling to laugh aloud to himself this early in the morning when his head was lanced through with that particular ache.

After a long drink and a hot soak, he found Hanna blinking and grimacing in the kitchen, reaching into the liquor cabinet and grunting at him. He went to the bar and took out two crystal shot glasses, and his sister poured the clear liquid out for them. They clinked glasses, wincing, and downed the fine tequila, then drank more water and set the espresso machine humming.

“Ainsley’s such a killjoy,” Hanna said, unprompted. “Reminds me of your friend, what’s-his-name. Golden boy. All promise and no follow-through. Heartbreaker. I’m hearing rumors about his folks looking for another match for him, can you believe that?”

“Ah, the Solaris runaway, Hassel?” Reiner’s mouth curled. “How so? Did Ainsley rebuff your advances?”

“No,” Hanna made the syllable last. “But they never wanna have any fun with us. You saw how silly Brass got last night. I’m surprised, really, I hadn’t taken him to be one for Chattoty. Usually it’s the gregarious ones who want to do that kind of thing in public. I pictured him more the smoking type… and maybe Shroomish or even a Malamar-amide at home with some mood lighting, you know? A glass of wine, some incense, a bit of stargazing. Or maybe an enhanced-creativity painting session or whatever he does.”

“Hm,” Reiner handed the coffee to his sister and started one for himself. “I don’t think he would handle that well. Too anxious. Anyway, old man Hassel can have a nice time when he isn’t around his parents. He clams up under pressure, but when I saw him playing concerts last year…” Reiner whistled. “He can put away the drinks like nobody’s business, too. It’s the muscle weight, I think? I was surprised he was sick at the Drake’s party last month.”

“I think that had to do with your stealing away his artist,” Hanna said over her coffee. Reiner paused.

“My? Oh, do you think so? That would serve him right, after all the trouble he’s caused Frieda and now Leo,” Reiner snickered and then grew serious. “He’s far too dense to see the potential in Brassius. Besides, everyone knows a firstborn son can’t be gay.”

“They can adopt,” Hanna said doubtfully.

“Not a founding clan as ancient as that one,” Reiner shot back. “Bloodlines with many generations of affinity to dragons? You take a lover on the side, like everyone else. You don’t run away from your kingdom, from wealth and power because you’re naive enough to think you want honesty or love. Arceus, the fucking gall. You’d think he was a child, the naivete and the tears.”

“Whatever,” Hanna stretched, tucked her drinkware into the dishwasher and dialed the place she liked for breakfast.

“You always get the same thing, you don’t need it,” Reiner snapped, trying and failing to wrest the delivery menu from his sister. “Gahhh! Get me two of the full spread then, you stupid-”

Hanna responded with more of the same, and smacked Reiner with the menu but put in the order. When she hung up, she turned back to Reiner, their tussle forgotten, and said, “Oh, I talked to Leo this morning. He’s planning his second proposal and inviting us to tag along. I believe he may need the moral support if it goes south again. He’s going to do it at one of the championship battles at Wyndon this time, and then a private afterparty somewhere in the city.”

“It’s been a while since I toured the circuit,” Reiner mused. “We could get new hats.”

* * *

Notes:

accidental-ish drug use, bit dub-con makeover, basically, euphoria. some very not good thought patterns continuing from Reiner, not bad intentions but in execution.

Hope I didn't go too far? How are you faring, any reader who's made it this far?

Hassel next chapter.

PS did i feel like an absolute dummy for naming drugs after Pokemon? Yes, yes I did, it's cringe, forgive me for being stupid xD I think I can do better ones and update 'em. Feel free to make suggestions! I'm not sourcing this from chatGPT i refuse

Chapter 11: 4. The Engagement

Summary:

Brassius has (drugged) dreams of dragons and sunflowers.

Next scene: The Typhon engagement party. An actual Conversation between our young men (after how many thousand words? you poor starved readers!). A Traumatic Encounter Hassel recalls. And a very serious setup that for some reason I made into slapstick.

Notes:

I apologize for the long time to update. I took a full-time job this summer while not teaching and it did me in, but that's no excuse. I've been working on this chapter for AGES and simply had no time. To make it up to you, I'm posting a rather long one. The entirety of their fourth meeting.

Apologies for any errors you spot (feel free to point them out), I'm running out of patience for proofreading so I'll present this to ya as is. Thank you so so much for reading if you are reading <3

Ch 11.

Meeting 4. The Engagement Party

* * *

Brassius was wearing a suit for the first time in his life, sitting in the Velvet Vileplume and watching a lilac Loudred expertly play the clarinet. No one in the audience seemed to find this remarkable. Reiner, Hanna, Ainsley and the rest were sitting and listening, sipping their tea and eating their cake.

Brassius cast around but there was no waiter and he saw only more people wearing suits and drinking tea and coffee and clapping sporadically. A Kricketune appeared on stage beside the Loudred, an old and grizzled Bug type, and began to saw away on the viola of its own body. The tune grew increasingly mournful even as it clicked its whiskers to create peppy percussion. A Gardevoir in a spotlight began to croon a melancholy song into a microphone. Hanna was fixing her dress when Brassius turned to ask her about the remarkably talented Pokemon. She nodded toward Reiner, who was rearranging the wine bottles and glasses, and swatted Brassius’s hand away when he tried to take his own glass back.

The music changed, and the piano that Brassius only noticed after it sounded transformed the atmosphere into something smoother, more melodic and upbeat. Brassius hadn’t realized how slow and sad the music had gotten.

There was a Sunflora playing the piano. He had not ever seen Sunflora behave this way… it must be a very talented Pokemon, with its leaves in a blur, bobbing its large head slowly to the music. Brassius blinked. A Sunflora playing piano..! There was a stage where Pokemon were dancing, a Gible, his Smoliv and Bonsly, Grovyle, and others.

His sister appeared on stage beside the musical Pokemon, breathed in and then let loose a wail from her saxophone, a sound that stretched on, trembling, before it rose into a squeal and cut off. Brassius wanted to yell at her to get off the stage, but his voice wasn’t working quite right. He frowned at his sister, feeling very upset with her without registering properly why. His mother shook her head and disappeared.

And he noticed a familiar-looking guitarist sitting at a table across from him and clapping, staring at the dancing Pokemon. Brassius thought suddenly that he needed to be drawing him before he forgot what he looked like. This was urgently important! He tried to draw directly on the tablecloth using his fork, which turned into a pen, but the angle gave him no real look at the guitarist’s face. He didn’t even have a guitar, but Brassius knew he was the guitarist because he was staring at Gible and clapping. Gold hair pulled back in a ponytail and wisps and waves that escaped the hairstyle and obscured his profile, so all Brassius could see was a slice of ear cartilage peeking out from behind strands of hair, pierced in several places with tiny gold studs that caught the light like a constellation. Brassius had a fleeting impression of numbness, nausea, pain, and the view of blond hair spread over a low table, the young man sleeping with his head in his arms and the same three gold studs in the top of his ear peeking out from the waves of hair, calloused fingers and long locks of hair intermingling, and for some reason a persistent beeping, out of tune with the music, the distinct sharp smell of antiseptic…

Brassius blinked and he was back in the restaurant, the guitarist at the table, face hidden by hair, the sketch Brassius was working on on the tablecloth incomplete. Brassius tried to scoot in his chair, to lean around and glimpse the man’s face, but he couldn’t get a better angle and Reiner and Hanna were crowding him in. Ainsley’s blue Corsola was dancing on their table, knocking over dishes. Wiggling out of his chair and under the table like a child, Brassius ducked down and around pairs of legs, emerging somehow in the center of the stage.

The light blinded him. The Pokemon around him danced, the music played, and the elated energy overtook him again. He was sweating, the lights were hot, but he danced with Smoliv until he was dizzy, and then Dragonite was dancing with him and he was laughing, and then he saw the guitarist’s golden eyes, his outstretched hand. He looked so serious and so earnest. Flushed, sweaty, feeling suddenly self-conscious, Brassius went to take the offered hand, the implication of a dance.

…he missed.

A slight misstep and he was falling down, stomach swooping, the air rushing past. He saw something murky rushing up from below, blue-green and vast. It was a body of water, he was going to hit it hard any moment. No time even for dread… The jarring collision of surface tension gave way to icy immersion. He was in deep water, the splash and impact almost slow but then he was rocketing down through it as the water slowed the momentum of his fall. Far from air and light, far from the music and the Pokemon above, deeper into an ancient silent world…

And then he was suspended in a green, hazy, cold fog. Kelp twisted, enormous, swaying in the still water around him. It wasn’t a pond but a huge lake or even a sea, wide and deep beyond measure. The thin beams of sunlight that penetrated to the depths were diffuse and dim, illuminating algae and darting water Pokemon that hid before Brassius could spot them. He floated, bubbles escaped his mouth as he felt the seconds going by in silence, the pressure pushing against his ears.

It was too still.

He felt eyes watching him from the darkness of the kelp forest. Everything was still, save the bubbles rising slowly from beneath his feet. And then something enormous, long and jet black, a shadow slimmer and larger than a Gyarados was darting past him, through him.

Brassius gasped, and brackish water flooded his nose, his mouth, and his lungs. The terror of the swift shadow, a glimpse of gleaming, inhuman, yellow eyes. The snake-like darting flight through water, the inability to breathe.

He jerked awake, coughing and panicked.

His head was pounding, and the rest of him felt no better. Disoriented and feverish, Brassius had to close his eyes to stop the room from spinning. He breathed, attempting to ground himself despite the out-of-body feeling and the panic triggered by symptoms shared between his hangover and illness.

The nausea and headache persisted as he attempted to slow and locate his breath in his core. Still short of breath, he released the tension that constricted his shoulders and neck, beginning to register the feeling of dried sweat, grimy on his skin beneath yesterday’s clothes. He opened his eyes again more slowly, wincing in the light. The bedside table had a bottle of aspirin and a glass of water.

He lay for a while, willing the room to stop lurching in tandem with the throbbing ache in his skull. Sitting up slowly, Brassius took the aspirin and chugged the water, breathing deeply past the pounding in his head as he felt his insides cool with the water sloshing. The guitarist faded from memory, as did the black shadow and the underwater world. The elation of the first part of his dream and of the previous night had resolved into dread, a ball of it lodged near his sternum, heavy to breathe around and knotting his throat. When he glanced down, there was glitter and ink on his pillow.

Hanna and Reiner’s voices filtered into the room beneath the door. At first Brassius thought they were fighting, but then the sounds resolved into words which his mind processed reluctantly, and he realized they were gossiping. The door to his room had been left ajar, and as he lay back to wait for the aspirin to work, he half-listened and drifted.

* * * 3 months later * * *

 

Wyndon buzzed with tourists and trainers during the semi-final week of the Championship battles. The streets and skies were full of taxis, the shops advertised sales, and the trains were packed with people and strictly prohibited Pokemon outside their Pokeballs.

The engagement party was situated in a large white pavilion pitched on the lawn of a public park in the city center, across the avenue from a Greco-Roman style museum. Its marble stairs sported two enormous stone Pyroar, one male, one female. Due to the cool spring weather, the pavilion had outdoor heaters set up along the perimeter and inside it was toasty and smelled of pastries and roasted meat. Strings of lights hung near the ceiling in a net, though they appeared dim in the evening sunlight. Large dishes covered in silver cloches lined the buffet table. The trees along the perimeter of the park held on to most of their yellow-brown leaves. The guests were still arriving.

Madam Portia Solaris, née Cudsworth, took a deep breath and tried to repress the feeling that she had misread the situation. Her heart tightened every time she saw her Hassel looking so large, so muscular, so trained and yet so clearly miserable, still dwarfed by her husband's expectations. She hoped she had got it right this time. This was happiness, after all–or at least, it was supposed to be. No one would trust a man who had spurned three perfectly suitable candidates. This was really looking to be her son’s last chance.

Her mood lifted when she caught sight of Cara and Noel approaching.

“Mother! I didn’t see you at the battle,” Cara said, after embracing her mother. Noel offered a polite handshake.

“I had some last-minute preparations for Leonidas. His mother has been ill and asked me to step in.”

“Please pass along our wishes for a smooth recovery,” Noel said, and Cara jabbed an elbow at him and whispered something and he added, “Oh, uh, I mean, for a successful course of treatment and our regards, then.”

Portia smiled, her eyes finding the flour smudged on Noel’s sleeves, the luster of Cara’s hair, the new Pokeball equipped on her belt.

“You’re looking well,” she said. “Come, I will introduce you to several patrons of the arts. There’s an exhibit put on in coordination with the Championship battles, that’s why Clementine wanted to have the party out here despite the season. Leonidas of course wished to book the stadium after the match,” she shrugged, lips curling.

“There’s a lot of cleanup in between battles,” said Noel. “A deflected Hyper Beam nearly took out the audience shield up front.”

He and Cara had made an effort to show up for Leonidas and this meant sitting through the match in his private box and nodding along to his running commentary of the battle.

The dragon clans never could resist the spectacle of the Championships, especially when several of their own were involved in the high-ranking, ferocious battles. Leo had gestured, more animated than usual, his face flushed and his forehead sweaty as he critiqued attacks and counters. He was dressed in tailored blacks and whites, his frame just barely larger than Hassel’s now, after all her brother’s training. Cara worried Hassel would injure himself, the hours he seemed to put into his fitness.

Hassel had seemed antsy, and when Cara tried to find out what was wrong, he deflected and turned back to the raging battle but his left hand drifted to his coat pocket. It was a new coat, fitted and structured, with a half-cape in the traditional Galarian style. The grey-blue color made Hassel’s amber eyes look orange and gold, and though the coat hid his defined muscles it complimented his bulky shoulders and was more fitted at the waist. It was understated but undeniably elegant, and Cara might have wondered if Hassel had some feelings for Clementine after all, if she had thought Hassel had any predilection for women. He’d never shared details, of course, but his letters from Lumiose had paused to describe his friends and, Cara guessed, lovers, in detail that highlighted a very clear preference. Like many things her brother seemed to grasp on some instinctual, subconscious level, it seemed to Cara that he had not yet consciously acknowledged this truth about himself. Or perhaps he simply was not ready to share it.

Now, Portia led Cara and Noel to a group gathered around the drinks table at the far end of the outdoor pavilion. There was a casually-dressed trainer with dark curly hair and a blue Corsola in their arms, a woman with a sleek bob in a ruffled black dress, and another woman fussing around with a camera on a tripod.

“Hello Eva, Victoria,” Portia nodded to each woman in turn, before introducing Noel and Cara. They spoke about the occasion, the weather, the battle… Then Eva Morisot offered to check on Clementine, who was getting ready in the museum’s coat room. The casually-dressed trainer slipped away after the woman in black, Eva, whispered something in their ear.

“Do bring our host and hostess with you on your way back, if you would be so kind,” Portia said, laying a hand covered with silver rings onto Eva’s shoulder. Eva was shorter than Portia and at least a decade younger, but she nodded, smiling warmly at the Solaris matron. Cara had seen Eva’s picture in the catalogue of artists and sculptors who were top in their field and had been chosen by the dragon clans for ceremonial commissions. Now that they were formally introduced, it registered that this was that Eva Morisot. Cara thought suddenly that perhaps a motivating factor for her mother's love of attending art shows and gallery openings was the chance to interact with other women closer to her own age.

Cara followed Eva up the museum stairs, past the Pyroar statues—which, Eva said in a dry voice, had won a contest even though they were really quite unoriginal—and past the entry hall where Eva’s artist’s pass was scanned. There was a sign with a coat and arrow drawn on it and they made their way to the museum’s coat check. This was, despite its name, a large room with nooks and crannies for extra coat-hanging space. The near wall was covered with mirrors to make the place look even more labyrinthine. There were abandoned coats hanging like forlorn silhouettes on otherwise empty racks, while the rest of the room was empty racks and hangers, labeled aisles and benches. And there were several clusters of finely-dressed, nervously tittering people.

Clementine, clad in a sleeveless cream-colored dress with gold accents and jewelry, was applying a gloss to her lips and examining herself critically in the mirror. Frieda and Hanna stood nearby, holding a hairbrush and hairpins and a hefty bag of makeup, respectively, and a collection of brushes lay across the bench.

Cara’s gaze went immediately past her own reflection, her wavy blond hair grown nearly to her shoulders and her navy blue bubble skirt and red blouse embroidered with their clan’s traditional double-diamond emblem, to the other side of the room, separated by a curtain, where Hassel and Reiner were helping Leonidas with his wardrobe. Long, white hairs stood out on his black suit, and Hassel and Reiner were plucking these off and helping him straighten his bow tie.

“This is why you keep Drampa in its Pokeball when you wear black,” Reiner was saying, laughter in his voice. Tall and thinner than either Hassel or Leo, Reiner was dressed in a dark brown suit threaded with maroon and red, along with a red scarf tied like a cravat. He noticed the newcomers first and waved.

“Mother says to bring you all back outside,” Cara said dutifully. “That is, she said to bring Leo and Clementine but I’m assuming she meant everyone. How’re you feeling?”

This last question was directed at Leo, who typically looked at-home in fine suits at formal events.

“Wonderful,” Leonidas said a little breathlessly.

“Let’s get the man a brandy,” Reiner muttered to Hassel, who nodded as they walked out, the women already heading for the pavilion ahead. Reiner’s brown and red suit clashed with Hassel’s pale blue-grey jacket where Reiner swung an arm easily over Hassel’s wider shoulders as they walked past.

For the meal, Hassel sat between Reiner and Leo, and across from Clementine, Eva and Hanna. Afterward, the engaged couple got up and danced to the tune of a hired band. Then they went to the far end of the tent to receive congratulations and gifts. Eva followed, and this left Noel, Cara, and Hassel sitting at the table among the fine porcelain, the teapots and high tea pastries and crumbs. The band’s drummer waved at Hassel, who waved back with an awkward smile.

“That young Drayden is really something,” Cara repeated, helping herself to Noel’s almond pastry. Her husband permitted this treachery. “I think he might carry it off, even with the odds favoring that woman from Ballonlea.”

Most of Wyndon had been fluttering with gossip after the particularly fierce battle that morning. Hassel took a moment to think back to it, as though something else had been occupying his mind. He took a dainty sip of his tea to cover his pause and then said, “I haven’t been keeping up with the champions.”

“It has been more Mikan’s passion than yours,” Cara nodded with a frown. “I’m guessing he didn’t take father’s decision well, since he’s not here?”

“He took off immediately,” Hassel said. “Father forbidding him from competing this year was a blow.”

“You did try to help him,” Cara said, still frowning. “Mother’s always been more lax with you boys than father, I suppose he thought asking her permission would work—as if she could do anything other than tell him to talk to father about battling! …I would have asked for forgiveness instead.”

“There’s so many events planned for tonight,” Noel tilted his head at the museum across the street. The band were packing up and leaving now, and another of them shot Hassel a long look as though struggling to recognize him.

“Were you planning to head back home?” Hassel said, his voice too neutral.

“You mean Alola or the parents’?” Cara said, picking up on Hassel’s deliberate ambiguity. “The folks invited us over and we agreed to stay for a few days after the championships are done here. As for tonight… What were you thinking? We’ll go to the art show and stop by Leo’s afterparty for a little bit, at least,” Cara said, and Noel nodded. “You’re coming with us, right? I’ve wanted to catch up with you. You’re looking…”

“Big?” Hassel offered, with a brittle smile.

“Your muscles are looking larger,” Noel confirmed, looking daunted.

“I was going to say tense,” Cara’s voice was low and flat. “Have you been sleeping poorly? It’s been too long since we really talked…” she trailed off, because the crowd gathered around the engaged couple at the far end of the tent grew boisterous with laughter.

Hassel waited for a lull in the noise and said, “It has been too long… I was hoping to see a show before my own…engagement. But I suppose I could stop by Leo’s first, if it’s a brief visit.”

“The engagement afterparty is at his pied-à-terre,” Cara said, digging in her leather satchel for the invitation with the address. “I think it’s here somewhere… he’s organized that one himself with Clementine, of course. What’s your engagement, then?”

“I wanted to see that new music group from, what was it, Circhester? They’re really young kids but the reviews have been wild,” Noel began, rejoining the conversation and bringing back the remaining cheesecake squares from the dessert table.

“Spikemuth,” Hassel corrected automatically.

“That’s right! Do you know them? Are you going, too? I was afraid they’d sold all the tickets because we hadn’t ordered ahead…”

“You’re in luck then,” Hassel’s lips curved despite his best effort. “I can get you in.”

“Found it,” Cara announced, fishing a white card with a gold border out of her bag. And then, “Oh, you’re playing? Why didn’t you say! Of course we’ll come. If we are invited?”

“Not playing this time, and I cannot say that it is your genre,” Hassel said, looking up at Cara and sounding strangely solemn. “But you know my answer, of course. Nothing would make me happier.”

 

The outdoor heaters and string lights and champagne warmed the guests for some time before Wyndon’s famous clock tower tolled the hour and the evening exhibit was privately leased out to their party. It was with relief that Leonidas, Clementine, and their guests sought shelter in the museum from the brisk evening air. Noticing Clementine shivering earlier, Leonidas had graciously given her his coat, and he looked stately in his shirtsleeves and suspenders walking with the glowing Clementine on his arm, an even brighter glittering diamond ring on her finger.

“Mother is making ‘An Introduction’ this evening,” Hassel whispered to Cara, as he followed her inside the museum after holding the door open for the rest of the party. He had looked uneasy all evening and this made Cara start.

She paused and turned to him, hearing the slight emphasis on the words, her eyebrows rising. “An intro… for you? You can’t mean another attempt…? But who?”

“It seems I am to be given one last chance,” Hassel nodded, his mouth thinning even more.

Cara gasped, then schooled her face back to neutrality. Her hand went to her Pokeball belt, secured over her blue bubble skirt, in a nervous gesture. Just then, their mother’s voice rang out over the chatter and Cara was left standing there and staring as Hassel moved, looking a little like he was sleepwalking, toward where he was being called.

Portia stood beside a set of curtains that obscured the glass doors leading out to one of the museum’s courtyards. The sign on the door read: sculpture garden. The place was just barely visible through the wall of windows on either side of the curtained door. Lanterns hanging on poles at the perimeter of the courtyard cast only a dim light on the space. The rest of the party was milling around the gallery proper, surveying the Ode to the Champions of the Past exhibit, oohing over their favorites and their teams. Hassel felt too warm, too overwhelmed by the lights and crowd indoors, suddenly. He wanted to fly on Dragonite, or at least breathe the night air.

“Ah, Hassel,” his mother said, the hint of a smile tugging at her mouth. “I wanted to introduce you to someone I met recently–oh, but first, there he is…”

To Hassel’s surprise, his mother slid the curtain back and slipped through the door out into the courtyard. He gaped for a moment and followed her.

“I had wondered where you were, young man,” Portia called to someone. Two someones. There were two young people adjusting the precarious balance of a smaller-than-life Onix statue, made of onyx stone in the shape of a rock arch, held up by gravity and the efforts of the young people adjusting the stones minutely. A shiny Corsola and a Bonsly were putting their body weight into counterbalancing the other side of the arch. The last stone was nudged into place with a final push from the two assistants, and the stones settled against each other and took on the desired shape and stability. Corsola and Bonsly made happy sounds and backed away, and the humans sighed with relief.

“That’s the last one, all set,” said the person with the afro. It was the casually-dressed trainer from earlier, who'd been sent away by Eva Morisot. “Oi, the party’s come inside! You’re Madame Solaris, aren’t you? I’m an apprentice of Madam Morisot, Ainsley. Pleased to meet you. Brass here told me you're a patron of the arts.”

“I am,” Portia nodded, drawing Hassel closer to herself with a hand on his arm. Hassel wondered briefly what gender Ainsley was, and if his mother perhaps understood more than she had ever let on, and how on earth this could be possible…

The Bonsly looked so familiar, blinking up at him.

He was back in the hospital room, feeding it berries… but it had grown. …And its trainer!

“Hassel, I want to introduce you to Brassius of Artazon, a young artist I met in Shalour this winter. He’s been helping Eva’s assistants set up. You won’t see any of his work here, but he extended a promise to invite me to his debut next summer. Unless you’ve got something to show in this exhibit, young man?”

Hassel felt like he was in a dream or in a memory, looking up from Bonsly to see the shadowed, familiar face, looking guarded and curtained by the same thorny, bramble-like hair. Brassius did not smile but he nodded politely at Madam Solaris, before he turned to Hassel. Recognition turned the corners of his mouth down and Hassel was struck by how this turned his own stomach, seeing this man again, seeing distress and dissatisfaction so clearly written on his features. Being introduced to him…

Hassel’s mouth ran suddenly dry.

* * *

Perhaps a month earlier…

Over a decade had gone by after his father had presented Hassel the Key and Mega Stones for Garchomp along with a speech that had elevated Hassel’s anxiety so far that it had gone in one ear and out the other. Gible gave no sign that it had any ambitions toward evolution of the regular kind, let alone mega evolution.

Aurelius Solaris made no explicit mention of the matter. Nor of the matter of Hassel’s failed engagement, and failed second, aborted engagement, and Hassel’s general lack of interest in the politics of power and prestige which he had inherited and must soon take up. Nevertheless, the tilt of his lip, the hand running over his mustache, and the expression in his eyes made his opinions clear to Hassel every time his father’s gaze wandered to him, whether Hassel was in their training rooms, or helping Mikan with a practice battle, or speaking with his mother at the dining table. Over the years, Hassel got very good at avoiding his father.

Sometimes this strategy failed. That evening, with Madam Portia Solaris out of town, the three men of the household sat silently eating dinner, interrupted only by the suddenly loud ticking of the antique grandfather clock.

Hassel had forgotten how loud that thing could be, and how many uncomfortable seconds dinner could last. He was training daily now, hours at a time to ensure he could sleep, and so he did not pause to think as he consumed larger portions than ever before of chicken, meat, or beans and the sides prepared by their chef. Their father hadn’t made any remarks about Hassel’s lack of manners, which was a small victory. Aurelius delicately cut up his bloody steak. When Hassel looked out the windows to the lawn, he saw a fleeting shadow, something large and swift flying overhead. His thoughts went to Dragonite and his other Pokemon. He had let them roam the property, and set out food for them earlier. Pokemon ate outside in the Solaris household.

Uncharacteristically, it was Mikan who broke the silence. Though less social than Hassel, Mikan kept in touch with other clans more strategically.

“I heard Leonidas Typhon asked Clementine Drake to marry him and she finally agreed. Another happy union for the Drakes,” he said, addressing their father but glancing sideways at Hassel.

Their father continued to chew his forkful of mutton and took a sip of wine before responding.

“Indeed, it’s been made official. We are invited to a formal engagement party in Wyndon next month. The Typhons are sparing no expense. Their firstborn chose well. It is a promising match.”

The clipped sentences and lack of eye contact somehow made the attack feel more direct, but Hassel busied himself with his beans and had to finish chewing before he could contribute. The mutton felt heavy in his stomach.

“I will write to convey my best wishes to them. Leo must be pleased. There’s the matter of an engagement gift to consider.”

“Your mother will take care of it,” Aurelius said with a dismissive wave of his left hand. “We will go as a family to spend time with our fellow clans. Which reminds me… come see me after dinner, in my study.”

Hassel was caught suddenly in the beams of his father’s piercing, golden eyes. Where mother had always described his own eyes as resembling his father’s, Hassel always thought his gaze to be like amber, warmer and more self-conscious, slower to anger, as though tempered by centuries of seatides… his father’s eyes had always held the wrath of ancient kings, even when they were children. Now, burning with impatience and creased with angry wrinkles at their edges, the draconic golden-orange gaze demanded obedience.

Hassel nodded and then spoke up, as his father preferred, “Yes, of course.”

And that was the extent of their dinner conversation. Mikan continued to shoot Hassel sidelong looks, but Hassel did not meet them. Whether Mikan was guilty for bringing up the topic or laughing inwardly at Hassel’s upcoming scolding, Hassel did not know or care. He focused on his food, despite his appetite’s hasty retreat, and forced himself to clear his plate before excusing himself.

He waited outside his father’s study in the smaller of their two libraries, where a servant was dusting the shelves and replacing freshly-laundered curtains. When Aurelius walked in, he dismissed the servant to another room and unlocked his study door, leaving it propped open for Hassel to follow.

Setting back the book he had been leafing through without reading a word, Hassel walked like he was going to the gallows.

His father lit the lamp and shuffled to the liquor cabinet, pouring Scotch into two squat glasses. He brought these to his desk and gestured Hassel to sit from where he stood stiffly at the door.

“To new engagements,” his father said, raising his glass. His eyes sparkled coldly. Hassel sat down quickly and took his own glass and met his father’s with a clink, toasting Leo and Clementine easily. He exhaled and drank. The Scotch burned differently than he was used to. It was much finer than what he’d order in bars.

Aurelius took a long, slow sip and seemed to savor the Scotch and the suspense before he set the glass aside and sat back in his armchair, surveying his son. A provocative skepticism still danced in his eyes.

“I have, against my better judgment, yielded to your mother’s advice, and in doing so, I fear I have permitted you too much emotional freedom, Hassel. Liberty is a good thing, but too much of any good thing can become detrimental. You have been given too much license to roam, too many choices. It is little wonder that you have been overwhelmed and incapable of choosing as a result. I see now that a firm hand would have been more helpful in directing you down the path of leadership.”

“Have I disappointed you in my training, father?” Hassel’s voice did not shake. He kept his gaze on his father’s folded arms, on his deep frown.

“Your training is not the problem, as you know well,” Aurelius’s frown suddenly turned up into a smirk and Hassel made the mistake of looking up into his eyes again, and was caught there. “You have had ample time to pursue dalliances and make up your mind regarding public commitments. It is not appropriate for you to delay this matter any longer. Nor should you entertain delusions about what is meant by public commitments–what you do in private is entirely your business.”

Hassel always felt wrong-footed when speaking with his father, but typically he had some understanding of what his father was criticizing in himself: whether it was his soft-hearted Pokemon training, or a show of too much emotion, or poor strategy in chess, or wasting time with music… there were many critiques leveled against Hassel. But he felt especially dense, staring at his father as the Scotch warmed his chest, trying to interpret this critique.

His father took a moment to savor the Scotch and then sighed at Hassel’s puzzled expression, the pinched brows. His amusement seemed to sour as he clarified,

“I have watched you lose several perfectly adequate brides now, and I cannot chalk it up to carelessness. You will be thirty soon, Hassel. You will have other duties to tend to, and you will want a family of your own to await you at home. The matter of producing and properly raising an heir cannot wait until the fancy strikes you. You have responsibilities to this clan and to our bloodline. These are not optional milestones–they are of fundamental importance to the survival of this family and its traditions. It is high time you began to take this matter seriously.”

Hassel had felt sentiments like these expressed in his father’s gaze the past several months, but it was another thing entirely to have them spoken softly and coldly to his face, accompanied by that distant-star gaze. He felt chilled, fingers numb, muscles restless, stomach curdling. He tried as always to focus on his breath, on counting, on not getting distressed or even worse, angry, or crying. As he had grown older, he had found himself reacting with more irritation, humor, and anger than sadness at his father’s words. Part of him wanted to throw the expensive whiskey glass at the wall. Another part of him wanted to walk out and never come back. He ignored those urges and sat quietly, waiting out his father.

“Your mother informed me that she found what she deems to be a suitable candidate outside of the circle of dragon clans.”

At these words, Hassel looked up to see that the displeasure in Aurelius’s gaze was directed at someone else.

“I highly doubt this to be the case, but I understand… I understand that compromises must be made in order to appease your, ah, unique sensibilities. You were always an overly sensitive child. It only follows that some accommodations are required.”

Hassel stared, completely thrown off. His father sighed and his manner turned bitter. He nodded to himself, ran a hand twice over his mustache, and his condescending tone lost some of its heaviness.

“I do not know the details, but your mother assures me that you are likely to approve of the match. She will ensure the candidate is invited to the Typhon engagement party. You are to discuss the matter and to come to an arrangement.”

Hassel opened his mouth, realized he did not know how to put his thoughts into words and should think more about this, and closed his mouth again.

Aurelius was still wearing that wry smirk, but he looked more tired than amused now. He looked away and Hassel immediately felt a sense of release and a new heaviness, a new obligation and deadline. Produce an heir! As if it were that easy! He had been raised to marry for political expediency, he knew this, but that his mother would stand up for him? Find him someone outside the dragon clans, someone she deemed appropriate? Who could it be? Hassel had to speak with his mother the moment she returned!

And father was permitting this. That was the wildest thought of all, wilder even than the idea that he was expected to meet someone and immediately marry them. Growing up in this culture Hassel had not known any other options existed until he read books that Cara snuck in, and then lived on his own in Kalos.

His father was rummaging around in his lower desk drawers as Hassel sat in shock. Soon, his father withdrew a dusty, paper-wrapped, palm-sized box. He set it on the desk before Hassel and then rose to pour himself another Scotch.

“Take it,” he gestured with the glass stopper, and Hassel took the small box. “Open it now. I want no more fumbling from you on this matter. You are the Solaris firstborn. You are strong and you are resolute. You are born to command dragons and men alike.”

Hassel’s shaky fingers tore through the paper wrapping, fingernails making quick work of it. It was a black box, and he felt the dread of it even before he opened it to see a set of two gold rings, one larger and one smaller. The clan’s diamond-shaped crest was centered in gold on each ring. The diamond shape contained the relief of a dragon, with actual glimmering diamonds for eyes.

Hassel’s mouth had gone dry. He knew these to be priceless antiques, relics passed down in his clan and used for engagements and for show, to be put away upon marriage and replaced with simpler wedding bands like those worn by his parents.

“I trust you will not misplace them while they are in your care,” Aurelius said quietly, and slowly. “They can be resized if absolutely necessary. But they are symbolic, of course. Your true responsibility is to the future of the clan. Consider what sort of relationship you want with your future partner. I suggest writing out a list of expectations and boundaries. That has given me a measure of peace with your mother.”

It was a rare moment of humanity but Hassel was still reeling.

“You will make your intentions known at the conclusion of the engagement party. Your mother has prepared the ground already so there will be no surprises, no flights-” his father frowned at him, “-no sudden sabbaticals or overindulgence of alcohol to distract you. You will make a good first impression and carry on the family legacy with honor and strength. You will not lose this box to gather dust as you have left Mega evolution by the wayside. Do you have anything to say to that?”

Hassel felt that he must but the words were not making themselves available. He swallowed and said, “I would choose my own partner in life, rather than-” he paused because Aurelius had brought up a hand sharply to interrupt and a small, young part of Hassel somewhere deep inside had flinched at the sudden movement.

“You’ve already demonstrated your choices, and they are not adequate,” Aurelius said, as if that was that. “Have some faith in your clan and our traditions, Hassel,” he said with a sigh. “You are not the first nor will you be the last to marry by arrangement. Your mother has already stretched the limits of my patience in this matter. I would have had you engaged at eighteen years of age, a decade ago,” his eyes flashed with real anger, and Hassel’s breath caught. Verbal and physical lashings came into his mind, years of obedience stilled his tongue and sent sweat beading his palms, his upper lip and his back.

Aurelius went on, “You have done nothing to make this easy on either of us over the past decade. And your sister will have children before you do, at this rate! It’s unseemly. You must act as befits your status, Hassel. I will not remind you again. You have had your freedom–more than most!--and you are called to your duty now. You are not a boy, to be playing your music and drawing your pictures. You are a man and a Dragon Trainer, descended from the noble clan Solaris, and you will comport yourself accordingly.”

It was ironic then that the boyish part of Hassel nodded and closed the box, pocketed it, and left his father’s study on quiet feet. The rest of him felt numb and as he walked through the dim library, he paused, distracted by the clean smell of the freshly-laundered curtains. He moved one aside to look out the window. The full moon bathed the front garden and the mountains beyond it in silvery light.

* * *

Flash forward to the engagement party once more.

 

The silvery eyes of the young man he’d saved years ago now appraised Hassel as his mother spoke in the museum’s courtyard. His mother had just introduced him to his potential future partner! But how…?

“That’s right, just down the hall in the contemporary artists’ gallery,” muttered Ainsley. “Brassius helped me with one of my mobiles, it’s a tad more fragile than I usually do. But his Shalour debut is still under wraps. He won’t even let me see it.”

“Show me this mobile of yours? And do tell me about what it’s like, working with the famous Eva Morisot,” Portia said, gesturing at the door and back into the museum, and Ainsley knelt down so Corsola could climb into their arms and then they went with Portia, speaking animatedly and leaving Hassel in awkward silence.

Brassius took out a cigarette and lit it, taking his time to exhale. His already deep-set eyes were shadowed by the long hair falling around his face. Was it just Hassel’s imagination, or had he lost weight? The Bonsly rested behind its trainer and blinked up at them.

“You’re looking large,” Brassius said suddenly, almost carelessly, and then seemed to doubt it and spitefully doubled down. “Compensating for something?”

Hassel held back and took a breath. He was feeling oddly ambivalent about the smell of tobacco. “Trying to fit into big shoes, I suppose,” he said.

Brassius seemed to deflate, some of the tension leaving his rigid shoulders when Hassel didn’t rise to take offense. He exhaled smoke in a long sigh.

“...Reiner isn’t a very good friend to you,” was all he said.

“Hah! Reiner isn’t a good friend to anyone but himself,” Hassel scoffed. He hadn’t meant to be so honest but something was giving under the pressure of the evening, and it felt good to be sincere.

“No, I suppose not,” Brassius said, when the silence stretched too long again. His lip had jerked up without much humor, the cigarette held between bandaged fingers.

“Should I congratulate you on working with Eva Morisot now?” Hassel ventured.

“No.”

Brassius had defaulted back to his usual frown. He glanced at Hassel who was looking pointedly at the sculpture Brassius and Ainsley had pushed into shape.

“Ah, Onix. Yes, that was to help Ainsley. I’ve collaborated with them. Ainsley told me I was better off learning from Morisot at a distance and, on reflection, I am inclined to agree…” he took another drag on his cigarette and put it out on a small sculpture near his feet. It resembled a Pokemon and Hassel blinked at it.

“Carkoal!” he laughed, “Oh, that’s marvelous!”

“It is, isn’t it?” Brassius’s face flashed something like a smile. “Ainsley again, though they don’t usually work with sculpture, they prefer mobiles or mixed media on canvas. I saw this in their studio, they were going for a claw-footed tub, and I mentioned the shape resembled Carkoal if only they would reveal the coarse grain and leave it unfinished to imitate coal… they considered more detail but these Unovan expressionists don’t know when to stop. Ainsley will sit and refine the detail until the entire sculpture is ground to dust, it’s why their mobiles are so delicate…”

Brassius stopped talking and Hassel’s smile faded back to something uncertain.

“You inquired about Morisot. She is talented, of that there can be no question. But it seems the rigid hierarchy of the art establishment rests on the labor and exploitation of the nameless apprentice.”

“You may have dodged a Bullet Seed, then,” Hassel said, unable to suppress a smile. Seeing the dour artist smile momentarily had felt like glimpsing the moon reflected on a mountain lake, or the one time he spotted a golden Magicarp near the place a mountain river disappeared into a ravine in the vicinity of Circhester. He didn’t know how to elicit the reaction again. The Pokemon had swum off and vanished, a golden gleam in a golden eye.

Hassel cast about for a safe topic, shocked that he had not yet been dismissed because Brassius did not appear to be one to suffer small talk. Their previous conversation at the Drakes’ had gone off the rails in no time at all.

“Do all sculptors favor rock types for a partner?”

Brassius’s gaze followed Ainsley’s back through the glass wall and he shrugged.

“I suppose it’s helpful,” he said. “Some artists prefer fairy, or poison, or normal. Hm. I imagine everyone is different. A matter of choice and chance, of taste. Unlike dragon training, which appears to be inherited… Incidentally, was it your Dragonite that night? At the party with Morisot’s fountain?”

“You mean roaming free at the Drakes’? Yes,” Hassel wondered if he should offer to let Dragonite out among the sculptures and decided against it.

“Then I must seem terrifically ungrateful, insulting you when I should be thanking you and your Pokemon for saving my life,” Brassius said, and the heaviness of his silver gaze pierced Hassel when Brassius looked up, less quicksilver and more lead. He turned fully to face Hassel and bowed formally to him. Thorny vines of hair draped and fell forward over his shoulders.

Hassel stared.

“I was told there was a golden-haired dragon tamer whose Dragonite saved me on a night in Artazon, carrying me to Levincia for emergency medical treatment. It slipped my mind when I first met you, but I realized later that Dragonite remembered me. I am deeply indebted to you both. Thank you.”

Blushing, Hassel swallowed and fumbled for a response. “Oh, it was the doctor who requested her for ambulance services, it was no trouble really. I was glad to have helped.”

“Nevertheless,” the heaviness of the gaze remained and then Brassius broke eye contact and Hassel could breathe deeply again.

“I left you a note,” Hassel said, before he could stop himself.

“I never received a note,” Brassius’s frown returned.

“On the back of an amateur sketch of your Bonsly.”

Brassius knelt down and gently hugged Bonsly near his feet. Bonsly wiggled happily and bowed to Hassel, imitating its trainer. Hassel’s face lit up and he felt his eyes watering and grimaced. Brassius looked thoughtful, the same frown carving deeper lines on his face.

“I don’t… no, wait. I do recall there being sketches around, but I could not speak above a whisper for days… I’m afraid I used every available scrap for writing for those first several days. Looking to find a way to communicate. I’m sorry. I suspect I lost your sketch.”

“Don’t be sorry. That must have been awful. An artist losing his voice,” Hassel felt his own throat close up again, the box in his jacket weighing down his shoulders. He knelt down too, to be level with Brassius and Bonsly. Balancing on one knee, he put his hand in his jacket pocket.

The Carkoal sculpture smelled of Brassius’s cigarettes beside them. The night was cold and the dim lights only emphasized the darkness in the shadowy courtyard.

Without any particular plan, Hassel took the small box that had been weighing down his spirit for a month out of his jacket pocket. He offered it up to Brassius, who took it and opened it. Grey eyes took in the rings and Hassel.

Brassius was inscrutable, staring at the heirloom gold and diamond rings.

“Are you requesting my opinion?”

“Please.”

“Golden handcuffs,” Brassius muttered, surveying the rings in the open box. “That’s what Ainsley said about Reiner.” He turned his head and with his free hand tugged down the high collar of his sweater to reveal a necklace of half a dozen thread-thin black chains resting over his Adam's apple like a collar, with a black dragon, Salandit-like, hooking the chains together.

Hassel felt the impulse to tear it off. It was the Sablestone crest, and he’d only seen it on Reiner and Hanna and their family on formal occasions.

“A reminder,” Brassius said simply, with a wry shadow of a smile. “And a cautionary tale, perhaps…”

“Take it off,” Hassel surprised himself by saying. His voice was firm and low with intention.

Brassius seemed to register something because his eyes widened. He made a small sound on exhaling, an ah, and then his pale complexion tinted with pink and splotchy red. His hand, which had hovered at his collar as if to obey Hassel’s voice, curled into a fist and returned to his side.

“I am under contract until I finish the commission,” he stumbled through the words, closing the lid of the box. There was a strange expression on his face now, and the blush went down his neck and disappeared into the turtleneck he wore. Hassel’s eyes were drawn to it. Brassius straightened back up, and Hassel remained on one knee. “When I am done, I will return the necklace. It is a reminder, nothing more.”

“You could quit.”

“You could tell your family you’re not interested in marriage or in upholding their tradition,” Brassius shot back.

“Do you think I haven’t tried?” Hassel was surprised at how raw his own voice sounded, at the anguish in it. “I don’t even know who they’re offering up this time. The first time this happened… well, I’m ashamed to say, I left the country. The second time you broke a glass and saved me from disaster.”

“You ran away,” Brassius repeated softly. “Why did you come back? What made you stay?”

“Duty. Responsibility. An accident of birth,” Hassel shrugged.

“What of your own dreams? Don’t you have a duty, a responsibility, to live your life fully?”

“I don’t know what I want,” Hassel muttered, wringing his hands and looking like he had a stomachache.

“Yes you do,” Brassius said just as quietly, kneeling again to set the ring box back into Hassel’s hands. “You want to feel and to create and to play. To be able to meet the gaze of your reflection. To be able to sleep at night without running a marathon or lifting a Copperajah. You want to explore new forms and discover more of yourself and the world. You want to make your own path, and to inspire others. And you have. And you will.”

Hassel raised tearful eyes to the man holding his hands with cooler hands and struggled not to cry. Brassius was staring at the box in their hands and not at him.

“How can you know that?” Hassel said hoarsely, choking back his tears and sniffling.

Brassius glanced up at Hassel and his eyes softened. Hassel felt something in his chest twang like a broken guitar string, but different.

“I recognize stifling ambition when I see it,” Brassius said, rueful yet again. “And the insomnia born of denying your true nature.”

“Then why would you work for Reiner?”

Brassius straightened back up and this time Hassel did too, and now he was looking down at Brassius.

“Let me untangle my own messes,” Brassius said, tilting his head to curtain Hassel physically away with long, thorny hair.

The same spontaneous instinct that Hassel had obeyed when he knelt and offered Brassius the rings was now screaming something at him. Hassel extended a hand, inches from pushing long, green hair back to reveal Brassius’s expression, to begin to untangle something or other that was tangling in his own chest as well, perhaps even to dare to brush cheekbones that looked like they might cut his fingers.

The loud chatter of the museum flooded the courtyard along with light as the door admitted a group of people and the moment was broken.

“Oh you’re here!” Clementine all but chirped, “Come inside, it’s chilly out! The exhibit is better lit, anyway. Oh Leo, you’ll get cold without your jacket.”

Leo, who had been holding two drinks, passed one to Hassel and reassured Clementine that he would survive and that his jacket was very fetching on her.

“Is this where you’ve been hiding?”

Brassius glanced at Reiner and his mouth thinned. Reiner only laughed.

“Hassel old man, I do hope you haven’t been listening too seriously to Brass here. He talks such darling nonsense when he’s on the Chatotty. I really am a cosmopolitan influence on this pastoral youth,” he laughed a little too loudly to be sober, eyes sparkling as he drew Brassius away by the waist.

Hassel opened his mouth to respond, perhaps a little aggressively, but at that moment the door opened again and his mother cleared her throat. She was flanked by Eva Morisot and Madam Typhon Senior. Hassel was grateful that his father was with the older men who had all gone to smoke their cigars in the Stadium's private lounge after the battle and then stayed away from the party. They were likely dining in a private club before partaking of Scotch and joining the after-party for another round. He could barely handle the expectation in his mother's face, let alone face his father like this, with tears in his eyes and Brassius right there.

“Hassel, I hope now that you’ve had some time to speak over the evening, you appreciate and approve of my choice of fiancee. I see you are even holding our old rings! This is a fine sign,” his mother smiled, but Hassel could see that she was tense. Her fingers played with the tassel on her shawl. She went on, and Hassel felt a strange swooping in his stomach as he tried to make eye contact with Brassius, who was biting his lip and frowning at something Reiner was saying. “I thought about what you liked and I remembered your eyes lighting up at the Drakes’ party. A renowned artist and sculptor is a fine partner for you. You have always loved your music and your art. It is only natural that you share interests with your wife.”

Hassel registered that calling Brassius ‘wife’ was a little premature and unusually bold–but part of him was not at all averse to this idea. His mother stepped aside and Eva Morisot came over, her face fixed on him with an odd expression, her lipstick freshly reapplied in a brick orange-red. Hassel paused a puzzled gaze on her politely.

“I’ve also taken the liberty to commission an engagement present for the future Mr. and Mrs. Typhon from Miss Morisot, and I trust your and her taste on this matter. You can discuss the project together. I hope it will be one of many shared endeavors in your future together.”

Hassel was still gaping a little bit so when Brassius met his gaze, sharply looking to Morisot and back, Hassel did not quite understand the message. It was Reiner who moved, eyes narrowed. He rearranged his expression into excitement and went to shake Hassel’s hand vehemently.

“My sincerest congratulations, Hassel,” Reiner grinned. “You’ve really got an eye for beauty. You have that in common with your fiancee and with me, eh?”

He elbowed Hassel. “I had not realized you were using Leo’s party to announce your own engagement. When did you go off and propose to the most talented sculptor in the country? I really must stop missing out on such important moments!”

Hassel opened his mouth to answer.

“Yes, when did you find the time to propose?” Brassius said ironically, looking torn between a kind of detached amusement and horrified outrage on Hassel’s behalf. “Have you proposed already, then?”

“It’s clearly a done deal, Brass,” Reiner laughed. “Let’s have a toast!”

As Reiner raised his voice and his glass, Hassel’s eyes grew wide in a frozen face. Deep-set grey eyes narrowed, darting between Reiner and Hassel and the crowd and Bonsly.

Brassius’s voice was hoarse when he raised it to interrupt, and Reiner clutched at his foot where Bonsly had somehow fallen heavily on it with all the weight of its type.

Brassius’s excited, hoarse announcement echoed a little in the courtyard, “Let’s give them some privacy, please! Meanwhile, I would be delighted to lead the guests on a tour of Madam Morisot’s latest work just through the doors here! There is simply so much beauty-right this way, please–ladies and gentlemen–”

Hassel blinked and the crowd was dispersing, leaving him alone with Eva Morisot in the dim courtyard. The scaled-down statue of Onix creaked. The Carkoal statue had Brassius’s cigarette butt on it.

“Well that was very considerate of young Bronzius,” Eva Morisot said magnanimously. “Giving you a moment to ask me properly! My goodness, I thought they were all about to toast us and I would have missed the proposal itself. It’s a done deal, of course. I was very surprised when your mother floated the idea by me, but every great artist needs a supportive patron after all, and you are such a young and malleable man… but so strong and handsome!”

She cast an admiring eye at Hassel’s biceps through the fabric of his coat.

Hassel took a step back, and nearly tripped over Bonsly, which was still behind him for some reason. The force of his foot sent it rolling into the Onix statue, dislodging the supporting stone and collapsing the arch into a heap of heavy stones with a great tumult of noise.

“Oh dear, I’m so sorry,” Hassel said, still looking blank. “It appears I’ve ruined the moment.”