Chapter Text
Trash. Filth. Scum.
The words have never been said to his face before. But they don't need to be said to be true.
Despite what a lot of people tend to think when they see his uniquely colored eyes, he's not blind. He sees the looks, the way people sneer when he walks into a room, the way store employees call security as soon as they see him enter. How even if he does everything right, he's still questioned, told to empty his pockets, prove that he hasn't stolen anything. Assumed guilty until he can prove his innocence.
Actions speak louder than their words ever will, and even if they never say it to his face, he knows what he is.
A street rattata. Trash that most don't think deserves to be a part of society. Filth that doesn't have a chance of ever being useful for anything, and should go back to the abandoned, rotting shed that he calls home most nights.
There's no way to hide it. He's tried, but even washing his clothes on the rare chance he has the money to, and taking his old, barely usable brush to his hair only puts up a flimsy illusion that's shattered the moment anyone takes more than a brief glance at him. His greasy and matted hair never comes clean after a single wash, no matter whether he's bathing in an actual shower or not, the dirt on his clothes has stained the fabric for long enough that there's no chance of the garments ever coming clean, and he knows that he's far too skinny. The lack of proper meals and sleep shows clearly on his face, features too hollow to be normal.
It's rare that someone doesn't immediately see what he is.
Silver curses as he pulls the last wipe from the pack sitting on the sink. The empty packaging falls from the thin ledge it was balanced on, landing at his feet, where some of the leftover liquid spills onto the disgusting restroom floor. Another curse slips from his lips and he hurriedly picks it up, keeping anything else from falling out.
Last he thought, there was still a handful of wipes left, enough to get one more 'shower' out of them. But here he is, half-undressed in a public restroom that belongs to some corner store on the streets of Pallet Town, only part of the way into washing the week's worth of dirt and grime from his body, and holding the last wipe in the package. The paper towels hanging next to the sink can be used to soak up the disinfectant liquid pooling at the bottom of the wipe bag and clean himself up a little more, but he knows that he won't be able to get to the level of clean that he wanted.
He's never able to get to a proper level of clean, but most weeks, this is the closest thing he gets to a shower, and it has to be good enough. It scrubs the base layer of dirt from his body, and keeps him from smelling like he just crawled out of a dumpster most of the time; that's the most he can ask for without having free access to a proper shower.
The reminder of the dexholder meeting tonight flashes through his head, and he scrubs harder at the stubborn spot on his arm that refuses to come clean. If he asked, Green or Blue, even Red, or any of the other dexholders, probably wouldn't have any problems with him using their showers to clean up for the meeting, and even throw his clothes in their washing machines for a quick rinse, but he bothers them all enough. He's made it this far in life surviving like this, he doesn't need to rely on them and burden them any more than he already does. Eventually, they're going to get tired of him needing things from them, and he'd rather drag it out slowly through multiple nights of staying over when the weather is bad than end it in a few days due to needing a shower or a way to properly wash his clothes.
When the last paper towel drops into the trash can, torn to shreds due to it's flimsy nature and how hard he was scrubbing with it, he's still a mess. He didn't get to touch the lower half of his body, and can only hope that no one will notice. His clothes should cover any major spots that he missed, and the soap in the restroom helps chase away the stale, alleyway scent that always clings to him and his clothes, but he knows the professors expect them to look their bests. They're all prodigies, the ones making a name for the professor's extremely important research, if they're not dressed to look like it, they can expect an earful from Oak.
That hasn't been a time recently where he hasn't earned at least one disappointed look when he's at the lab, and happens to run into him. His excuses, or even the truth the one time he decided to tell it, don't seem to matter to Oak. It's going to be the same routine tonight, with him being told that he can't be coming to the meetings looking like he hasn't bathed in months, and that he needs to put some effort into his outfit and looks. At least this isn't a public event that they're being forced to attend.
He feels no better than before he entered the restroom when he exits, and if anything, can feel the dirt and grime from the bathroom that probably hasn't been cleaned in weeks clinging to his clothes and skin. There's only half an hour until the meeting, and although he wants to spend more time trying to clean up, no matter how futile he knows that is, he'll be late if he doesn't leave now. The only thing worse than showing up to a dexholder meeting not dressed to the professor's standards is showing up late.
It's no surprise that he ends up being the last to arrive. Everyone else is already sitting around the table, in the same seats they always use. He keeps his head ducked to avoid the look the professor undoubtedly sends his way, sliding into his seat between Blue and Gold.
As usual, Professor Oak covers a single topic with them, something to do with the pokedexes and the work they aren't doing that he barely listens to, before leaving, allowing them to converse among themselves. The more sociable ones, mainly Gold, Blue, and Red, don't hesitate to jump into conversation, asking questions about how daily lives have been since they last met up, and rambling about anything that comes to mind. When the topic turns towards secondary genders, their classifications, Silver groans internally, letting his head drop as much as possible without making it noticeable.
"You guys should be presenting soon." Blue swings her arm over his shoulder, as she addresses Gold, Crystal, and him, pulling him into a half-hug. "What do you think you'll end up being?"
"Definitely alpha." Gold doesn't hesitate before answering. No one questions him either. Even Silver agrees that alpha is the class most likely for him to get.
"There's no way for us to know until we present," Crystal sighs as she sits down, joining in on the conversation with the question that's partially aimed at her. "But we'll all likely end up as alphas or betas. Statistically, that's most likely."
"Don't think there will end up being any omegas in our group?" Blue asks, a slight pout on her face. It shouldn't matter to her whether any of them are omegas or not, since she's already settled into a relationship with Yellow, but she still seems disappointed at the idea of their friend group being filled with nothing but alphas and betas. "Silver? Thoughts?"
He shrugs. "Crystal's right. If I had to guess, I'll probably be a beta."
That's a topic he's never put much thought into, because he's always known what he would eventually be classified as. There's little chance he ends up being anything other than a beta. A male beta at that.
It's the only thing he could possibly present as, because it's the perfect classification for him. Someone who's already been outcast from society, who no one ever looks at twice or cares about, because they don't have any purpose. Being a street rattata is bad enough, he knows things will only get worse once he presents, and has the confirmation that he'll never take a mate or be a useful part of society now that there are no more world-ending threats for them to fight as dexholders.
Alpha and omega are classes too important for him to end up being. And as a male, he doesn't even get to be useful for providing children like female betas. Anyone looking for a mate would naturally choose an alpha over a male beta. Leaving that as his only option, given the way his life has gone so far.
He can only imagine what it would be like to be an omega. To be the one that everyone wants, to have people bend over backwards to make him happy, the rarest classification that only a handful of people end up presenting as. It would never happen, but he would be lying if he said that he had never before imagined how his life might change if he were one of the lucky few who ends up being an omega.
"Is anyone else hungry?" Gold bolts up from his chair, sending it falling to the floor with an obnoxiously loud clatter. "I'm gonna go get some food. Who else is coming?"
Everyone else agrees, slowly getting up from their seats and prompting him to follow. If they're all going, he's all but forced into going along. He doesn't have much money, and even with the hunger pangs he can feel rumbling in his stomach, he isn't going to ask to borrow anything from the others. He'll find something later, when there's no one around to see him steal the food he'll eat for dinner.
Stealing does nothing to help with his image of being a filthy street rattata, but it's not like he has any other choice. It's either this, or trying to find something edible out of a dumpster. He'd rather be labeled a thief than get sick eating moldy food.
There's enough in his pocket for him to afford something small, and although he told himself that he wasn't going to get anything in order to save for something better, with everyone else grabbing snacks to eat, he takes something for himself. If he doesn’t, there's a chance that someone feels pity and buys something for him. He shouldn't burden them like that. And he knows that they won't let him pay them back.
His plan falls apart the moment they get up to the checkout, and the total is higher than he expected. Heat rises to his cheeks as he scavengers through his pockets, desperately trying to to find enough change to cover what he's missing. If he counted correctly the last time he checked to see how much money he had, he doesn't have enough, but it's far more embarrassing to admit that he doesn't have the money needed to afford a simple snack while standing in front of his friends.
"Here, let me get that." Gold slides up to the counter beside him, holding out the money needed to cover the remainder. When he tries to push Gold away, his hand is swatted away, Gold ignoring everything else he tries to say. "It's fine, don't worry about it."
With Gold leaving him no other choice, he swipes the snack off the counter, trying to will the blush on his face away. If anyone else noticed the incident at the register, they don't say anything about it. And if they give him any looks, he doesn't see them, keeping his eyes locked on the floor as he tries to ignore the pit in his stomach, and the heavy lump that's settled in his throat.
The laughter and cheerful conversation that resumes once they all have their food barely reaches his ears. He's too focused on keeping his breathing steady, and trying to ignore the burning embarrassment that swirls in his chest to listen to anything being said. The bites he takes from the granola bar he got, that Gold paid for, taste bland in his mouth, and each mouthful goes down like a rock stuck in his throat.
When they go to leave, he trips over a piece of broken sidewalk, landing against Gold's side. Gold catches him before he hits the floor, saving him from a scraped knee, torn pants, and another wave of embarrassment. But in the process of getting back to his feet, his hand brushes too close to Gold's crotch, bringing another wave of heat to his face at the warmth under his touch.
"Oh, be careful Silv," Gold laughs, helping him stand, only to move his hands down to his waist. "I think my presentation rut might be starting. Don't get too close if you don't wanna give me any ideas." A deep growl comes too close to his ear, making him flinch away.
He tries to laugh along, knowing that Gold is just joking. It still stings. All these years, harboring a crush on Gold that he's kept secret solely because he knows they will never be mates, and no matter how hard he tries to forget about it, reminders still manage to reach him. It's a simple joke, but one that leaves longing throbbing in his chest, and turns his mood sour in an instant.
Yet another dream that he's forced to chase after while fully knowing that it'll never come true. He can daydream all he wants about a perfect life where he gets to live in a house, has enough money and food to live comfortably, and a mate that loves him. But that's not something he gets to have. Not something that street trash like him deserves to have.
Green passes too close behind him, brushing against his back. Warmth lingers in the spot where his hand laid on his shoulder, a kind of heat that doesn't go away even when Silver tries to ignore it. It only seems to get hotter, spreading from his upper chest, down to his gut, where it settles into a firm ball that refuses to budge or fade.
The scents of everyone else spikes, but when he looks up, there's nothing going on that would result in their scents becoming strong enough for him to notice. If he were anyone else, it might have been a sign that he was presenting. But the warmth in his gut would point towards this being a heat, and only omegas have heats.
No matter how much he wants it to happen, he knows that he's not lucky enough to be an omega.