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It was a cool, starry night at the end of summer when they first met.

The gallery was showcasing some of Brassius's latest sculptures – the up and coming young artist from Paldea was being showcased for an entire week in Nacrene City. The host even paid for his flight and lodgings, and was by all accounts extremely accommodating, which was especially helpful since the “up and coming" part of being a professional artist at the age of twenty-two meant he sometimes had more lint in his pockets than cash.

Brassius was dressed to the nines; a classic suit and tie, a new pair of shoes, a sleek black watch, and an avant-garde splash of his own uniqueness in the form of a boutonniere that he made in the style of a crystallized Lilligant's blossom. He had his previously long, scraggly and unkempt hair cut short for the occasion at the behest of his mother who wanted him to be presentable.

She was right. She often was, which was a relief since despite her over-concern, her advice almost always worked to his benefit.

He inhaled deeply, and released his breath slowly.

One…two…three… almost done.

He had put on airs all day, ready to discuss his sculptures at length with any inquisitive prospective buyers. He was rather good at it, if he was being honest; he had enough wit and charisma to be an actor, and this is nothing if not a performance. But the jetlag was getting to him, his head was pounding, and it had been a long day.

He needed a break to recharge, so he quietly excused himself while the crowds were thinning and visiting with the two other – older, more famous, better - notable artists who were also in attendance.

Brassius stepped through the back door into the alleyway behind the building. It was wide enough for a truck to come through one-way with shipments for any of the shops and restaurants, and of course the gallery itself. But it was dirty and dingy and poorly lit.

Perfect! He thought as he rummaged through his pants pocket for a cigarette and his cheap lighter.

Somewhere in the background, he heard a door creak open, canned music pouring out loudly until the door clicked shut again.

He lifted the cigarette to his lips and as he was about to start the flame –

“Do you perhaps have one to spare?”

His finger slipped.

So much for a moment alone.

He didn't even look up as he pulled another cigarette out of the case, and handed it to whomever had asked him for it.

“Yeah, here.”

“Thank you very much.”

Handing strangers things in a dark alley at night! You need more self preservation! He could hear his mother in the back of his head, tone firm as she chastised him.

Brassius lit his cigarette and blatantly ignored any sense of potential danger. He was too tired to be thinking clearly. The stranger stood awkwardly before him. He didn't even notice until the man shuffled his feet.

“Umm… forgive me for one more request, but might I also borrow your lighter? I seem to have misplaced mine.”

“Ah, mm sure. Here.”

Brassius looked up for the first time to pass the lighter over, and was caught off guard by the warm amber glint of the other man's eyes in the poor light. The glow cast by the flame caused the stranger's eyes to appear almost supernatural.

That sense of danger spiked. That's why his heart was racing.

The other man was taller and broad-shouldered. Golden-blonde hair was pulled back into a neat ponytail, showing off a few interesting piercings. He smiled wide, flashing a flawless pearly-white grin that only money could buy, which contrasted bluntly with the well-worn but neat sweater and jeans combo he was sporting. The sleeves were rolled back to his elbows. He reached out and grasped the lighter elegantly between his long fingers.

Left-handed, Brassius noted.

After a few beats, the blonde lit his cigarette and handed back the lighter.

“Thank you again. You are a lifesaver.”

Brassius chuckled as he put the lighter back in his pocket.

“I guess so.”

They sat in silence for a few moments before the blonde man sighed deeply.

Once.

Then twice.

Brassius knew that the other man wanted a conversation, but he wasn't terribly inclined to have one as he’d been having them all day. Fruitless, too, as no one had firmly showed interest in making a purchase. But there ain't no rest for the wicked, as the song goes, so he mustered up the energy to lead yet another performance.

But as he was about to open his mouth, the blonde started up instead.

“It has been such a long day…”

Brassius quirked a thin eyebrow. The man's manner of speech was noticeably different, but he couldn't quite pinpoint what exactly that difference was.

He nodded tersely.

“Yeah, it sure has.”

“And it's only a Monday! Hah, can you believe it?”

Brassius groaned internally. He loathed small talk.

“Hah…Yeah…”

The blonde shuffled his feet again. Was it nervousness?

“I am stuck here till close every night this week, but I am already exhausted from performing for an audience that simply does not care.”

Oh.

Brassius felt an ache of sympathy in his heart.

“Arceus above, I know what you mean,” the artist admitted, emphasizing by moving his hand about with a little splash of dramatic flair. “I’ve been talking to rich fools since before noon with absolutely no sense of art! No passion!”

Apparently this struck a chord with the blonde man, whose liquid gold eyes lit up like the sun.

“Ah! Are you an artist? Professionally?”

Brassius felt pride swell in his chest. The first he’s had all day, if he was being honest.

“I’m mostly a sculptor, but I do dabble with painting from time to time,” He admitted with a wry smile. “I’m having some of my new pieces showcased here at the gallery for the week. Though I can't say there's anyone with actual taste here in Nacrene. Uhh, no offense.”

The blonde laughed, something genuine bubbling up from in his chest.

“No offense taken. I’m not from here either. I’ve only recently arrived myself!”

Brassius first help but smile back. He threw his finished cigarette to the pavement and crushed it beneath his new shoes. He’d already forgotten how much they hurt his feet.

“Well then, what brought you out here to Unova?”

The blonde looked up at the night sky and exhaled slowly after a long drag. It was a little dramatic, but Brassius appreciated a little drama.

“Well, I… I have been trying to find myself. I'm sort of… on a personal journey.”

“Uh huh.” That's obviously a lie.

“Been taking some odd jobs traveling around.”

“A bit of a vagabond, hmm?”

The blonde feigned insult. “Nothing of the sort! I much prefer the term ‘wandering musician’. I'm currently on at the bar here. Just needed to step away for a breather when I realized I was without my usual reprive.”

“At the bar, huh?” Brassius teased further. “That must pay the bills well enough.”

“It covers what I need. Though I am classically trained in a number of instruments, all I can book for cash here in this city is a cheap bar with a poorly tuned piano and no one who asks for anything but ‘Sweet Caroline’ and-" He scoffed, “ ‘Piano Man’! Can you believe that?”

Brassius snorted, and didn't find it in his heart to feel embarrassed about it.

“Must be rough performing here.”

“It’s not my favorite place, but it covers the hostel and then some. Can’t really complain.”

That surprised Brassius a little bit. A hostel? Was this tall, blonde, strikingly handsome man younger than he looked? The alleyway was poorly lit; perhaps his eyes deceived him.

He stopped joking around and began to sober up. Maybe this was a moment for maturity. It was, after all, a performance.

He nodded, took a step back, and sighed. All signs of ending the conversation.

“Well, I need to get back to the floor,” Brassius said, pushing a stray lock of hair behind his ear. “I might be missing out on clients…”

He rolled back a sleeve to check his watch. He could've had 3 cigarettes in the time he’d spent out there.

Whoops.

The blonde nodded knowingly.

“My request list is probably overflowing as well,” he blatantly lied. “I suppose it is time.”

As Brassius waved a hand and turned back toward the door, the blonde man attempted one final time to keep the flow of conversation going.

“If you're off before we close, stop by. I only ask that you don't request ‘Sweet Caroline'.”

Brassius looked back over his shoulder at the blonde and sang, poorly, “’good times never seemed so good!’”

“Never again!”

He caught a glimpse of the amber-eyed man who threw his face in his palms and laughed as he feigned despair over the over-requested song.

Yes, definitely left-handed, Brassius acknowledged, filing that information in the back of his head.

They waved, he walked back inside to host for another 2 hours.

The interaction was brief and unremarkable, by all accounts.

The jetlagged artist did not stop by the bar across the alley that night, instead opting to head back to sleep in his hotel room.

It really had been a long day.

The second time they met was two days later.

Brassius had sold one piece by then – his least favorite, if you'd asked him – but the buyer was willing to part with some decent money, and even asked for a commission of an accompanying piece to make a set. The man had a room to decorate with a specific theme in his house… or mansion… or castle, whatever it was. He was rich, that's what mattered.

And Brassius's simple sculpture of a Luxray licking its paw was chosen as the central theme. Brassius couldn't account for the man's taste, but if that's what sold, he guessed he could make more like that.

The elegant chime of the front door opening indicated a new guest. He barely noticed, until a voice with an accent that sounded vaguely familiar piped up.

“Good afternoon!” said he blonde man to the doorman. “I hear there are a few different exhibits going on, but could you perhaps point me in the direction of the artist with, umm,” he raised his hands up to his head as if emulating some vague memory. “The hair. Green, curly.” He flashed that bright smile of his, and no questions were asked, no matter how shabby his suit.

“That way, sir. You'll find Mr. Brassius along the back to your left.”

“Ah, thank you, your help is much appreciated!”

Brassius found his nerves flare up, though there was nothing to be nervous about.

It's only that guy who needed a cigarette. He did imply he appreciated the arts. I shouldn’t be shocked he’d stop in.

“Welcome, stranger,” Brassius performed, flawlessly as ever. “Forgive me if I'm mistaken, but you’re the guy who works at the bar across the alley, right?

The man had his back turned, looking carefully at the statue with the “sold" label hanging from a paw. He definitely heard Brassius speak, but continued looking around at the various pieces with a soft but audible gasp.

“Wow, you really are an artist!” said the blonde, loud enough that Brassius knew he was finally being spoken to. “These are incredible… My sincere apologies! I simply find myself distracted by beautiful things. And these truly are magnificent. All of these are yours?”

Brassius’s chest tightened painfully around his lungs, skin suddenly clammy. This was too much praise.  Was his anxiety medication not working? Did he need a higher dose?

Whatever. Tamp it down. I have a show to put on.

He turned abruptly and smiled, but he was clearly tense. “That's far too kind. They're all mine, yes… Is there anything here that you really like?”

The man put a finger up to his lip as his eyes – bright like gold, now that they were under proper lighting – focused on a small painting hidden in the corner.

“Well I guess, this one has something to it that's not in the rest.”

It was a painting of two sad Sunkern huddled together in the dark. Brassius hadn’t been at his…best…when he made that one. But it was far from the dark works he kept out of the public eye in the increasingly more common moments when he was really at his worst.

“What, that it’s kind of depressing?” Brassius stepped toward it with a half-cocked smile. “When everything else is deliberately neutral?”

This time the blonde lifted his dark eyebrows and gave him an interesting, inscrutable expression, and frowned.

“Well, there's that… But what really stood out was the effort put into the layers. See here.” The blonde pointed a long finger elegantly at an area in the background. “Your brush strokes are more visible, and they swirl like water. Also, what appears to be just blackness to the untrained eye is thick layers of various dark shades. There's a whole rainbow of colors that make up the illusion of a night sky! And the Sunkern, though clearly afraid, find comfort in each other while they face the world around them. There’s do much expression in their eyes, it’s… almost like you can see into their souls.”

Brassius inhaled as slowly as he could as the blonde man from the alleyway enthusiastically broke down his bitter little painting in ways he hadn't even really considered. He ran a hand through his hair – too short, he quipped with a sudden regret – and grounded himself.

He nodded like the businessman he needed to be.

“You have a very good eye for art,” Brassius admitted, a little at a loss for words. “I… you know, I didn't catch your name the other night.”

The blonde stood up and looked him in the eyes. At his full height, Brassius suddenly felt small and kind of annoyed by that.

“Oh you're right. My apologies! My name is Hassel.”

He extended his right hand. Professional and polite.

Brassius shook his hand back with vigor.

“Nice to officially meet you, Hassel. You apologize far too often. You know, I forgot to introduce myself as well. I'm Bra-"

“Brassius! Yes, I'm sorry, but I caught you name on my way in!”

Apologing again, the artist noticed. But he still chuckled performatively and let their hands fall back to their sides. “You actually caught me at the right time today. You can see I'm not exactly swamped by clients.”

The blonde – Hassel – looked taken aback.

“What makes you think I'm not a client?”

Brassius restrained a laugh behind his hand. He didn't want to be rude about the well-worn suit and even more worn leather shoes, but…

“You are, uhh, playing at the bar, right?” He tried to be as gentle as possible without offending his new acquaintance. “I figured you weren't swimming in cash, no offense, but these silly paintings and things are stupidly expensive. You know, so the host gets an appropriate cut of any sale. I don't set the prices.”

To his credit, Hassel didn't balk or flinch when he looked at the price tag on the painting he was admiring. In fact, it didn't seem to bother him at all.

“An artist needs to live.” The blonde tucked a lock of hair behind his ear with a shrug. He'd worn it down with a small tug of hair up in a rough bun today. Cute. “Your patron should raise these prices higher.”

Brassius sputtered. Should be feel offended?

Hassel immediately recognized the response, and raised his hands up.

“Ah! Please don't get defensive. I just. I'm familiar with these things is all, and I believe you should be earning more. You clearly have skill.”

Brassius turned his head to the side. Was he that easy to read?

“Maybe…” He started, a little sour. “Anyway, I don't have a patron. I am simply being showcased here for a little while. I don't have the clout the others have, so I'm…I'm grateful to be here. I managed to sell  a sculpture yesterday! My first sale in a few weeks…”

He didn't know why he was being so honest, but it's not like he had scores of people waiting to talk to him this early in the afternoon, on his third day here…

He may as well talk to this strange guy for a while longer.

Hassel grinned wide. It seemed so genuine that Brassius had to remind himself to breathe again.

“That's wonderful!! Which one is it?”

The artist pointed to the simple statue of a Luxray licking its paw. There was nothing to it, really. He would call it uninspired. He’d have to make a companion for it soon, once the down payment on the commission came through.

Hassel observed it closely. He already proved to have a scrutinizing eye, so Brassius didn't feel like it was disingenuous. So many potential buyers and casual art appreciators have provided him a lifetime of meaningless commentary devoid of genuine critique. He found himself waiting somewhat impatiently for this still-a-stranger’s review.

“I think it—”

Unfortunately that analysis was cut short at its conception.

“Brassie, darling! You absolutely must come to the front and meet Kinga and Roxanne. They’re very intrigued by your—oh, I see you have a guest!”

Brassius cursed inwardly. His host had comically terrible timing.

“I'm Jareth,” the flamboyant man reached out and shook Hassel's hand firmly, which was returned with equal fervor. Jareth looked the blonde up and down with unapologetic scrutiny. “I apologize, mister… umm…”

“Hassel.”

“Yes, I’m sure. Well, pardon the intrusion, but we have some esteemed guests for our brilliant young artist to meet with. Isn't that right, Brassie, dear?”

‘Please stop calling me that…’ He hoped his sour expression conveyed his thoughts.

He raised his hands to his head and massaged his temples in an attempt to stave off the impending headache.

“I’m sorry, Jareth, I’ll be right there; but could you give us a minute first?”

Jareth looked conspiratorially between them. Suddenly a sly and slightly wicked grin crossed his face, which he quickly covered with an open hand.

“Quite alright my dear. I'll buy you a little time. But make it quick, please. They are quite wealthy and even more inclined to buy than you think.”

He winked and turned to leave the room, loudly talking to the clients up in the front about wrapping up with another client and why don't we grab some mimosas off the counter while I show you some of our classics in the Fire Suite down the hall.

Brassius had no interest in buyers right now, but it was his job. He needed the money.

His headache was growing into a monster.

Hassel, however, looked a little defeated. He leaned against the wall and pouted cutely, folding his arms defensively across his broad chest.

“How come no one thinks I can afford a masterpiece?”

Brassius restrained a small laugh. “…Is that what you're worried about?”

“…”

Something about it was really getting under the blonde’s skin, so Brassius decided to change the topic back to neutral pleasantries. After all, it's not like they knew each other. He wasn't sure what would fix the sudden shift in mood.

So he reached up a hand to pat Hassel’s shoulder firmly, and smiled. It wasn't fully genuine – he knew how to perform for an audience – but he did try to add just enough sincerity behind the façade. It didn't matter, too, that his hand lingered there for a beat longer than was polite.

“Sorry for my host. He’s pushy but he's really been helping me get in front of people who can pay my bills…you know how it is...”

Hassel closed his eyes and nodded, letting out a terse chuckle. “Yeah… I get it.” He seemed… disappointed? Brassius was having a hard time reading him.

So he leaned back on his heels and continued to lead the conversation.

“Listen, I appreciate you stopping by. If you can swing back in later I really want to know your thoughts on my ‘Luxurious Luxray’.”

Hassel stood fully upright and glanced over at the sold sculpture with a half smile.

“I can't, I'm headed to my shift at Maxwell's. But, hey, if you need a break I have you covered this time. I grabbed a pack last night.”

He made a sign like he was smoking a cigarette between his long fingers.

Is he flirting with me?

Suddenly Brassius felt like running out into the back alley again, just to be able to breathe; get out of this stuffy, open studio space, away from entertaining clients, and breathe.

Maybe grab this handsome still-a-stranger’s hand and drag him along.

Uh oh.

This is NOT why I’m here. Brassius snapped at himself internally. I don't need distractions. I need the money.

But he couldn’t quite stop himself, in spite of knowing better.

“Maxwell’s? That's the bar?”

“Piano Bar, actually” Hassel corrected.

“I know I've heard people mention it…”

“We’re open till 2am tonight…tomorrow, technically…if you feel like stopping in. It’s hard finding other serious artists while on the road. It would be a nice break from the usual crowd of hecklers.”

Brassius chuckled.

“Hecklers? You can't be that bad.”

“You haven't heard me play yet!”

They laughed quietly, but the moment ended abruptly as the host and the clients – a dressed up middle aged couple who were oozing wealth, adorned with gems from tiara in the hair to pearls in the heels, and bubbling with bubbly as they were already on their second mimosas – approached the room where Brassius’s pieces were being displayed.

The young men glanced at each other one last time, said their brief good-byes, shook hands, and parted ways.

Roxanne and Kinga barely noticed the tall young man brush past them, though Roxanne followed him with her eyes briefly.

Brassius pretended not to notice. Why should he be jealous of people he did not know?

Maybe I really needed a higher dose of my meds. I'm having far too many intrusive thoughts.

But Brassius, ever the professional, managed to shake it off in the nick of time.

He spent the next two hours entertaining the couple. After they decided to purchase his only other painting here, ‘alegría de las flores’ – an oversized framed oil painting of a few varying Cherrim in the setting sun – he bid them their farewells.

The host, Jareth, placed the “sold" tag carefully on the corner. None of the sold works would be moved until the exhibit was complete.

Without turning around, Jareth knew Brassius was Very Done and needed a break. Most of his artists were this way. Unfortunately, he couldn't let anyone off the clock because he had another couple coming in an hour, but he also didn't want his new up-and-coming best-seller to burn out.

So when he said…

“You know, you can invite your beau to see the place after hours, Brassie, dear.”

…He meant it.

Brassius stormed out – in a rather self-controlled manner, if he had any say about it – into the alleyway. Shaking, he pulled out another cigarette. There was a group of 3 friends gossiping and smoking something a bit stronger than tobacco down the way.

They waved casually, and he did the same back. Simple, friendly, wholly unremarkable.

He lit his cigarette, inhaled slowly, deeply, ruining his already fragile lungs as he tried to steady his mind and his body.

He knew he was inclined toward obsession, to depression, not to mention his fragile cardiovascular condition…

He mentally planned to call his doctor back home in Paldea tomorrow during business hours. Not that he would actually follow through, but he certainly made a mental note of it in that moment.

He listened carefully, trying to catch the sound of a piano coming from one of the doors on the opposite side of the alley.

One of the yellow lights flickered.

He couldn't catch a single sound outside of the chatter of the three having fun a few doors down, and a cacophony of loud bar sounds.

He felt nauseous. He went back inside to grab some coffee and loosen his tie.

Brassius did not make it to Maxwell’s that night. Instead, after Jareth let him go for the night, he went back to his rented flat, took twice as many pills as he needed to sleep, and passed out in bed on top of the covers.

He would simply deal with things tomorrow.

The next morning, Brassius woke up in a cold sweat.

I didn't drink too much with these meds again, right? He panicked, then clasped at his racing heart, remembering slowly. Sometimes his sleeping pills made things fuzzy around the edges. No, not this time. I didn't have anything last night. I'm cutting back on that.

He looked around in a daze. The thick, mucky, leaden air of urban traffic and misty early morning light drifted in through his open window. The breeze was still cool from the night. He lay atop his rented bed, head pounding, sticky, stomach feeling like a slugma had burrowed its way inside.

Well he managed to sleep. That's not so bad.

He reached over to the glass on the adjacent nightstand and realized it was empty.

Two bottles of pills were next to it. One was tipped over, but firmly closed.

He groggily lumbered over to the bathroom, filled his glass to the brim with tap water, drank it all in one long series of gulps, leaned over the sink teething woozy and lightheaded, took a few heavy, pained breaths, adjusted, lifted himself upright again, grabbed one pill from each of the bottles on the counter – his morning dose - filled the glass one more time, and walked back to sit heavily in the chair by the window opposite the bed.

He was twenty-two and he ached like he was twice his age. Was his body already giving up on him?

Arceus, please, come for me.

“I'm doing OK, right, mamá?” He whispered aloud to no one as he held his throbbing head in his hands.

He couldn't stop daydreaming of eyes that shimmered like molten gold.

Arceus, above! I meet a guy and I'm already distracted. I'm here for a purpose. To sell art.

Brassius had thought the man was flirting, but after going over their very brief conversation over and over and over again as he drifted to sleep, he realized that this stranger just wanted another artist to talk to. The man had even admitted it - but Brassius’s imagination ran wild, all on its own.

He groaned, shutting his eyes firmly. It’s far too early for this sort of mental chaos. Come on, settle down.

He downed the pills and the glass of water. He should be taking them with food.

He set his one-cup coffee pot to steep. Whatever the darkest roast was, that's all he needed. Black, no creamer, no sweetener, just the most robust caffeine the hotel offered.

It was 8 am and he was trapped in Nacrene City until Sunday.

It was Thursday.

He needed to show up at his job at 11am. He was awake and had hours to kill.

The artist shaved, made up his hair, got dressed in something casual, and labored over to the closest café with his sketchbook in tow.

He asked for a toasted almond croissant and an Americano. Unova is good enough for a decent breakfast, if perhaps leaden with more sugar. A lot more sugar.

He sat at one of the handful of outdoor tables with an umbrella and enjoyed the cool breeze under the

As Brassius sipped his dark coffee, he tried to empty his head of intrusive thoughts. He redirected his mind as best he could to his sweet Pokémon. He flipped open his phone and checked the last grainy photo of them his mom had texted him the previous morning.

His parents were watching them while he was away, of course.

Bounsweet and Petlil were playing with his parents' Sprigatito, while Smoliv sat proudly in his mom’s lap and Shroomish hid under her chair.

He leaned into his hand and smiled. He didn't like leaving them behind, but it didn't seem right to bring them to a place where they wouldn't be able to walk about freely for too long.

The distraction seemed to work. Or maybe the meds were finally kicking in.

He continued to sip his Americano, brought out his sketchbook, and began to draw mindlessly. After about twenty minutes, he felt truly relaxed.

That is, until he heard the scratching of a chair as someone sat across from him at the table. He didn't need to look up to know who it would be, but he did anyway.

Hassel looked like a ray of sunshine. A bright smile spread across his face, showing off his shockingly sharp canines. He had on some sort of band shirt and a pair of well worn jeans torn in a few places. His hair was pulled back into a ponytail again, long bangs fallen out of the hair band perfectly framing his chin.

“Morning!” He said cheerfully. “Wasn’t expecting to see a familiar face this early. Hope you don't mind the intrusion.”

Brassius was quick to wave his hand and dispel the other man's nerves.

“Not an intrusion at all. I’m more shocked you’re awake at this hour. Didn't you close at 2 this morning?”

Hassel laughed as he bit into a vanilla-orange mini scone. He nodded for a moment, swallowed, and spoke.

“Yeah, but the hostel has strict rules about when you can come and go… rules I've already broken…” He said a bit sheepishly. “They haven't caught me coming in so late yet, so I take extra care to be out in the morning by 8 with everyone else.”

Oh, right. The hostel.

“I thought hostels were just for teenagers,” Brassius muttered out loud. He didn’t mean to be so direct, but he was feeling bold. “Why not stay in a hotel?”

Hassel leaned back in his chair and looked up at the sky.

“Weeeeell, it’s a little bit complicated, but the bottom line is it's the cheapest option when you're traveling. They were good to me when I was seventeen, so I guess they're still good to me at twenty-seven. They aren't age-restricted, just cheap.”

“Hmm,” Brassius acknowledged the information as he sipped his drink. It was getting cold, but he barely noticed. His mind was far too preoccupied.

What was this guy's story? He had so many questions he wanted to ask, but they barely knew each other and he didn't want to pry too much, too soon.

Hassel leaned forward to look at the sketchbook, and change the topic.

“May I take a glance at what you're drawing?”

Brassius shrugged and handed over the whole sketchbook, including the 2B pencil. Whoops.

“Go wild. I wasn’t really focused on anything in particular today.”

The blonde still looked with care at the rough sketch of what appeared to be the building across the street with some neat flower displays. He looked up at the real building, down at the sketch, then held the notebook up to compare them side by side. The artist had thrown in two Petlil and one Sunkern amongst the flowers, a personal touch.

“I love the Pokémon you've added here. They look happy.”

Brassius smiled. He really couldn’t help himself. Not when a man who was, to him, in that moment, a literal ray of sunshine beaming directly at him.

“You noticed! They're little devils, but I adore them.”

Hassel visibly perked up at that. “You like grass Pokémon?”

Brassius enthusiastically but only briefly allowed Hassel a glimpse of the picture he still had up on his phone.

“Like them? They're what keep me sane! My little muses...”

“I’d love to meet them. Why not bring them out for a while!”

Brassius leaned heavily into the palm of his hand. “I left them with my parents so they wouldn't have to deal with the stuffy hotel room. That was my mother in the photo. She sent it to me yesterday.”

Hassel leaned back in his chair again, this time with a distant expression. After a few moments of silence, he handed the sketchbook and pencil back to Brassius with a smile that had considerably softened and seemed a little…tense.

Hassel reached to his belt and grabbed a pokeball – one of a handful, Brassius couldn’t help but notice – and held it firmly in his hand. He glanced up at Brassius cautiously before asking the obvious question.

“Care to meet one of mine?”

“Just one?”

Hassel nodded, then released the Pokémon inside.

A chunky Gible hobbled about groggily, then turned around, sniffed the air loudly, then reached up to grab at the last mini scone that Hassel had brought.

“Ah ah!” He tutted and swiped it away, handing it over to a surprised Brassius. Their fingers brushed in the awkward exchange. “Mister Gible, that is terribly rude. You have better manners than that.”

The Gible grumbled and turned toward Brassius with an audible huff of frustration.

Hassel patted Gible's back, pushing him forward.

“Why don't you ask nicely? This is Mr. Brassius, a new friend.”

A new friend.

Brassius’s capacity for having emotions was dulled somewhat by the various medications he took, but still he felt like he’d been hit squarely in the gut by Solar Beam.

“Gg…Gib……..Gible…”

“Go on.”

The Gible approached Brassius with some hesitation. It looked up with its beady black eyes, stared silently as though assessing…

Then reached up with its little hands, leaning in hard enough to shove Brassius’s chair over an inch.

“Gible! Gibb!!”

“Mister Gible! Ask nicely! Don’t shove, that’s terrible manners!”

Despite the scolding, Gible did not seem to care, and neither did Brassius who was laughing much, much more than he thought he could.

It was genuine. He was, in fact, enjoying himself.

It had been a while, hadn't it?

He handed the pastry to the feisty Gible – dragon types were infamous for their stubbornness so it was not at all unexpected – who gobbled it all in one bite. Then reached up for the other half of Brassius’s almond croissant, which he handed over, still laughing.

“Arceus above, Gible! He's going to think I did not raise you right.”

Gible tugged gently on Brassius’ sleeve with one tiny hand and just grumbled back at Hassel. Brassius tentatively reached out to pet it’s long fin, not completely sure if the tiny dragon would bite him or not. Gible noticed and leaned in, essentially demanding to be pet.

“Yes, yes, you're a little devil, just like mine are. And just as cute, too.”

“Gib! Gib!”

Hassel sighed, head in his hands.

“I should've brought out Noibat instead. Even Axew has better manners!”

“Giiible.”

“Yeah, and I'm not apologizing.”

“Gi!”

Gible turned to cuddle Brassius as best he could.

“You sure appreciate the attention,” Brassius said while petting Gible’s back with both hands in such a way that the chunky little dragon seemed to enjoy. “You're surprisingly friendly with strangers.”

Hassel leaned on the table and rested his head dramatically in his right hand. He was smirking at the sight. He yawned deeply, suddenly, a reminder to Brassius that the man hadn’t gotten near enough sleep.

“He really seems to like you.”

“He's very cute,” he cooed down at Gible in the same way he did for his own little muses back home, which earned him a sort of happy gurgling sound from the little dragon. “And he has excellent manners, despite what some might say!”

“Gib! Gible ble.”

Hassel groaned dramatically. “Don’t coddle him.”

Another deep yawn. Brassius could see the bags under the man's eyes. That just wouldn't do.

“Why don't you take a nap back at the hotel?”

Shit! Why did I just say that?!

The words just came out of his mouth before he could think them through. It’s not like he knew this guy. Not well, anyway. His mother's comments on him having a lack of self preservation came flooding right to the forefront of his mind.

The blonde scrunched up his face in confusion. “I’m not staying in a—I can’t go back in right now, it's cleaning time.”

Brassius shook his head. He couldn't backtrack now.

“No, I mean, back at my hotel. I need to be at the gallery by 11. You start playing, when?”

“…Tonight at 6.”

“The bed is comfortable enough, a-and I'm not even paying for the place. I can ask for some new sheets and duvet if you'd like. It won't be a problem. I didn't bring anything terribly valuable, so if you're planning to steal from me, I would challenge you to find something worth stealing.”

He laughed at his own attempt at lighthearted humor, but Hassel looked… uncomfortable. Which was not what Brassius has intended, but he wasn't terribly surprised, either.

“I certainly did not intend to impose upon you,” the blonde said after a beat. He glanced at Gible, who hobbled over to him comfortingly. “Mister Gible, what do you think? Am I a bit of a mess? Is this something no amount of coffee can fix?”

“I deal with sleep issues myself, so I know how it feels to be exhausted while on your feet,” Brassius interjected. “And an artist can't perform without enough rest. I certainly won't push you, but you're welcome to it.”

Hassel bowed his head so deeply that the fringes of his hair brushed up on the table. He put his hands together.

“I graciously accept this offer, and will make it up to you. You have my word.”

Brassius was slightly taken aback by the unusual display. But it was charming.

Hassel was exceedingly charming.

Brassius panicked inside when the blonde looked up with a serious expression, their eyes meeting and connecting in some way he couldn't fully find the words for.

This was going to be much, much harder than he thought.

After a few more minutes of suddenly very meaningless chatter, Gible went back into the ball, and the pair walked back to the hotel in stride.

Brassius hurried ahead to clear the medicine from the table beside the bed, only to discover the maid service had already tidied up and set it all on the sink with the rest. 5 little bottles all in a row.

He felt the strongest urge to throw them all out the window, but that wouldn't have landed a good impression on his guest.

Hassel.

“This is pretty nice.” The blonde man said, meandering about awkwardly in the small hotel room. It seemed even smaller now, but it would have to do.

“You don't have to lie. It’s cheap, which is why Jareth booked it for me.”

“Jareth?”

“The owner of the gallery.”

“Oh, that's right! That guy…”

Hassel sat himself in the chair by the window. The cleaning crew had shut it while they'd been at the café.

“Speaking of which, I really do need to get ready to work. Please, make yourself comfortable.”

The blonde didn't so much as take off his shoes, but he did loudly yawn a few times so loud that Brassius could hear it through the bathroom door while he changed his clothes.

As he finished styling his hair, he took 2 of his mid-day pills with water from the sink. Nevermind that it was not even close to mid-day, but this way he wouldn't forget them.

He heard the hot water finish brewing and peeked his head out. Hassel waved.

“Coffee will only keep you awake.”

“It’s a chamomile tea. I hope you don't mind..”

The artist nodded affirmingly as he fixed up his tie. “Take all the herbal tea you want. I don't touch the stuff.”

A few more minutes passed as he double checked his attire. Only the shoes left, and the Lilligant-blossom boutonniere.

Now where did he put that?

He checked the drawers in the bathroom foyer and the handtowel basket and didn't see it. So he stepped out, back into the room where Hassel was sipping at the piping hot tea looking very relaxed. The artist wasn't quite sure how he did it, but the straggly-looking blonde man in a band tee and bags under his eyes drank from the teacup like he was royalty.

Was his pinky finger out?

Stop thinking about it Brassius thought to himself and stop staring! Get it together!

“Something the matter?”

Brassius pointed to his chest pocket before the words could fumble their way out of his mouth.

“Boutonniere. My boutonniere. It's. It’s gone, it's not where I left it, and—.”

Hassel must have seen it earlier, because the man lifted the very thing from the dresser he sat next to. The orange sparkles of the Lilligant’s blossom matched his eyes.

Brassius leaned against the wall in a way that he totally hoped did not give away that his legs were suddenly made of jelly.

“This one? You were wearing it the other night.”

The artist nodded. “There she is! The damn cleaning crew keeps moving everything around.”

Hassel stood up and walked over as Brassius complained. But instead of just handing the boutonniere over, he unclasped the back.

“Here, I insist.”

Brassius felt his face light on fire but it couldn't be helped. Hassel leaned over him, but was careful to keep a plausible distance between them. With dexterous fingers, the blonde placed the boutonniere perfectly along the seam of Brassius’s suit pocket.

He stood back, observed his handiwork, and nodded in approval.

“Looks good. I think I got it right.”

Brassius turned sharply back to the mirror above the sink to inspect the results. His whole face was pink. He cursed under his breath.

“Damnit…”

“Something wrong?”

Damnit!!

“Nothing. Just the time. Cutting it a bit close. I need to get to the gallery.”

He rushed to put on his new shoes, which he’d been breaking in over the past few days and was reminded of as he felt it jut into his heels. He wasn't running late at all, but he needed some excuse to get out of his room before his new friend paid too close attention to his stammering.

He slammed the key card down on the dresser, right on top of his sketchbook.

“Give it back to me tonight, alright? I’m off at eight, so I’ll finally make a stop at that piano bar of yours to pick it up.”

And he was off before Hassel could even object.

Hassel hated working at this particular piano bar, but it sure beat days of aimlessly playing his acoustic guitar on the streets for a handful of coins, or that one weird concert hall in Kalos…

The blonde shuddered as he dried his hair with a towel, trying to forget the memory of being asked out by, he swore, half of the woodwind section, until one of his estranged cousins showed up, inadvertently saved him from the final confession, then tried literally to drag him off in a taxi.

I am the estranged one, however, he contemplated with a small sigh.

He very literally had to run at top pace to get out of that place. It was one of the few times he was thankful for his father's rather extreme training, as he could probably outpace a Deerling when desperate.

He hoped Brassius wouldn't care too much that he took a shower before heading back to the hostel to grab his bag and get ready for work. He was thankful enough for the afternoon nap – it was desperately needed – but he didn't want to impose even more.

It was shameful enough to still be unsettled at this age, but what could he do? His family was relentless in their pursuit. They found him everywhere he went. All he desperately wanted to do was plant his feet firmly in the ground, get a job that paid the rent in some little flat somewhere with a nice view, and prove once and for all that he could, in fact, make a living with music.

So he made what he could on his travels before inevitably he would see his mostly dark-haired extended family in the crowd, whose one and only mission was to hunt him down and bring him back home.

I’ve been away for well over a decade now. Arceus! I can't believe I can count the time in decades already… and yet they're still so damn persistent. Just give up on me, already.

He was an adult, and should be able to live his own life.

But the shadow of his legacy was, apparently, too long to be ignored.

Hassel saw the shadows hang low around him as he entered the bar feeling… surprisingly refreshed.

He patted the key card in his breast pocket and smiled.

Thank you, my friend.

It was time for him to put on a show. So he walked in, grabbed a glass of water, sat at the piano…

The lights dimmed, but a single spotlight shone above him. The audience quieted and turned to him.

He took a deep breath, and began to play.

It was a pop song that everyone knew that was just a few years old. He sang into the microphone attached to his lapel, closed his eyes, and just felt the music.

This part was as easy as breathing.

It wasn't his preference to be in the spotlight, because he had a deep and personal sense of humility that he had to actively suppress in order to fully embrace his innate ability to fully captivate a crowd; but he was, in fact, a talented entertainer in the right environment, and had nearly endless reserves of energy to match it.

Hassel found keeping the attention of a crowd two parts fun, and one part interesting.

When the song was over, the blonde heard rounds of applause from a crowd of faceless people seated around him. He made his usual announcement explaining who he was – just a simple traveling musician who knew most but not all the radio hits - and of course how the request system worked.

They don't need to know how he was trained in the fine art of music making. No one but he knew what specific instruments he had to learn, and the specific methods that were used to force him to memorize the scales.

Hassel’s heart still ached thinking about his sweet little Noibat at his side, suffering with him, memorizing attack patterns and how to use, and withstand, decibels that would have made his own ears bleed if he hadn’t been very well prepared.

This is not the time to get nostalgic! He chided himself, never losing a beat despite getting a little lost in thought.

The man's fingers slid across the keys naturally, gracefully. Even the requests that were expected, the ones that he hated, the ones that were absolutely jokes but he would laugh and prove to the audience that he took silly suggestions as a challenge to be faced head on, with pride, and with practice.

A few hours passed before he knew it.

He checked his watch. Quarter to eight.

He glanced around in false hope for the pale, moon-eyed artist, but he knew the man didn't get off until after 8.

He still decided to take a break. He thanked the audience and told them to fill up his request sheet and he’d be back in fifteen.

He stepped into the alleyway to light up a cigarette. He wasn't alone, but he wasn't with the person he wanted to talk to, either.

A pair of rather inebriated young women squealed when he came out. He waved casually at them.

“Hiiii,” said one, a curly haired blonde in a very low top a tiny, tiny jean skirt. “You’re the guy at the piano, right?? You’re, like, soooo amazing.”

Her friend – straight, black hair and a bombshell dress – came up on his other side.

“We didn't think you'd legit play ‘Genie in a Bottle’ but you DID and--,” she shrieked enthusiastically, “--it was totally amazeballs!”

He chuckled awkwardly. So they're the ones who bought him that shot of Jäger.

He had some fans tonight, it seemed.

Too bad for them, they weren't his type.

“I remember you ladies!” he grinned, friendly. A performance, as Brassius had said in this same spot the night they'd met. “Thanks for the drink. Can't have too many of them on stage, you know, but it helped clear the throat.”

They giggled, and one swatted him flirtatiously.

“We’ll get you more later, then, when you're off.”

He winked. “Is that a promise?”

He knew how to play this game. These women were half in the bag on a Thursday night. They would not make it to close at 2 am.

He could, however, try to get them to request a few more songs. Tips tended to be good when the requester thinks you're interested in them.

People have an innate desire to be seen, and sometimes – just sometimes - he used his eyes to his advantage.

He lifted a cigarette to his lips, glanced playfully between both of them, and asked in as sultry a voice as he could muster…

“Do either of you lovely ladies have a light?”

It was another hour before Hassel’s new artist friend showed up.

The musician expected it would be late, if the younger man would even show up at all.

However, to Hassel’s surprise, the shockingly short man with wavy, moss-green hair was stopped for the cover fee at the door. Brassius reached into his back pocket for his wallet to pay the bouncer, but Hassel paused the performance entirely to make sure that didn't happen.

He was between songs at the time, and it was a perfect opportunity to show off.

“Will someone cover that man's cover fee?” He pointed right at the artist, who stopped abruptly in his tracks as everyone in the venue seemed to turn to stare. “He’s showcased at the gallery down the street, everyone should go see his incredible works of art! Welcome in, my friend!”

He couldn't quite read the artist’ expression the way the spotlight suddenly obscured his vision, but despite taking a hesitant step backwards Brassius did seem to wave and nod his head politely when the audience cheered for him.

Oh dear, I've embarrassed him Hassel winced. I've got to make this right.

But before he even opened his mouth, he was spared.

The two women from the alley jumped up from their seats and ran toward the door, giddy, throwing what was probably twice as much money as it cost to the bouncer at the door. They grabbed poor Brassius by each arm and led him back to their table, giggling loudly.

Oh dear… Hassel fretted, but only for a moment.

Brassius seemed to be laughing, which was a good sign. So for now, he continued performing. The show must go on. “Thank you again, ladies.”

He blew them a kiss, they screamed, “WE LOVE YOUUU!!” back. He hoped his friend didn't read into it.

“For our next request…” He scrunched his eyes, pretending to have a hard time reading. “What's this? Sweat… Sweaty… sweat carefully? Oh, I haven't heard of that one, but I'll give it a go. Shout out to table number five!”

The applause roared, then slowed, and he played Sweet Caroline, his own extended version, while the audience sang along.

Brassius snorted at the table, remembering how much Hassel had admitted to loathing this over-requested song.

But the artist still found himself singing along to the easy, old tune, while these two utterly hammered women swayed with him side to side.

Hassel kept glancing over at their booth, trying and failing to not be distracted.

The ladies hurried the waitress over, who brought out three shots and some fresh drinks, a few glasses that looked dangerously strong. The artist leaned forward, more than willing to participate in the ritual laid out before him.

After a few moments of brief, mostly inebriated introductions, Brassius found himself putting on yet another show for these funny, clearly wealthy women. He may not have planned for a night out, but it was happening, so he may as well enjoy it and let the women buy him a round or two.

Brassius was leaning in close to the busty blonde and talking right in her ear, and the woman giggled, pointing toward the stage. Obviously Hassel could see that they were talking about him.

It was loud in there. No one could hear each other without getting too close.

Hassel’s fingers nearly slipped up, and he instinctively recoiled, but controlled his reaction, imagining the firm tap of a chastising hand on the back of his skull. Like he was a kid again.

Oh, he would not make it to close, would he?

A few songs later and his friend still seemed to be having fun. Maybe the girls were Brassius’s type, instead.

The musician had his doubts about that, but it irked him nonetheless.

The girls and Brassius all together sent in a song request with a ten dollar tip and a shot – a buttery nipple. He winked and raised the glass at the table, and downed it to their cheers. It was as syrupy as it ever was.

It's been a while since I've had one of these he winced as it went down. Not my cup of tea, but I can't say no.

He had closed his eyes briefly to take the drink. Despite the spotlight in his eyes when he’d reopened them, a flash of moonlight reflected back at him. Brassius held his chin in his hand and leaned against the table, looking straight at him. The artist smiled and waved. The ladies were waving, too, but they were blurry in his peripheral vision.

Hassel was unmistakably distracted.

Focus on the music. There's nothing else but this. Don't get your hopes up.

He looked down and read the song request quietly to himself before he realized he’d been silent, and the audience was waiting.

“A-another excellent request from table number nine. ‘You Found Me’ by the Fray…” He decided to tease them a little. “Get ready to be let down this time, ladies and gentleman!”

The booth of three booed him playfully while everyone else cheered.

And then, he began to play.

He knew the lyrics by heart. He memorized a lot of pop songs – it was a lot more fulfilling than the classics, since he found choose them for himself – but this one caused a pit to open wide in his stomach. Who at that table thought of it? It was, in a word, depressing.

Hassel felt a wobble in his heart as he sang, but he refused to tear up in front of such an audience.

But by the end of the song, it was the blonde woman at the booth who was absolutely sobbing into her half-empty drink. Brassius and the dark-haired woman were on either side of her, patting her back as she hiccupped through her tears.

She was a hot mess and Hassel suddenly, painfully realized why the girls were out that night, dressed to the nines, ready to have a good time.

One of them was definitely having a terrible time, and this night out was her distraction.

The applause and whistles from the audience eventually died down. Hassel decided it was OK to ignore the next request and sing something entirely different.

“I'm feeling a little nostalgic, everyone. How about this classic?”

And he played “Truly, Madly, Deeply" with effort pulled from the bottom of his heart. The blonde woman cried harder, took a few more sips of her drink, wiped her eyes and sang along, Brassius on her left and the dark-haired woman on her right. They swayed as he sang.

When it was over, he decided to take his next break.

“And that's it for now. I’ll be back in about twenty with the next request!”

The musician nearly leapt from the bench and slid right into the booth next to Brassius. He leaned over the artist slightly, an arm casually hung over the back of the booth. He wanted terribly to talk to his new friend, but the blonde woman was in shambles and needed a little compassion.

He reached over and wiped some of her running mascara from her cheek.

“I didn't know my singing was that bad.”

She turned her eyes up to him and laughed darkly. She snorted, shook her head, and attempted a little drunken composure.

“I’m sooooorryyyy, you were amazingggg,” she patted his hand sweetly and swatted him away. “You were so gooood.”

Her friend held her closer and brushed her hair with her fingers. Her expression was a little apologetic.

“I'm gonna take Gloria home, guys. Thanks for being so sweet, Brass! You too, mister piano man.”

She booped his nose and giggled. She wasn't in much better condition than the blonde.

Hassel wanted to make sure they were OK.

It’s a little bit my fault for getting them to stay late and make requests.

“My pleasure, ladies. You're taking a taxi back, right?”

The blonde had closed her eyes, leaning heavily against her friend, who nodded aggressively.

“Yeahhh we took one out here, soooo. You know.”

He reached into his pants pocket and handed her his mobile phone.

“Put your number in so I can make sure you get back OK, alright?”

Brassius sipped his drink a little faster next to him. Hassel could hear the sound of the ice rattling at the bottom of an empty glass, an annoying, grating sound.

The dark-haired woman entered some numbers, a name, and he didn't even care if that name was real but he did want to make sure they got back OK. But he would understand if she gave him a fake number,  though. He was a total stranger.

He helped walk the girls to the front, let the woman in the dress close the tab at the bar, and out to the cab he’d asked the doorman to call. Brassius tried to get up and help, but Hassel told him to keep the spot saved, unless he wanted to lose a whole booth.

Hassel stood behind the girls as their skirts rode up so no one could see. He even reminded the one slightly more sober girl to pay attention to her dress as she got into the taxi. She thanked him with enough wherewithal to at least feign embarrassment before he closed the door.

And finally, they were off.

He was raised a gentleman, sure, but this sort of attention to detail was something he learned early on when he was on his own.

He still had time on his break – it wasn't like he was attached to the place, anyway – so slid in next to Brassius again. This time the artist was nursing a fresh drink.

Well, that was fast!

“Sorry about the, uhh, the fans,” Hassel admitted sheepishly. “It happens sometimes, but I'm used to it by now. Didn't expect them to lure you in like that. I'm so sorry.”

Brassius chuckled and leaned in close to speak. Perhaps closer than was truly necessary.

It was loud in there, after all.

“No apologizing. They were sweet, it was fine,” the moss-green haired artist waved his hand dismissively. “Poor thing was dealing with a messy breakup. I felt kind of bad about it.”

The artist took another big swig of his drink and looked up.

“I thought you were interested in them until,” Brassius waved at the door, “……..You didn't even notice Tessie gave you a fake number, did you?”

He did a double-take, flipped open his phone, and checked.

Name: ABC, DEF

Number: 123456789

He flipped it shut with a slow chuckle.

“I mean, you're right. Damn, I wanted to make sure they were OK.”

Brassius laughed into his drink, then looked up with a very slightly cheeky expression. The artist had definitely had a few with the girls and was clearly feeling the effects.

Don't read into it Hassel thought with restraint. Don't do it.

But the slender artist brushed aside all of Hassel's thoughts with a widening smile. “What are you having? My treat.”

“I mean…” Hassel felt a little hot under the collar, and he’d only had 3 shots that evening donated by fans, two from this specific table. “I like a whiskey sour. But only after I'm off the clock. I still need to play.”

Brassius held his chin in his hands, swirling whatever concoction he was drinking in his glass. He looked up coyly and took a swig.

“You are really, really good,” he spoke honestly, artist to artist. “I'm genuinely sorry I couldn't make it over sooner. You're done at, what? Two?”

Hassel nodded.

“Good memory. Yeah, two.”

The artist smiled wide, hiding behind his glass.

“I think I can stick around to hear you play.”

The blonde felt his heart start to race. He fully intended to give his best performance.

And to his credit, Brassius stayed in that booth until two. He tried to pace himself, since he was sitting alone. But when the bar was closing and he paid his tab, he ran up to Hassel at the piano, giggling.

“C'mon, c’mon, I still owe you that drink!”

Brassius was a bit more out of sorts than Hassel had hoped he’d be, but he didn't fully care. He got paid for the night, and led the artist by the arm to a quiet bar – open till four, kitchen close at eleven - closer to his hotel so he wouldn't have too far to walk afterward.

Brassius threw down some cash and paid for a double scotch for Hassel, and a mint julep for himself.

Then two men sat at the bar to chat.

Neither of them discussed anything of deep significance, keeping it to surface level motivations, hopes, and dreams.

Hassel mentioned how he enjoyed painting but hadn’t been able to get around to it while traveling.

Brassius suggested that he come to his studio back in Paldea and paint.

“It might get me out of this slump I've been in to do a collaboration!”

Brassius wasn't clearly thinking about the time, or the cost, but Hassel agreed all the same.

“Hah! I like the sound of that!” the blonde man laughed loudly, too loudly perhaps, but no one paid it any mind. Grinning back, he lifted his glass, and both clinked their glasses together in cheers. “To a collaboration!!”

Hassel, despite his increasing confidence and decreasing sobriety, still managed to firmly avoid discussing where he had been, and where he was planning to go in his meandering travels. It would have led to questions he did not have the strength to answer.

Thankfully Brassius didn't pry into his past. It would've been the wrong time, and would've definitely spoiled the mood. He didn't want to dump too much unnecessary information too soon.

He felt…good. He was having fun. It had been a while since he managed to do that.

An hour later, his friend was leaning heavily against him as they walked back to the cheap hotel Brassius was staying in. The artist himself swayed on his feet, talking once more about how he'd come up empty on a new sculpture for a while. Clearly it was really, really bothering him.

But Hassel understood all too well how it felt to lack inspiration. That spark of an idea.

Sometimes the songs of the muses flowed freely, and other times, their silence was deafening.

Hassel was feeling more than a bit tipsy himself. He had two at the bar, trying to sway his nerves, but after a night of varying shots and two doubles he was beginning to see double himself.

Neither of them really had much coherent thought as they walked into the hotel and rode up the elevator.

“R—room 325.”

“Got it, got it…”

Hassel pulled the key card from his breast pocket and used it to unlock the door.

He aimlessly reached around to turn on the lights, but couldn't quite find them. So he used his vague memories of the place from that afternoon to hobble over to the queen sized bed and deposit his friend, who was still talking rather energetically about missing inspiration and being sick.

Rather, he tried to deposit the moon-eyed artist on the bed, but Brassius threw his arms around his neck in a childlike gesture…

“No, I am not ready for sleep. I am ready for an idea—Oop!”

Hassel stumbled in the dark and, since the artist had his arms glued around him, fell on top of Brassius on the bed.

For a shocking moment, neither of them moved.

Brassius, to his credit, wasn’t so entirely wasted that he didn't know how bad this could be if he fucked up.

So the funny wires in his head short-circuited, and short-circuited hard.

He needed to tamper his rising panic attack, and fast.

Brassius frantically pushed the musician – whose hair had just been tickling his cheek – off of him in a rush. He clutched his chest, leapt up, and ran to the bathroom sink.

He flipped on the light switch and grabbed at the medicine bottles in a panic.

Hassel was suddenly behind him, eyes wide.

“Did I do something wrong? Did I hurt you? I only tripped when you— I mean – I didn't mean—”

Brassius clawed at his hair in despair.

Shit!

“No, no, no, I. You're fine. You're wonderful. I need. I'm sorry, I've got to find…”

The artist couldn't get the words to come out. He needed that one pill. And that other one with the funny name.

If he had been cognizant enough, he would've seen the suddenly wild, frantic look in his own eyes, and been afraid of scaring off his new friend.

But Hassel, instead, reached out warmly. He stood behind the panicking artist, chest slowly pushing up against his back, and ran his long fingers through his own shaking, pale hands.

“I've got you. You're alright.”

This definitely wasn't just a friendly gesture.

But it was helping stave off the rising tide of the attack. The all too familiar tingling in his limbs was already steadying out.

The blonde squeezed Brassius’s shaking hands until they slowed to a tolerable shiver.

“You, umm…you need some of this medicine, right? Tell me, what are you looking for?”

Hassel’s voice may have appeared steady and calm, but his heart was racing and falling out of his chest.

Brassius shut his eyes tight, and tried, tried, tried to think.

“Blue,” he finally got out. “Blue pill.”

Hassel opened two bottles before finding the right ones. Brassius took it with a giant swig of water from the cup by the sink.

“Ye…yellow and green pill… two, please.”

It was bottle number five this time. Hassel reached in and pulled out two of the yellow and green tablets, which the artist quickly snagged and downed in another few gulps.

They stood there a few quiet minutes, Hassel rubbing Brassius’s shoulders.

I scared him Hassel screamed at himself internally, completely out of his element. Oh, Arceus, I ruined everything. We were having fun!

Brassius caught Hassel’s eyes in the mirror, warm and amber in the bizarre lighting. The blonde looked… sad.

“Don’t worry about me,” Brassius pulled away. “You should really go…”

Hassel reached out to carefully, delicately brush a lock of curly green hair behind Brassius’s ear. The artist's head was throbbing something indescribably awful, and his body was still shivering, but this?

He closed his eyes in defeat.

Hassel pulled him in for a hug.

“I was hoping… to stay the night, actually. I can't go n…,” Hassel sniffed.

Fuck's sake, not now! Hassel very firmly told himself he wouldn't cry, but given his current state and Brassius’s sudden, dramatic shift in mood, he couldn't help himself. “I can't sneak in this late. I can stay ob the chair. It’s.. it’s fibe..”

He ended up crying anyway.

Brassius looked up at him, or rather, tried to, but his head bumped up against Hassel's chin, held tight to the taller man's chest.

Everything was so confusing. There was really only one solution he could think of in his state of delirium.

“No, no, bed. I insist.”

Brassius was still shivering, Hassel breathed in deeply to hide his tears.

If either of them were sober right now, they'd have been so embarrassed they would've prayed that the earth swallow them whole, right now.

Instead, the blonde obediently said, “ok,” and decided he’d work it all out in the morning.

The two men were absolutely in shambles.

They should have learned from the women at the bar earlier that night, but it was easier to devolve into a hot mess than anyone ever expects.

So Hassel flipped the lights and led Brassius back to the bed. This time, there was no stumbling, no panic, only exhaustion.

Hassel lifted the covers and guided Brassius in before climbing in himself.

He was a gentleman, so he told himself he wouldn't reach over in any more attempts to comfort his friend.

I've already done enough damage the musician thought to himself in pity, wiping stray tears from his eyes. I've crossed some boundary, I know it.

I absolutely won’t reach out, he told himself again, turning so his back was to the still-shaking artist on the opposite side of the queen sized bed.

But sometime in the early morning, they were tangled together, both deep asleep. Brassius snored softly on Hassel’s chest, ear pressed against a steady beating heart. Hassel had an arm around his shoulders. Their legs were criss crossed.

Despite everything, when they eventually looked back on that night, neither of them had slept quite so soundly in a while, even if it wasn't near long enough.

Brassius woke up alone later on that morning, remembered everything, then promptly ran to the bathroom to throw up.

Not my worst morning, he admitted begrudgingly.

But he felt hollow. Was all of that even real?

Arceus, he was ashamed. They were having such a great time – or at least, he was – and then…

He jumped into the shower – This towel's been used already? Huh. – took his morning pills, brushed his teeth, and made his cup of free coffee.

It was already after 9.

Damn my terrible luck!

He sat and contemplated jumping out the window while he burned his tongue on bitter lack coffee when he realized his sketchbook was open to a new page.

A neat, charming little sketch of a Gible holding a flower graced the bottom of the page. And a number.

A phone number.

The musician really was rather talented. Its too bad Brassius had fucked all that up the previous night.

Rather, earlier that morning.

What time did we get back, exactly?

Brassius’s brain felt like it had been zapped by an angry rotom.

A short message was scribbled under the number in a hurried but elegant script.

“Text me – Hassel.”

He really didn't want to face his embarrassment so early, and felt his stomach churn again.

He texted his mother instead, asking for a new picture of his little muses, asking if they'd gotten into any trouble.

It took her some time to respond, but a grainy photo eventually was sent of them all sleeping in a big basket – probably his mom's Sprigatito’s bed.

That put a small smile on his face. Oh, how he missed them. They really did keep him sane.

Probably better than the medication, he thought, lying to himself.

He knew how bad his mind would go off the rails if he skipped a dose or two. But his sweet little Pokémon were pretty reliable timekeepers, helping him keep his schedule.

It was a bit hard without them around, to say the least.

He wouldn't be able to stop for breakfast and pretend to eat enough of it today. His head was spinning, and he really was running late.

The knock of housekeeping at his door caused him to nearly trip over his own shoes, hurriedly laced. His boutonniere lay haphazardly on the table by the chair – a certain someone must have helped him take it off at some point. The details were a little hazy.

He grabbed it and ran out the door to head over to the gallery.

The bottle of pills he needed to take at noon were left untouched on the countertop.

Hassel checked his phone again. 3 missed calls from two different blocked numbers.

Will they never stop?!

He flipped it shut, sipping his café au lait at the little coffee shop he’d found Brassius at just the previous morning. He knew the artist would be sleeping in later than he would, given what had happened. Still, he hoped to encounter him there and apologize in person.

He was ashamed. He knew he took things a little far, even though nothing actually happened in the end. He probably could've handled taking care of the other man better, without getting so entangled, so close.

It was really, very hard to pull away earlier that morning when a cute guy was sleeping so soundly on his chest, curly hair sprawled aimlessly about, but what else could he do? After all they barely knew each other, and Hassel had had his many crazy flings in all his years on the run, but something about this guy twisted a knot in his stomach like a Butterfree was fluttering about trying to escape.

He kicked his feet up on the adjacent chair and lounged. To any passers-by, they would have borne witness to his resting grouchy face. Normally he put effort into smiling and being approachable, but he did not want to be approachable as he pouted into his coffee.

“Axew. Axew?”

He had Axew out with him this morning, and the little dragon pawed cutely at his leg.

He couldn't let too many of his dragons roam about at once, after all, unless they had a lot of space to themselves. It was hard to find that in a big city. But one at a time was alright.

He fed a piece of coffee cake to the little guy, who beamed. He was such a sweetheart. It’s too bad those little tusks were very sharp, and could easily accidentally hurt someone.

Including himself.

The musician chuckled inwardly, recalling a time when he was maybe twelve. Axew and he were out training when one of his trainers' fully evolved Haxorus clocked his Axew back so hard that, when he tried to catch him on instinct, he gashed his arm right open. Blood was everywhere. He needed stitches, and was reprimanded every day until the wound healed that he needed to stop being reckless.

“Kindness is not a virtue” he was told many times. “It will get you killed. Focus on getting stronger, Young Master.”

Thankfully it was his right arm, so it didn't harm his ability to sketch while he was healing, which he recalled fondly as a rare few weeks of peace. He was even gifted some watercolors.

He wasn't unloved, after all. His family simply wanted him to focus on what mattered most as the heir and future patriarch. What they thought mattered most, anyway.

He had his guitar with him today. Just an instinct he had. Perhaps a half-baked plan was forming in his head. Hassel was a romantic at heart, so he may as well trust that he was on the right track, no matter how many Butterfree were flitting about in his stomach.

After all, now he had ample time to do as he pleased.

“Axew! Axe!”

He pet his dragon’s head with a bright smile. Axew cooed back, and Hassel gave him the last piece of the breakfast pastry.

The sun was shining.

I am in control of what makes me happy, he thought to himself, mood instantly brightening. This is going to be a great day.

The rain started at about 3 in the afternoon, and so did the splitting headache and familiar tightening in Brassius’s chest. It felt like a Roserade's thorns were burrowed inside, scratching up and poisoning his ribcage till he was sure it was bleeding.

It was not. His doctor told him he was being dramatic. As long as he took his heart medication at regular intervals, he would be just fine.

And the heart problems would make him feel weak and breathless, at any rate. The chest pains were an anxiety attack. Again, no problem if you take your daily medicine.

I took them this morning, right?

He didn't quite remember. He thought he grabbed the afternoon dose on the way out of the room, but…

He checked his breast pocket. It was empty. He’d only taken his morning ones, he slept in so late.

Damn.

Thankfully Jareth didn't have a long list of high-profile clients coming in today. He was saving them for Saturday, the big day. Tomorrow.

The artist sighed. He could hear the pitter patter of the rain pick up for heavier droplets. He was hoping to run to his hotel room, take his medicine, and get right back – perhaps a 30 minute round trip, if he hurried.

The other two artists being showcased in the gallery started chatting. There literally was no one coming in during this downpour of muggy, late summer rain.

Brassius took this as an opportunity to talk to Jareth about taking a bit of a longer break. The host didn't need to know exactly why.

He was beginning to sweat, which was never a great sign. Was it the hangover, or the delayed doses of his medication?

Both, probably.

He approached the front where Jareth himself was sipping on one of the sangria samplers he'd had out for guests…if there had been any.

“Something the matter, Brassie dear? You look pale…”

Brassius was about to wave off his concern instinctively, but realized he could use it to his advantage.

“I think this weather's getting to me,” he explained, lying. “Barometric pressure shifts give me a headache…”

Jareth offered him a sangria sampler, which he declined. Normally it would have helped, but not today.

“Do you maybe have an umbrella I could borrow? I've got some acetaminophen back in the hotel.”

Jareth shook his head. He asked loudly if the other two artists had an umbrella or any headache medicine. Neither did.

“I can't have you running off in this rain. You'll be drenched to the bone. Maybe sit down a moment and wait to see if this passes. You sure you don't want one of these?”

The sangria was waved again, and again Brassius waved it off. He was beginning to feel light-headed, though. He didn't want to have an episode here, of all places.

That night had been bad enough. He wasn't going to do it again now, but this time with people he didn't feel at all comfortable being sick around.

Some realization lit up in his mind about that thought; But like the flash of lightning and roll of thunder outside, it was fleeting.

The rain poured even heavier.

He went back to the room where all his works of art were being displayed… and waited.

Maybe I can sweat it out this time. It's fine. It’ll be just fine.

After about ten more minutes, he leaned against the back wall and began to fade. Just a little bit. Probably just a little bit of panic setting in.

Just then, in the front of his mind, he heard the friendly chime of the front door ring, a strange juxtaposition to the downpour of rain.

Heavy footsteps tumbled in, and Jareth was suddenly in a huff.

“Sir!” exclaimed Jareth, taken aback. “Sir, you’re dripping wet. Sir, this is an art gallery, we can't have you ruining the exhibits! –SIR!! You must leave your Pokémon outside!”

The other two artists peeked around the corner where they'd been chatting, now in hushed tones. One placed a hand over their mouth while the other raised an eyebrow.

“I'm so sorry! I just needed a place to bring this inside.” The not-a-stranger exclaimed with a strained expression, hands up in pity.

Hassel placed a worn out guitar case against the door, so it didn't drip too much on the ground.

He pulled a Pokéball from his belt and smiled at his companion – a fully evolved Dragalge – with a forlorn expression.

“Sorry, buddy. Can't have this much water in the gallery. Hope you enjoyed the rain!”

The Dragalge disappeared with a flash into its ball, set back on its trainer’s belt.

Jareth's expression softened slightly once he recognized – kind of – who was there. He squinted and dug into his recent memories.

“You're the guy from the other day…”

Hassel chuckled under his breath, trying and failing to brush back his sopping wet hair from his face.

“Yeahhh, I was here a few days ago. But, well….” He groaned.

He’d wanted things to go differently. But a little rain never stopped him before. He’d weathered plenty worse storms than this.

But his trusty old acoustic definitely couldn't.

“…I was here to see Brassius’s art on Wednesday,” Hassel explained, standing a little awkwardly, still in the entranceway. “I was hoping to play a few things outside and bring in some more customers for… you know, you all, but…”

Jareth tsk'd at him, hands on his hips. He looked Hassel up and down in clear pity.

“You're soaked head to toe, my dear. Well, I can't kick you out if you're here for my little star.”

The other two artists groaned audibly. They had sold nothing. Perhaps the price tag for their prestige was too high.

Jareth dragged a compliant Hassel toward the public restroom in the back. As the pair walked past Brassius’s gallery, where the artist had been surprisingly silent, Jareth gave a shout.

“Brassie, dear, your boyfriend is here to see you. Come help him dry off.”

Hassel sputtered and his ears turned pink. He was about to say something – he wasn't entirely sure what to say, really, all things considered – but he looked in Brassius’s display room to see the man against the back wall, on the ground, head nearly on his knees and breathing heavily.

The blonde rushed quickly past Jareth, though the curator was not far behind. Hassel knelt on the ground at Brassius’s side while Jareth stood on the other, observing with a hand over his mouth in surprise.

“Oi, are you alright?” Hassel shook the artist's shoulders gently. “You ok?”

With great effort, Brassius gave the men a very underwhelming thumbs up. Without raising his head, he spoke in a subdued tone.

“S..S' fine,” he said between pants. He chuckled, but it came out as a sort of garbled noise. “Just.. forgot my pills again… I’ll be fine in a…a few minutes…”

Hassel rapped the artist gently on the top of his mop of moss-green hair with the back of his hand, gently chastising.

At that, Brassius looked up to see a severe expression on the musician’s face. He would eventually know it to be concern, but in this moment, the narrowed molten eyes made him look away sheepishly.

He knew he was being stupid.

“Alright, listen,” Hassel said with determination, hands firmly on Brassius’s shoulders, “Tell me which ones you need.”

“Why?”

Hassel shut his eyes briefly, trying not to get frustrated. He tried again.

“I'm going to get them for you. I've got plenty of time to kill before I play tonight.”

Brassius looked up with a slight scowl. He was struggling, but he wasn't dying, he didn't need any more pity.

“I don't—haa-- I don't need you… to do that. I'm fine.”

Hassel stood up suddenly. He rained a few drops of water down on the grounded artist. There was an audible gasp to his right as Jareth clearly was concerned about getting water on any of the display pieces.

“I’m going to get them anyway. It'll be easier if you tell me which ones you need now before I come back with them all.”

Brassius groaned. This was…uncomfortable.

“Come back how? Don't you need…”

He fumbled around his pockets searching for the room key, but came up empty. He looked up to see Hassel waving it around.

“The key card? Yeah, I put it right back in my pocket. Completely forgot to give it back when I left this morning--.”

Another gasp came from Jareth, but this time it definitely wasn't because of the potential water damage. If either of the men had been paying attention, they'd have noticed the other two artists gathered by the entrance to Brassius’s display room with their ears turned to listen.

Brassius cursed inwardly.

Then he gave in.

He could handle another round of embarrassment, but he would handle it better if he at least had his heart pills and a nice, strong double dose of the stress meds that also doubled as a decently effective antidepressant. So what if he didn't take them exactly as recommended, right?

He pulled out his phone and pressed a few buttons. He didn't have to scroll far to find the number.

At some point that morning, in between messaging his mother, he’d added Hassel’s mobile number from the little sketch left in his notebook.

He pressed a few more buttons, and Hassel's phone buzzed.

The blonde knew what was happening so he flipped it open and stared at the brand new text.

[Unknown Number: Hi]

This really wasn’t the way Hassel had expected to get Brassius’s number, but despite the situation, he still felt the Butterfree flit around in his stomach. In spite of himself, his lips curled into a small half smile.

“Alright, text me the information I need. I'll be right back.”

Hassel ran out in a whirlwind, shoving past the other eavesdropping artists and out the front entrance of the gallery.

The storm was still raging, but the chime on the door still sang merrily.

It was silent for a few moments, until Jareth finally stepped forward and knelt down next to Brassius, who was still staring a little blankly at his mobile phone.

“Your boyfriend’s real sweet, Brassie dear.”

The artist groaned again and felt his face grow hot.

“He’s not…”

Not that Brassius was looking, but Jareth raised an eyebrow in jest.

“He’s not? Are you saying that unfairly handsome young man who is very much going to catch a cold running through a thunderstorm for you twice is, in fact, single?”

This time Brassius peered over his knees with narrowed eyes.

“Alright, alright,” Jareth said with a mock defeated sigh. But then he softened and pat Brassius gently on the back. “Tell me if you need anything, alright? I can't have my little star of the week getting ill on me. It would ruin my reputation. Water? Coffee? …Sangria?”

Brassius settled on water. And while Jareth ran off, shooing away the other two gossiping artists, Brassius continued to stare at his phone.

He sighed, and started typing the names of the two medicines he needed.

Keep it short. Don't bother him any more than you already are.

Why's he doing this? Such an idiot…

Why’d he even show up here today?? I thought I scared him off…

[Sunshine: Gottem! Do u like orange?]

Brassius ran a hand through his hair, messing up whatever was left of the usual viney style he’d thrown it in that morning.

In a hurry he changed the name he’d saved for the blonde over his bitter morning coffee.

‘Sunshine’?? Arceus, I'm the stupid one…

[Brassius: Yes]

[Hassel: Ok]

“Why'd he ask me if I like…orange?” He muttered to himself out loud.

10 minutes later and the rain had started to lighten, and the man in question had returned with the medicine and a bag filled with four mini scones covered orange-flavored icing.

At some point he’d borrowed an umbrella from somewhere – the hotel lobby, as it turned out – but the man was still soaked through.

Despite that, he had a beaming smile when he handed Brassius the pills, watched him down them all with a few big sips of water, and then handed him one of the sweet orange scones.

Brassius tried to wave the scone away, but Hassel persisted…and won, of course.

The artist just couldn't say no to this strangely stubborn man.

After giving his genuine thanks, Brassius, defeated by persistence, had to break the tension somehow.

“Why did you come back today? I ruined last night so terribly, and now again… and…And you're sopping wet… just for this?”

He raised the half-eaten scone in the air, but he meant himself.

Hassel leaned back against the wall and sank in, just a little. He was thinking. After a beat, he was able to form the right words.

“What do you even mean? You ruined nothing. I'm the one who—no, there's no point in worrying about it. Because nothing was actually ruined, was it?”

Brassius was already starting to feel a little less tense. The medicine hadn’t been in him long enough to start doing anything, so…

It was mostly this fear of confronting the situation, after all.

My stupid brain needs serious rewiring he thought off-hand. His hand went to his chest all the same, subconsciously making sure it was still, in fact, beating without any problems.

“Guess not,” Brassius muttered in defeat.

The artist took another few small bites. He was not known for a voracious appetite.

His mother would've told him to eat, eat! Skinny boy! So he listened to her voice in his head and finished the one scone.

Immediately, Hassel handed him another.

“Eat. You need it with all your, uhh, medications, right?”

“Hmm…”

He stared at the pastry, then up at Hassel.

“Why are you doing this? You just met me. You don't owe me…”

Hassel put an arm around his shoulder amicably, pulling him in just a little. It was friendly enough to be nothing, but still, Brassius was thrown a tad off balance.

“Like I said the other day, it's hard to find friends on the road.”

“You never said that. You said it was hard to find other artists--.”

“You know what I mean. Besides, you're interesting. And I want to get to know more about you. You've got--,” he waived the arm that wasn't around Brassius’s shoulders, pointing at the pieces on display, two of which still had those SOLD tags dangling listlessly off the edges, “—all of this going on. I’m impressed. You're actually making a living from mu- from art! I need to know how you do it all.”

A curious slip of the tongue, but Brassius wasn't focused on that. His head was swimming with all sorts of thoughts.

Unfortunately, most of those thoughts were self-deprecating.

He scowled as he looked around. He was actually pretty bitter about his situation, not that he could really explain it to anyone else. It's not like most people understood.

But another artist… probably would.

“This is all garbage. Nothing I'm proud of,” he admitted openly. Nothing he hadn't spoken of drunkenly at the bar the night before, but they were painfully sober now, surrounded by his misery. “The most recent one here I made over 6 months ago. And they're uninspired. Lifeless!”

Jareth took this moment to interject from the other room.

“Now Brassie, dear, you've sold two of these things you call ‘lifeless' since Monday. I don't care if they're old hat to you, they're new to the clientele.”

The two men were reminded that their conversation was public.

“Also!” Jareth continued, “The rain looks to be lightening up, so save date night for later. We’re going to have clients coming in very soon.”

Hassel helped Brassius up off the ground, both brushing off the host's very unnecessary commentary.

Hassel spoke up first, quieter than they had been before.

“He’s right about these being new to others… but more than having a fantastic gallery promotion--.”

“It’s not fantastic,” Brassius interrupted. But Hassel raised a hand and stopped him short.

“Nevermind that. You need to show me the rest of your sketchbook.”

Brassius raised a thin eyebrow.

“My…sketchbook?”

Hassel laughed lightly. It was a cute look.

“Yeah. I mean, it's filled with your newest works, after all. I just saw the one yesterday at the café. Incredible stuff. And no I didn't go snooping through it this morning, though I did have plenty of opportunity while you were snoring.”

The artist blanched. “I do not snore.”

Both men devolved into chuckles that, to the trained ear, were a bit giddy, almost gigglish.

“Wrap it up, boys! Chop, chop!”

And with that, the remaining clouds of awkwardness from the previous night that had been hanging above them all day simply dissipated.

“OK, so, I don't start till 8 tonight. It's Friday, they stay open till 4,” Hassel shifted topics. “I'm going to dry off back at the hostel, then I'll be back.”

“Back here? What for?”

Hassel smiled wide again. Brassius thought it slightly maniacal, but it wasn't really any different from the moments he, too, was inspired.

“I'll serenade people on the street to come in.”

“Serenade… wait…”

“I brought my guitar. Left it up front. I was gonna surprise you, but the storm happened, and the whole--.”

The chime indicated a new client had arrived. Jareth went back to salesman mode, and loudly.

Brassius panicked, but in a less erratic way this time. Still, he was laughing, with a glean of life in his silver-gray eyes.

“You're a madman. Hope you're at least half as good at guitar as you are with piano, or you'll scare everyone away.”

Hassel snorted, then covered his mouth.

A chill ran down Brassius’s spine as the musician looked down, uncovering his mouth to show a playful expression. Somehow the man now seemed as deviant as he was charming.

“I hope to exceed your every expectation.”

Their eyes met again, and for a moment, the world stopped.

The first thing Brassius remembered as he shoved Hassel out the back door to the alley – so he could sneak out unseen – was how warm and firm the man's back was in his hands.

Well, other that he was still soaking wet.

It was an electrifying feeling down to his very core.

Brassius knew he was very deeply in trouble when he turned to the group of customers that had just entered his gallery space, crackling with this newfound energy that had somehow transferred from the musician straight into his brain, like it had decided to simply make serotonin for the fun of it.

The meds are kicking in he lied to himself, as he often did. He could feel the mad grin widening on his face and just ran with it, come what may.

“Welcome, strangers! I am Brassius! I am here for only a short time before I return to my home in faraway Paldea, so if you might spend a moment with me, it will make my brief stay all the more… avant-garde!”

The Unova citizens had no idea what that meant. His speech didn't actually mean anything at all, but the energy behind his words was palpable to the small audience.

He felt like he was soaring.

The audience applauded before he gave them the usual tour of his works.

Jareth was delighted, for more reasons than just this.

His star artist was back and feeling good, check.

This was a great performance, check.

That cute blonde had to come back for his guitar, check.

He had never had a romance play out in his humble gallery before. This was new.

So for the free entertainment?

Check!

Hassel came back in 45 quick minutes dressed in his worn out suit again, completely dried off, smelling like cheap cologne and radiating warmth. His hair was up in a messy half-bun that looked good with strands of thick blonde hair framing his strong jawline. He grabbed his guitar hurriedly from where he'd left it, right inside the door to the gallery, stepped back outside and began to play on the misty streets of Nacrene.

The case was black with red trim, or it was years ago when it had been new; now more of a charcoal and poppy, somehow it looked more worn out than the blonde’s old suit. The case was absolutely covered in stickers: from travel, random bands, and more than a few of various Dragon-type Pokémon.

If you looked closely, it would tell over a decade of stories.

The guitar itself was a sleek, expensive acoustic in pristine condition. No marks, no stickers, no stains. It was perfectly maintained and perfectly tuned.

The musician let his Gible wander about near him as he played. It was still overcast, slightly cool as the sun was hanging lower in the sky, but that didn't deter the chunky shark-dragon from happily dancing around to the tune of Hassel's guitar.

It seemed he was just as proficient with this instrument as he was with piano, after all.

Hassel stopped to hold the door open for guests who seemed interested in the gallery. More than a few went in, either charmed by the blonde man’s charisma, or felt obligated by his persuasiveness.

Either way, Jareth was impressed. It even led to a surprise sale for one of the other artists. Perhaps one of their cheaper pieces, but still a higher price point than Brassius was offering by a longshot.

Brassius…

Hassel couldn't quite help himself around this guy.

What exactly is it about him that I'm interested in? Hassel contemplated as he played. He has so much going for him. So much potential. I kind of want his life.

Who knew a quick little train ride over to a city on the opposite side of the country he’d been staying in would lead to such an interesting encounter?

He opened the door for another client, then turned back to the small crowd that had gathered around. More than a few girls were staring at him from a distance, giggling whenever he glanced their way, while a group of 3 women somewhere closer to his age stood nearby, contemplating giving him tips and going in just to say hi.

Unfortunately for them, he would never be interested. He’d tried before with girls, on his own, not long after he left his childhood home. His mother even tried to persuade him in his teenage years, not long before he’d left, to find some girl or another in his clan interesting – of course she just knew that he would never. It was like covering your eyes and trying to look at the sun. Completely futile.

One of the many countless reasons he’d left in the first place.

Which is why, upon finding someone interesting, and who thought he was interesting back…

He was a romantic at heart. At twenty-seven he was willing to lose his soul if it meant he was right about his chosen path. The path of music, independence, and artistry.

And love, if that's what came of this current fascination.

And he sang a pop song from a few years back, long off the charts but he was just feeling it.

“ I would fly you to the moon and back
If you'll be if you'll be my baby
Got a ticket for a world where
We belong
So would you be my baby”

When he finished, the crowd had grown, the sun had gone down, and the street lights were all on. Gible had gotten a fair amount of berries from some of the people who had stopped by to watch.

But it was…

He checked the watch on his right hand and gawked. About 20 to eight!

He pet Gible, apologized in a whisper, then put the little dragon back into his ball.

“Thank you for coming by the gallery tonight!” He announced in a hurry. “If you'd like a little more of my voice, hop down the street to Maxwell’s Piano Bar! I'll be playing all night starting at 8. Cover is $9, you won’t want to miss out! See you there!”

The crowd made their noise as he hurriedly put his guitar away. He’d hoped the slender artist who’d caught his eye would've come out to say something – anything! – to him while he'd been out there playing.

Maybe he'd been too good at bringing in customers and had kept Brassius busy.

But suddenly he remembered his phone.

Texts were charged by the message and by the word, and he used a prepay flip phone, so he’d only gotten three messages in the hours he'd been out there. But to him, it was like finding three pearls in as many oysters.

[Brassius: (4:36) Thx 4 going 2 my hotel 2 get meds. I srs owe u.]

[(5:24) U sound amazing! Better than piano!]

[(6:45) When ru taking a br8k?]

Ah, shit.

He hurriedly stepped inside the gallery to avoid questions from the crowds who’d gathered to watch him. He picked up on the sound of Brassius talking to some client, and one of the other artists spoke to another one.

Jareth, however, was at the front swirling a glass of sparkling white sangria from behind the counter.

“Hassie, dear,” the eccentric gallery host leaned over his desk with a wide smile, genuinely content with the world. “I am genuinely impressed with your skills. Bravo!! Truly magnifigue. I wish…”

The man scurried around the desk, set down his drink, and placed both hands on Hassel’s shoulders.

“…I wish I could pay you to bring customers in every Friday night. What would it cost?”

Hassel brushed the man's hands off of his shoulders very gently. He shook his head.

“I must apologize, but I'm not for sale.”

Jareth narrowed his eyes. “That accent of yours…its hard to hear, but if I'm not mistaken, you must be from—.”

“Nowhere of import,” Hassel grinned, a little strained, bearing his unnaturally sharp canines more than he normally would. He was in a hurry, after all. “Anyway, I need to leave this with Brassius again if that's not too much of an issue. I've got to be on stage in about ten minutes.”

“Oh! Where are you performing?”

Hassel groaned internally. He really didn't want to have this conversation. But he bit his tongue and played along. If he knew anything at all, it was how to be polite.

“Maxwell’s.”

“That's just down the street.”

“It’s literally just across the alley in the back, if you don't mind me sneaking through to get set up in time?”

He gave his best doe-eyed look, knowing it would work.

And it did, like a charm.

Jareth blushed and waved him through, just as Brassius finished up with the last customer of the night.

Jareth immediately moved to lock up the front door. The other artists had left about 20 minutes early – they knew their big day would be tomorrow.

“Brassie, dear, would you let your handsome friend through? Oh, and take this precious cargo with you. He needs you to watch it.”

This time it was Hassel who was blushing, tampering down a few different reasons to be embarrassed. But Brassius, caught in the whirlwind, did as instructed.

“Here, I'll take that,” the artist grabbed the guitar case and slung the strap over his shoulder in one fluid motion, like it was natural. Then he grabbed Hassel’s hand and rushed him through to the back door. “You're not late are you?? My goodness, you're cutting it close!”

“Nothing to worry over! And thank you for watching her. You’re a lifesaver.”

Hassel leaned down, kissed Brassius quickly on the cheek, then ran off to the door to Maxwell’s on the other side of the alley where they'd first met just a few days ago.

The bar's back door opened and shut with a click, but it felt like time had slowed.

Brassius stood there like a stone for about half a minute before he closed the door behind him. The guitar hung heavy on his shoulders, and now his right hand clung to the strap with a vice grip.

Well, that just happened.

The artist's mind felt fuzzy. It took a little extra effort to form a coherent thought.

He nearly tripped on his own feet as he made his way to the front of the gallery to close up with the owner.

Jareth and Brassius stepped out into the cool, misty night, door locked firmly behind them. It was still overcast with a sprinkle or two of rain, but nothing like the storm that had raged earlier that afternoon.

Jareth leaned toward him conspiratorially, hiding a smile behind his hand.

“You should go watch him play. Oh, I bet he's fantastic.”

Brassius stared past him, distant.

“Oh, he is. I saw him last night.”

“I see…” Jareth placed a hand on the artist's shoulder, a little worried. “Are you doing alright?”

“Yes. I'm fine. I just need to lie down for a little while.”

Jareth nodded, letting it go.

“All I ask is that you get some rest. Tomorrow’s the big day. I've got five very wealthy buyers coming in, so don't let Hassie keep you up all night again.”

Brassius threw his hands up in the air, but brought them back down again in a huff. He reminded himself not to cause a scene in public – again – took a deep breath and counted.

One... two… three…

Exhale.

“I won't. You don't have to worry. I'm prepared for tomorrow.”

The curator chuckled cutely from behind his hand.

“Very good. Well, goodnight, rest up! Be in a little early, if you can.”

They said their good byes and walked off in opposite directions.

Brassius clasped the guitar strap with his life as he walked back to his hotel, dodging strangers on the busy walkway.

It took him twenty minutes to get there. He probably should’ve grabbed a bite to eat for dinner at the hotel restaurant, but decided against it. He would be able to make a cup of decaf up in his room, after all.

A packet of sugar counts as a meal, right?

When he realized, once again, that Hassel still hadn’t given back his damn key card, he got a new one at the front desk, and shuffled back to his room in a fog.

He took his nighttime pills on time this time, with that cup of decaf sweetened with turbinado sugar. He opened the window again to let in the night air. Even though the city air was nothing like his home, and it hurt his lungs a tad more than his doctor would approve of, but he enjoyed every bit of nature he could get.

He lit a cigarette and leaned out the half-open window. It helped settle his mind and his stomach.

The guitar case was laid across the bed. And he stared at it for a very, very long time.

He often could get lost in thought. But all of this was causing a storm to brew.

Pulling out his sketchbook, he flipped open to a new page, and put pencil to paper.

He sketched the guitar case out carefully. He painstakingly penciled in every sticker design, every faded line, the old leather strap that he used to carry it.

There were so many memories on this thing, it seemed intrusive to be able to look so closely at them. Each sticker told a story, a memory, a faded location. It seemed Hassel had been across the globe, many times over.

The man had even been to Paldea, specifically Levincia and Mesagoza.

He was so close… I wonder if he stopped by Artazon at all…

He noticed one particular country was missing from the list.

Maybe it's where he came from.

The mysterious musician clearly had a fondness for Dragon-type Pokémon, too. Brassius’s fingers ran across some very old stickers of Noibat, Gabite, Flygon, a coiled Dragonair peeking over her shoulder, and an Applin in the center of a big heart.

Hassel was so sweet with his Gible. I wonder if he battles…

Brassius caught himself thinking deeply about it where this man had been, what he did in his free time, how he’d managed to travel on such a frugal budget. There was so much he didn't know about this guy, and yet…

He placed his fingers cautiously on his cheek, where the kiss left a tattoo marked permanently somewhere under his skin.

He kept scratching the paper again and again, making sure he captured every detail, every scratch, every faded shade.

If Brassius was anything at all, deep down, he was obsessive.

And like he was a teenager again, he eventually managed to fall asleep with the pencil in his hand somewhere around 2 in the morning, sketchbook open, right next to the storytelling guitar case.

Brassius woke groggily in the morning to the sound of his mobile phone ringing. He reached over, pulled it to his ear, squinted to see his parents’ number, and answered in a grumbling tone.

“Hola mamá... ¿Qué pasa?”

“¡Hola mi bebé hermoso!”

Brassius rolled over and groaned loudly. It was far too early in the morning for her cheerful tone.

“Mamá, please don't…”

His dad's voice rumbled through the receiver.

“You be nice to your mother.”

“Hola, papà… I am being nice…”

His mom chimed in again. The pride in her voice was palpable and sugary-sweet.

“We’re both so proud of you, baby. Here, listen, your little ones are here to cheer you on.”

He heard shuffling, and the sounds of his little grass Pokémon grew a little louder. They were smart and knew that his parents had him on speaker.

That brought a genuine smile to his face.

“Good morning, my little muses. How are you today?”

Their noises got a little louder. One was a little louder than the rest. Brassius couldn't suppress a light bemused laugh.

“Yes, Smoliv. I am getting up and taking my medicine. You're so thoughtful.”

Smoliv mimiii'd gleefully across the line. The artist, at his Pokémon’s behest, couldn't stop himself from sitting up in the bed and rolling his legs over the side.

He yawned loudly. His mother gasped.

“Today's your big day and you're still waking up??!”

“Mom… Time zones. It's only seven thirty here, and I've been showing all week…”

His dad stepped in again. “Sold anything this time, son? This is, what, your third big showing…?”

Brassius nodded subconsciously, then stood up to walk over to the single-cup coffee pot. He grabbed a mug and stated to fill it with water single-handedly.

“Yeah, my 3^rd… I texted mom earlier this week. I sold two. Yes, a sculpture and a painting… Yes, yes, both were good prices… I don't think I mentioned, but one came with a commission. I need to make a partner for the sculpture…… no, it's an easy one. It's not complicated. But it's all going to cover my rent the next three months, so…”

He filled the coffee maker and put a packet of dark roast in while his parents praised him loudly on the line. He also swigged down his morning pills with a tall glass of water.

“That's so exciting!! Wonderful news.”

“How’s Unova?” asked his father, trying to keep the conversation easy. “I hear it's expensive out there. Must be filled with plenty of wealthy patrons of the arts.”

Brassius laughed low. “Well, it…it is expensive, that's true. But--.”

At that very moment, he heard a deep, loud snore come from behind him.

The artist spun around, heart pounding.

Only to discover Hassel, deep asleep in the chair by the window, covered in a thin spare blanket that must've been stored in the closet or a drawer.

“You alright, baby? Everything OK?”

Brassius couldn't take his eyes off of the sight. The musician’s blonde hair was loose and unkempt around his shoulders, mouth hanging ajar, bare feet stretched out far past the reach of the haphazardly thrown blanket. A pillow had been stolen from the bed, which was set uncomfortably behind Hassel’s head. The guitar case sat on one side of the chair, a large travel bag on the other, and shoes and a pair of pants folded neatly underneath the table.

His self-preservation instincts really should be better.

“Y—yeah, mamá. I'm just tired. Coffee is still brewing.”

Snooore.

“That’s a loud pot. I can hear it through the phone!”

He panicked, just a little.

“Yeah, mom, it’s a cheap single-serve.”

“Single-serve?”

“It’s not like they have a moka pot in the room. T-the coffee here is mediocre at best.”

“Oh, what a shame…”

He finished his conversation with his parents in a slightly quieter tone, standing in the bathroom anterior. They sent their best wishes to him on the big finale day of his at the gallery, blew him kisses over the phone, then said their good-byes.

He closed his phone with a quiet click, and peeked around the corner at his slumbering guest.

He wasn't new to such experiences. His mother might say he was a good boy, but the truth was not so pristine. He’d had his share of moments waking up next to new artist friends, people who came into his life in a whirlwind and flew out just the same. But usually it was after a night of intoxicants and passion. No one worth holding on to.

Not… anything quite as normal this loudly snoring man, innocently slumbering in a chair.

‘And you had the audacity to claim that I snored,” he said to himself in whisper.

His day didn't start until 11, and he didn't want to bother Hassel – though he wished he could have moved the poor exhausted man to the bed instead. So he used the hotel scratch pad to write a quick note, saying he’d be at their café for a proper coffee and a croissant if he woke up in time to meet him there, but he'd be back by 10 if not.

He grabbed his sketchbook, hung up the “do not disturb" sign, and ran off.

He felt… giddy. He should've been more stressed about getting himself mentally prepared for his final day at the gallery, but instead he was sipping on an Americano and nibbling on an almond croissant as he flipped through last night's sketches.

The artist continued to ruminate over them, and the man they represented, as he flipped to a new page and doodled the charming little Sewaddle sitting by its trainer at a neighboring outside table.

He thought back to his parents phone call and his own Pokémon shouting to him over the line, and doodled them, too.

By nine-thirty he'd had his fill of the place, grabbed a few of those vanilla-orange mini scones that his guest seemed to really like along with a London fog latte, and headed back.

Brassius opened the door to hear the blowdryer and the patters of bare feet on tile.

“Good morning, sunshine,” Brassius said cheekily. “I grabbed you some breakfast.”

The hair dryer stopped abruptly.

“I thought you'd be back at ten. I'm so sorry.”

Brassius bristled. “What are you apologizing for? You apologize far too much. It's a quarter till."

Hassel rounded the corner a little cautiously. He had a towel wrapped around his waist, and one draped over his broad shoulders in a weak attempt to hide a frankly shocking amount of long, deep old scars.

“I did not want to disturb you considering your grand finale is today. I was hoping to be out before you came back...”

Brassius couldn't stop his eyes from observing the sculpture that was standing before him. His mouth was suddenly dry.

Hassel must have recognized the expression, because he smirked ever so slightly.

“…Unless you want a little disturbance.”

Brassius’s head was swimming.

No, he was drowning. Definitely drowning.

Stupidly, he threw the latte and the bag of scones at the half-dressed musician and flew past him in a hurry.

“I DO!” he yelled a little louder than he wanted, but he couldn't help himself. Brassius was completely confident that his entire face was an embarrassing shade of pink. “I REALLY, really do, but I also need to get to the gallery before it opens, so unfortunately I'm in a bitofahurry--!!”

Hassel, polite – as polite as someone who snuck into Brassius’s room at half past four that morning, at least – would never push. He was aware of the importance of the day, of course. So instead of continuing to get dressed himself, the musician sat back in the chair he had slept in, slowly eating one of the sugary scones and drinking the latté that the artist had so thoughtfully gotten him, and bemusedly watched the absolute whirlwind that was Brassius rushing about.

Occasionally Hassel would get the opportunity to point to whatever the frantic artist was in search of. Pants? Check. Undershirt? Right over there. Shoes? By the front door, of course. Hair gel? Left on the counter.

Brassius wasn’t afraid to throw his clothes around and get halfway undressed and redressed in his nicely pressed suit. Unlike a lot of other countries, Paldeans were not shy about showing a little skin. Hassel wasn’t any different in that regard - though he grew up conservatively, nudity was never seen as a sin. He himself was enjoying the cool air as he was still technically drying off from the shower he had just taken.

The towels stayed firmly on, however. He could play games later. From the way Brassius kept glancing over at him, it was more than enough.

“Do you see my boutonniere?”

Brassius was looking frantically through his travel bag. It was the final piece, the one thing that bared a sliver of his soul to the world. While everything else about his presentation was professional – which the artist subconsciously loathed – this little, sparkling orange Lilligant blossom showed a splash of who he was truly trying to show the world.

Hassel once again appeared behind him in the hallway, leaning against the frame that led to the bathroom counter, holding the delicate thing in his left hand. It was reminiscent of the previous morning where he had similarly picked it up from the table by the window.

“This? You keep losing it. And I keep finding it.”

Brassius had to resist the urge to grab it out of the man's hands. He wanted to regain control so badly, but that simply wasn’t in the cards.

Just like the previous day, but in a considerably more compromising position, the golden haired musician beckoned the artist toward him.

And the artist willingly obeyed.

Leaning in painfully close, Hassel set the boutonniere just right where she belonged barely above the breast pocket. Brassius could feel the taller man's breath warm on his cheek.

“There you are,” Hassel said in a low voice, “You look amazing. You’re going to sell out today.”

“Not unless you come and play again.” The words fell from Brassius’s lips before he could stop himself. He shook his head slightly, in a way shaking the embarrassment off as well. “I mean… you really were great yesterday. That was…”

“Oh I'll be there,” Hassel interrupted with a smile. “Don’t worry. I’ve got a plan.”

The artist's grin widened madly. He had never been accused of being a rational, grounded person, and it showed.

“I look forward to your avant-garde performance.”

Hassel returned the Cheshire grin, clasping Brassius’ hands in between his own.

“You better.”

This time, it was Brassius who stood up on his toes to kiss Hassel on the cheek. It was quite a bit closer to the other man's lips this time, brushing just barely against the corner.

“YOU better,” the artist said smartly – as in, very, very stupidly – and turned to run out the door. “See you later.”

And Brassius ran toward the art gallery light on his toes. Metaphorically, of course. His heart could very literally not tolerate too much cardio.

Hassel, too, spent the rest of the morning in a daze. He finished the now cold London Fog latté and the rest of the scones in the hotel room as he prepared for the day.

He asked for room service to wash his laundry and dry clean his suit, all with cash – he had plenty. He shaved neatly, then tried to tame his hair just a little bit, but no matter what it curled out at the fringes; so he pulled his thick, straight hair back into a loose ponytail once again, a regular habit, with strands of his long bangs framing his chin.

He didn't want to show up too soon, but he realized Brassius had forgotten his pills once again, so he grabbed the same ones as yesterday, since they were still clearly written on his mobile, and ran out the door at a quarter to two.

Hassel grabbed his guitar, and the umbrella, this time, just in case.

The gallery was absolutely bustling, and Brassius’s vibrancy was on full display. He’d had to grab the medicine from Hassel and run off in a flurry.

Hassel should've been annoyed by the brevity of this encounter, but somehow he didn't think he could possibly be bothered by anything considering the great mood he was in.

So the musician left Brassius at the gallery with a smile and a wave to tackle a few other things on his agenda for the day.

And agenda number one was battling with his Pokémon.

Hassel hopped on the bus and set out to the edge of the city where there was a lot more grass and open space for his dragons to move. It wasn't like he needed the money – he had plenty. Traveling frugally was beneficial for laying low and accumulation of plenty of funds from various odd jobs – but battling was far more fun of a way to do that, and get his Pokémon the exercise they needed.

He had been trained to be a fierce battler from practically the day he was born. It was in his blood, for better or for worse.

For three straight hours he defeated trainer after trainer who approached him. Left in the wake were many disappointed faces of children and adults alike who dared to face the funny looking trainer in a washed out band shirt with the Gible and a guitar case on his back.

They really had no idea who they were facing, but to Hassel it was relieving, invigorating, and more than a little cathartic.

In between, he wondered if Brassius battled, or if the slender artist kept his Pokémon around as companions.

I suppose I will have to find that out later. He thought to himself with a smile.

He took the bus back once the sun started to hang a little lower in the sky.

Next on the agenda: reservations.

What Brassius didn't know was he’d taken the weekend off, to the disappointment of Maxwell’s manager. Though disappointment was a bit of an understatement, considering how the manager had yelled at him for just saying he was not coming in the next few nights.

Truthfully, he wasn't even sure he was going to try to go back.

One thing his lifestyle awarded him was near limitless freedom.

Hassel took it all in stride. He could handle being yelled at. He couldn't handle failing with this slippery little artist who had piqued his interest to the point where he knew he was beginning to feel a bit obsessed.

The feeling seems to be mutual, so it's fine. It'll all be fine.

He brushed off that little bit of insecurity as he talked to the host at the front desk to a rather expensive looking restaurant a few blocks down from the art gallery.

“Could I get a table for two after ten, ten-thirty?”

“I'm sorry, sir, we're booked up.”

Hassel slid a hundred over, and suddenly the host was more accommodating. He didn't have the time to think of an alternative. Thankfully, money spoke.

“My apologies,” said the host, pocketing the cash with a grin. “I was mistaken. There is a table I can arrange for two at nine-fifteen, but it's the latest we still have open. Please, be aware there is a dress code. This,” the man pointed up and down at Hassel’s shabby apparel in disdain, “is in violation.”

The blonde man laughed. “Don’t worry. This won't be a problem.”

Hassel practically skipped back to the hotel.

He slipped into his freshly cleaned suit after leaving a generous tip for the staff for tackling his laundry. He re-combed his hair, brushed his teeth, threw on some cologne, slipped the guitar back over his shoulders, and meandered over to the gallery.

He arrived just a few minutes after seven. The streets were bustling, a typical Saturday night in a large city. The bright-eyed musician pulled out his guitar and began to play near the entrance, just as he’d done the previous afternoon. No vocals today – just the sounds of the strings resonating through the crowds of gathering people.

A few threw some money in his open guitar case. He smiled and thanked them. It really wasn’t necessary, but he wasn't going to stop advertising.

He was going to make a living with music. That was his dream.

Wasn't it?

Hassel beckoned people to visit the gallery, and many half-drunk couples did so enthusiastically.

Jareth thanked him with a refreshing mimosa, heavy on the orange juice and light on the bubbly.

And by the time 8 o’clock rolled around, it took another half hour for the final clients to be gently ushered out, sales finalized, and another ten for Jareth to thank his artists and explain the next steps for cleanup on Sunday, which they were all terribly familiar with. Not that they had to strictly do any of it themselves, but their art would be packaged and shipped to wherever each piece was going, whether back to their personal studios or into the hands of their new owners.

When Brassius was finally allowed to leave the building, he appeared absolutely exhausted and it was practically nine already.

Brassius’s shoulders sagged and he sighed deeply. He was facing the wrong direction, saying his final goodbyes to Jareth and the others, while Jareth himself stared over Brassius’s shoulder to look right at Hassel and waved.

When the artist finally turned around, energy seemed to build in his silver-gray eyes like a battery being recharged. The artist's slouch disappeared as he stood at full height – still a full head shorter than the musician – but he was beaming.

“I heard you playing!” Brassius exclaimed, then whistled as he looked his companion up and down. “Oh, you look amazing. Did you… did you iron that yourself? Does the room even have an iron?”

“Don't worry about it,” Hassel said, clasping Brassius’s left hand in his right, beckoning him to come along. “Come with me. I hope you're hungry, because I am famished.”

They linked arms and were lock step as naturally as if they'd done it for years.

“I suppose… I haven't eaten since this morning.”

“Neither have I.”

“Don't you want to ask how it went?” Brassius laughed.

Hassel returned the mirth with equal fervor, grinning ear to ear.

“I'll ask you at dinner over a bottle of wine. How does that sound?”

Brassius tripped over his own feet, but was quickly righted by his companion. He felt like that was coming, but still, he wasn't used to being romanced like this. It was electrifying. Like a moment of raw inspiration.

“It..it sounds perfect!”

And at that moment, Brassius’s pocket began to buzz. His mobile phone. In a quick flip open, he answered it.

“Sorry, mamá, I'm on a date. Hablamos mañana. ¡Te amo mucho!”

Talk tomorrow. Love you lots!!

And he hung up. He threw his phone back in his pocket without any care.

“Sorry about that. My parents. They’re nosy. I'll tell them everything tomorrow.”

Hassel only nodded as he led Brassius at a bit of a quick pace through the crowds to his chosen destination. If Brassius was a little winded, he would never admit it. Vivillon were floating in his lungs, putting a little pressure on his weak heart.

Weak in more ways than one.

They stopped in front of a building that glistened with light from the neon sign and hanging string lights. The clouds were finally starting to break, and a sliver of moon peeked through. Couples were seated out front to the sweet sounds of a string quartet playing inside live, carried outside through a speaker system.

Brassius covered his mouth. Surely this place was too expensive. But at least they were dressed for the part.

“What's this about?”

“A celebration, of course.”

“What exactly for?”

“Your gallery finale. What else would it be? Are you shocked?”

“Well, I am, a little…”

The blonde grinned wide. The lights and the stands of loose fringe framed his face in gold. The artist thought, not for the first time that day, that this impossibly radiant man could not possibly be real.

But Hassel nodded to the doorman who let them in, clasping Brassius’s hand with a firm grip.

He’s real. I am not imagining this.

Hassel had to place his precious guitar in the coat check, grabbed the ticket receipt, and threw it in his wallet. Brassius noticed, with keen eyes, that the wallet had a dragon badge embossed on the old leather.

How charming…

They were ushered in at about nine thirty to a little table by a shrub right next to the kitchen.

They really are busy and not just lying to me, Hassel thought in surprise.

But they still had a decent view of the small stage where the live classical music was being played.

And soon after they sat down, the waitress floated by to take their first order.

Before Brassius could even check the menu, Hassel stepped in and ordered for the both of them a shockingly pricey bottle of tempranillo, and a little bruschetta as an appetizer.

Brassius wasn't at all used to sitting backseat, but he was starting to enjoy being led around.

This guy’s full of surprises…

They settled in, comfortable enough in each other's presence despite only knowing each other for a few short days. But the formality of the place demanded they create an air of intimacy, which was all part of the musician’s plan, and both were enjoying playing their parts.

Brassius took a sip of water as they waited for the bottle of wine to arrive. This was his chance to find out more. But he couldn't dive in too much, too soon. So he settled on a slight push past neutrality in his move.

“Sorry if I'm a little tired. It's been a long day.” Brassius stared, taking a bite of the bruschetta. It was fresh and delicious, the finely chopped basil a delight. “Oh this is good. How did you find this restaurant? Word of mouth?”

Hassel chuckled politely. “No, nothing of the sort. I passed it by a few times and knew it must've been good. The menu looked good enough, but the string quartet--," He paused, closed his eyes to listen and sigh. “They are what I really wanted to hear. You can only stand outside the place and listen from the street so long before the bouncers start giving you that side eye. And I simply couldn't go in alone…”

Brassius chuckled lightly.

“Do you play violin, too?”

“Huh?”

“You play both piano and guitar. You can sing. You wanted to hear the strings, and have a deep appreciation for music, so… I thought maybe you could play at least one more instrument.”

Hassel finished his bite and nodded, resting a hand under his chin.

“Oh, yes, I can play. Violin. Cello. Flute. Oboe. Harp. Bagpipes, but I don't know if I can still get the fingering down right… Percussion only out of necessity… And…,” the musician looked up in contemplation, “…I picked up Accordion in Kalos from a street performer. That was a fun few weeks.”

Brassius’s thin eyebrows raised high. “That's impressive. How in the world did you learn such a variety?”

The musician looked distant for a minute, and Brassius felt like maybe he'd asked the wrong question.

“Ah, well… mostly I was privately tutored,” Hassel eventually tersely answered.

Just then the waitress came by, a welcome interruption. She opened the wine, and gave Brassius a splash to taste. He knew the drill. He sipped and nodded in approval, and she poured them each a half glass. They had only just started on the bruschetta so she didn't ask for the main course quite yet.

This was just the thing to change the topic. As much as he wanted to tell the musician that he, too, could play violin, that could wait.

“This wine is fantastic! What a wonderful choice. You have good taste.”

They clinked their glasses together with a smile. Crisis averted.

“I must disagree,” Hassel said, a little boisterously, definitely flirtatiously, “I have excellent taste.”

If their shoes tapped under the table, it would not have been by accident.

Brassius sipped the bold red wine and waited for Hassel to ask questions this time. It didn't take long, as the blonde was fond of talking.

“Finally I can ask you how the grand finale went at the gallery. Did you sell anything more?”

Brassius sat up straight in his chair. Time do get down to business.

“Nothing new for me, but I was put in touch with another gallery owner in Kanto. But I don't know if I  want to do a big showing for a while. At least, not until I come up with something worth showing. I had a great showing in Hoenn two years back; that was my breakthrough, you could say. But I keep going back to simple carvings. Lifeless paintings. People like those, and they sell, but personally I need… some inspiration.”

He swirled his glass and took a large swig. Clearly the frustration was eating at him, but he didn't want that to sour the date. So he didn't pause for long.

“And speaking of inspiration… Your guitar case. It’s a beautiful tapestry! I hope you don't mind but I couldn't stop myself from sketching it after you left it in my care last night. You've been to so many places, but I noticed you had stayed in Levincia sometime.”

Hassel had braced himself for more questions, but he hadn’t considered that one.

Of course! The artist thought about that for a moment before he remembered. Paldea!

“Yes, I was in Levincia to perform on the square. There was some festival, and I played, but… I realized I needed to improve my poor attempt at Paldean Guitar, so stayed a few months to pick up some tips.”

Brassius laughed, while Hassel continued the story. The blonde had far more enthusiasm with this topic.

“Managed to get approved to battle the gym leader, too. Completely by accident! I'm not a badge collector, but I do have that one.”

Brassius sputtered. “You just battled the Levincia gym leader…by accident?! HOW did you manage that?”

Hassel blushed and averted his eyes briefly, visibly embarrassed.

“Well… bear in mind it was about five years ago… and I may have caught the eye of his daughter, who kept coming to see me play. Obviously she was not my type, but I did lead her on a bit… the man was not thrilled when he challenged me and lost right on his own turf! So I ran out of Paldea before the usual reasons did.”

The artist laughed from deep in his belly. Something about that story was familiar. And then he remembered and his eyes lit up.

“Oh I heard about that!”

“What? How?!”

“I was still in school at the time, about seventeen just before graduation… it was in the news. My teachers at Naranja had to explain that the Levincia gym leader decided to retire, and they would be holding competitions to replace him. It was all very sudden, but that was the official story.”

“No.” Hassel's eyes widened. “He retired?! After I beat him?? That can't be right.”

“It was better than that,” the artist leaned in. “I am from Artazon, right by Levincia, so I’d heard the real story from gossip. Or so I had thought.”

Hassel covered his face with one hand, his long fingers covering his eyes. His ears were pink.

Brassius continued, diving into his memory with amusement.

“The rumor was that his daughter had tried to run away with a boy, and of course he was furious and went after the boy – you, I suppose.”

Hassel groaned.

“And he challenged this boy publicly. Laid everything on the line! If he won, the boy would be banished from the city, and if the boy won he’d hand over his daughter and his title. Very dramatic. Clearly he didn't expect to lose, so when he was defeated so soundly by this guy who only used one Pokémon--"

“It was two,” Hassel muttered from behind his hand.

“—TWO Pokémon. He was so utterly defeated that he had to give his daughter up in marriage, and abandon his post.”

Hassel nearly spat out his wine. “That was definitely not true.”

“She did leave, though. And I ended up earning my Electric Badge to his replacement.”

It was Hassel's turn to take a deep sip of his glass.

The waitress finally returned, this time an unwelcome interruption, and they both ordered. Brassius a vegetable risotto with truffle oil – if he was going to splurge, he may as well get the truffle. Hassel ordered a rigatoni arrabiata with sausage.

“Are you vegetarian?” the blonde asked casually after the waitress left with the empty serving tray that had been their bruschetta.

Brassius shook his head. “Not exactly. I just don't eat a lot of meat.”

Hassel once again tapped their shoes together, looking slyly over his glass.

“If you like, you can try mine. If I can have a bite of yours, too. The risotto, I mean.”

It was Brassius’s turn to blush. Cheeky, this guy!

He tapped back with a grin.

“I'm looking forward to it.”

And the string quartet continued to play sweetly in the background. They didn't even notice the disturbance at the front of the restaurant. Someone was loud, and getting firmly removed from the place.

But the two men were fully focused on each other. The room faded around them as they enjoyed each other's company.

“I can't believe you're the guy who dethroned the old Levincia gym leader. I'm still in shock. You must tell me what Pokémon you used to do it.”

“I can't believe you'd heard about that. Oh… that was an Axew and Gible win. I didn't even need to bring out the rest.”

“Well I can't wait to meet the rest of your team. Gible was such a doll. And I can't believe you didn't come to Artazon. It's a little quiet compared to Levincia, but it's beautiful.”

“I think it’s been long enough,” Hassel said with a fond expression, “that I can make a return to Paldea.”

They finished the bottle of wine, their meals, and shared a few bites of dessert. The conversation stayed light as Brassius not only described a bit of his hometown, but some other famous places – the Ten Sights of Paldea – that he had only visited two of himself, in promise of future travels.

It was fun to dream of being on the road, a little bit. The artist hoped, perhaps, that some of that much needed inspiration could be found along the way.

When the bill came, Hassel swiped it out of the waitress’s hands. Brassius made a small sound as he reached for it but was gently swatted away by the older man.

“We’re celebrating you tonight. Don't even try to change my mind.”

And to Brassius’s shock, Hassel paid with credit, and given they were in Unova he tipped handsomely as well, laying down a number of large bills on the table.

Where did he get this much cash?? Brassius was genuinely baffled.

But after a bottle of wine, he didn't really care too much.

What mattered is that this handsome, educated, eloquent, artistic, worldly, and surprisingly capable man held his hand and led him through the restaurant to the front in a daze.

Hassel received his guitar from the coat check counter, threw it over his shoulder, and walked around with his other arm around the artist’s waist, holding him close as they started to walk in the direction of Brassius’s hotel.

Their hotel?

Well, they both had room keys.

But things went less swimmingly than expected when a woman ran out of the crowd and grabbed Hassel’s opposite arm with extreme force, pulling both men backwards with recoil.

“Master Hassel!! I've got you!!”

And in an instant the illusion of happiness and promise was shattered like glass.

The dark-haired woman pulled Hassel backwards, yanking Brassius back with him, pulling them both violently out of their reverie.

After half a beat, Hassel himself stiffened and stood firmly, yanking the dark-haired woman with the grip on his arm off of him.

His eyes were like fire. Brassius looked up and stepped slightly back.

“What's going on?” the artist asked, at little sheepishly, but received no reply.

Hassel stood firmly between Brassius and this mysterious woman. After a few glances up and down, Brassius recognized a familiar uniform, as militaristic as it was silly.

Some important dragon clan. He never learned the name, they were clandestine despite practicing out in the open. They didn't didn't talk much about anything besides the power of dragon-types, but he’d seen them wandering around Paldea, training. Once or twice, he’d fought them himself. They were strong, but not insurmountable.

Yet now…

“Master Hassel, I am so glad I found you,” the woman spoke in a pleading voice. “I've been searching for you. I did not think you'd go so far as Unova, but--.”

Hassel himself was as stiff as the Levincia Skyscrapers.

“How did you find me this time?” He asked, cold.

The woman stepped back on her heels, but then righted herself.

Then she bowed. Deeply.

“We had to track you on foot, again, Master. Your father desires a word with you. Please!”

Brassius whispered aloud, “…Master?” and Hassel pushed him even more firmly behind him.

It was all so confusing and surreal. But Brassius waited, and listened, as people on the street walked past them in a hurry, or stood back to observe the quickly escalating scene.

The woman raised her head, but averted her eyes.

Is that reverence or fear? Brassius tried to figure it out, but remained perplexed.

“I want nothing to do with him, or my mother, or my younger siblings, or anyone in the family. I thought you were all made aware of this years ago.”

She sputtered, glanced up, then down again. Fear and embarrassment.

“I—We are all very aware of your current position, Master Hassel, but your father's word is law. He only wishes to--.”

“Enough of this. I refuse. My will is known, so leave me be.”

The woman looked up, some cross between desperation and fear in her eyes.

“You must return! Please, come back and complete the ceremony. You cannot inherit anything without it, and your sisters cannot carry on the--.”

Hassel pulled his hand from her grip and waved her off as if sickened.

“I don't care. They'll find a way without me.”

“But, Master…”

“Leave me!”

Brassius knew a messy and complicated situation when he saw it. He’d had his spats with his older sister and his parents, but all those fights were ephemeral. They loved each other through hardship. This, however, was clearly a deep, old wound.

It's no wonder Hassel was hesitant to talk about his past.

He felt bad for the woman who was pleading so intensely with the man who so recently had captured his now very, very full attention.

Hassel turned sharply, pulling Brassius along with him. The man looked coldly over his shoulder.

“Don’t follow me. If you do, know I will beat you. You'd only return home in shame.”

Defeat in a Pokémon battle, of course. The Pokéballs on Hassel’s hip were rattling with excitement.

And as exhilarating as that would've been, Brassius didn't actually want any trouble. He would rather watch an official tournament than some backstreet brawl, especially after a few glasses of wine. But ultimately, he felt rather powerless watching from the sidelines.

Of all things, the woman snarled. She pulled a mobile phone from a satchel at her side, flipped it open, and dialed a number. She was confident, until she stammered out what she had to say.

“G-g-good morning, Ma'am. Yes, I have the young master here before me, if you w-wish to speak to your son…”

But instead of confronting the muffled woman’s voice on the other line, Hassel's eyes widened, and he ran.

Brassius was pulled behind him into the thick crowds. The bewildered artist trailed behind the musician in a moment of passion - not the kind he’d been expecting that evening, but nonetheless invigorating and avant-garde.

He could’ve pulled away, but he was invested. Nothing could've torn the moss-green haired artist from the mysterious man from the dragon clan at this point.

This is… inspiration!

The dark-haired woman failed to push through the people, who collectively were blocking her aggressive behavior, so she stepped to the middle of the street, released a Noivern and jumped on its back to try and trail them from above.

But Hassel was cleverer than that. Like he’d played this game of cat and mouse a million times.

They ran down the street and into an alleyway. Then turned down another.

Brassius couldn’t suppress the wild grin that grew across his face. This confusion, this fear, it was exhilarating.

He heard the cry of the Noivern from above. It screeched high pitched above the bustle of the city below. At one point, it flew directly above, and Hassel shoved the artist hard against the brick wall of the alley in an attempt to hide.

“I'm so sorry,” Hassel hissed, meeting his voice low.

But Brassius smiled up at him, something devilish glistening in his silver-gray eyes.

“What for? Where are we going to hide?”

Hassel stared for a moment longer than he probably should have, finding something in those wide gray eyes that beckoned him and said this is ok.

Brassius pretended his chest wasn't tightening. The moment he needed to run, he had to trust his heart would give him what he desired.

The artist's breath was labored when Hassel pressed their foreheads together briefly, giggled under his breath, and pulled Brassius along for another wild ride.

“O..okay… Come on, I'll show you.”

They crossed into a street, dancing past cars that honked at them angrily.

They didn't care.

People let the strange couple through, laughing madly as they ran.

What could Hassel have been thinking? Brassius wondered as the city lights rose and fell and flickered around them. Was the man angry? Afraid? Excited?

It left the artist spinning with possibility and adventure.

The woman and her noisy Noivern had some lights pointed at them some officer Jenny or another for an obvious public violation. As soon as the sirens went off, the woman flew off into the night.

After another block, the men paused. Hassel was only slightly out of breath and grinning when Brassius tugged back on the blonde’s arm.

“She's gone. I can’t hear Noivern's wings anymore--.”

Brassius leaned heavily against Hassel, head lowered toward the broken asphalt below their feet.

Can't…can't breathe…!

“W…wait. Hold…up…a second…I think…”

And in a sudden spiral, Brassius felt the ground spin out below him. His chest tightened intensely – too much, too fast – as he felt strong arms encircle him, then hold his head from falling backward.

And the world faded to black.

Brassius awoke in the hospital. The beeping and whirring of machines was familiar to him.

He immediately hated it.

But the sun was shining in through the wide window, and his mother held his hand as he stirred. Her deep grey eyes glistened with tears.

“He’s awake! The medicine must be wearing off, like the nurses said it would.” She was speaking to his father, surely. “my baby, mi cariño!”

She pressed his hand to her cheek, and he felt the tears flow down into his fingertips.

Oh…

“Mamá, why are you…here?”

He still felt dizzy, but he realized he had a few machines hooked up to his body. When he fainted, he must've fallen hard.

His brain was foggy, but he pieced it together, bit by bit.

“You've worried your mother sick, hijo.” His father stood at the side of the window. He could see the severe expression on the man's moustached face, but he never wore his heart on his sleeve, instead expressing his feelings vicariously through Brassius’s over-caring mother.

They both cared deeply, and he loved them all the more for it.

Brassius laid there a minute listening to his mother sniffle, holding his hand to her cheek firmly.

“Má, I'm OK. I'm alive.”

“You're lucky you didn't need surgery!” She cried. It was hard to bear, but he did. “Your heart. My little one, my baby, you need to take care of it. Why were you out giving yourself a heart attack?”

Brassius stared numbly at the ceiling.

“Did I have a heart attack?”

His mother sobbed, so his father came to his side, gently pressing on his son’s curly hair.

“No, you did not. But you nearly gave your mother one.”

Brassius turned his head to the side. He was swimming in too many thoughts. His parents flew all the way out to find him this way. How long had he been unconscious?

Where was Hassel?

“You're lucky that boy brought you here so fast. The nurses said things could’ve ended up so much worse had you been just a few minutes too late.”

He grumbled, fading in and out a little as he woke up. So his request came out in a half-whisper.

“Where is he now?”

“Where is he?” his father repeated aloud. “He, who? The boy who brought you here?”

His father grumbled back. It’s not like the knew anything about Hassel. The man just wanted his son to be safe.

“That blonde boy?” his mother chimed in between tears. “Oh my baby, he brought all your things here from the hotel. He’s such a sweet boy. He didn't say much to us, but he was so strong with your suitcase... You know you carry too many things when you travel, sweet boy…”

Brassius’s father turned to look away. It wasn't judgment, but concern.

“Your father doesn't trust the strange artists you befriend, darling, you know how he is.”

Brassius sighed while the nurse came in. As a distraction from the painful conversation with his parents, the nurse checked his vitals, explained the medicine they were pumping directly into his veins, and said the doctor would be in shortly to give a detailed assessment.

He’d just overstrained himself. The chamber of his heart that was the weakest had begun to flutter and needed to get back under control. After he’d been stabilized under the care of a medical team, his body just have needed the rest, and he slept under a mild sedation. Apparently he’d sat up to sip on water late the previous night – not that he remembered.

He had been brought in a quarter after 11 Saturday night. It was now about 10 in the morning on Monday.

Well, that explains how my parents had the time to travel here.

One day, he'd probably end up having a pacemaker, but he'd avoid that day as long as he could. He was twenty two, not eighty two, damnit.

Running through the alleys of a city weren't going to help him with that goal, however.

“Is Hassel here?”

His parents looked at each other with confusion.

“Hassel? …is that the blonde boy's name? Guitar?”

Brassius used all of his energy to sit up and nodded.

“Yes, má, that's his name. He’s...,” he leaned back and closed his eyes In defeat. “I like him….”

She pet his cheek, and combed her fingers through his hair. “Yes, baby. Well, he seems to like you.”

Brassius’s father looked down at something out the window on the street below. He shook his head.

“That boy has been playing music on the streets like some kind of homeless person. Are you sure you like this guy?”

Brassius rolled his head back. “Oh, Arceus, why do you torture me like this?!”

He definitely didn't want to have this conversation with his family right now.

The doctor came in just in the nick of time to explain he’d be there one more night to make sure his heart was stable – he knew it was, they were just being careful. Brassius was lectured to be more cautious with his multiple medications, not to mix them with too much alcohol, definitely no drugs – he’d been avoiding the harder stuff since his last blackout, not that anyone there needed to know about it – and not to take his medications at odd hours. And most especially, no activity that will suddenly strain his weakened cardiovascular system, such as running down the streets in the middle of the night.

His parents were not thrilled by that particular revelation.

He'd heard all the same warnings a million times before. Life wasn't interesting if he didn't throw it to the wind once in a while, though he didn't say anything to the doctor or to his overly protective parents about living freely once in a while.

After the doctor left and his parents started asking questions, he waved them off – he didn't want to focus on their questions when he had his own he wanted answers for. He found his mobile on the counter and flipped it open, blatantly ignoring his parents.

He called Hassel, who picked up on the second ring, sounding a little breathless. He put the man on speaker, for whatever reason it was easier for him in this moment.

“You're alive!”

“I'm awake… where are you?”

Brassius’s parents looked at each other skeptically. From across the room, his father paced back and forth.

“Just outside. I can't go in to see you. I'm not family.”

“I’ll let you. I—what happened with your family? Last thing I remember was being chased by that woman--"

His parents both raised their voices at that, chittering in Paldean in the background.

His mother cried, “What in the world are you saying?? So you were not just running, but were being chased?? Are you in danger!!??”

And his father, who rarely raised his voice, cried, “I forbid you to see someone who will put you directly in danger. I don't care how much you like this boy--!”

To his surprise, Hassel laughed quietly at that.

“Please don't feel them I can speak Paldean. I can understand everything they're saying.”

His parents shut their mouths abruptly. Hassel probably couldn't tell he was on speaker until that moment. They heard the man inhale sharply on the other line.

“I just found out right now,” Brassius said with a chuckle. The attempt at speaking his local tongue wasn’t terrible, just unexpected. Everyone in the world spoke in common, anyway, unless they wanted to keep a conversation private. “Don’t worry, they don't like anyone.”

His mother gasped dramatically. “That is not true!”

Brassius shook his head, returning to his phone. “Were you private tutored in languages, too, like music?”

It was Hassel’s turn to sigh. “I am fluent in practically everything, I regret to admit…yes, from private tutoring… umm… let's not talk about all that right now, if that's alright…”

Brassius’s parents were obviously listening carefully. His mother silently spoke with her hands, a beckoning motion. His father shook his head, but his mother raised a finger to the pacing man, who lowered his shoulders in defeat.

“Come up. Meet my parents… Tell me what happened with that woman…”

Brassius heard the chatter of people in the background. Some kid yelled about a guitar man. Hassel really was on the street, as his father had said.

“I don't know. It's probably too soon. Besides, I kind of met them in passing…I don't want to interrupt your…reunion.”

His parents glanced silently at each other, then back at him.

“Come up anyway.”

“……..Alright.”

Brassius’s mother held his arm tight. His father was silent.

The phone call ended abruptly. Brassius’s father said he'd grab a coffee from the vending machine – Unova didn't have great coffee, but at least it was available – and stepped out of the room.

“What do you know about this boy?” his mother whispered. “When did you meet him? Why was he being chased??!!”

Brassius patted his mother's arm gently.

“It’s not a library. You don't have to whisper. He’s a musician, má, and a great one. He is smart, too, don't worry. He has a job… And I'm going to find out about the chase, too. It happened so fast. One moment we were leaving the restaurant, and then suddenly… this woman came out of nowhere.”

“You ran? Some woman chased you? Someone this boy knows?” She asked, a little louder. The worry in her face was palpable, so he held her hand tight.

He smiled back. “He’s not a risk, mamá. You'll see.”

She leaned against her son while the hospital phone rang. She reached over to answer it, but Brassius grabbed it instead.

The front desk asked his permission for a guest to come up. It was visiting hours, of course, so he admitted his guest without question.

It took a minute longer than expected for the musician to come up. When he did, Brassius’s father led the way. Apparently the man had grabbed two coffees from the vending machine and met Hassel by the elevator, handed him one with a brief but very firm handshake. To the father's surprise, Hassel introduced himself politely, and returned the handshake with equal fervor.

The two men were otherwise quiet and a little tense as they entered the room, but both held a bitter black coffee in two throwaway cups.

This was as close to being welcoming as Brassius’s father could possibly be, all things considered.

Brassius gave Hassel a small smile and a wave.

Hassel wanted to run to him and explain so, so many things. But instead, Brassius’s chestnut-haired mother ran up and held his hand, patting it gently.

She introduced herself with far more warmth than her husband had, and ended it by turning back to her bedridden son.

“See! We do not hate everyone you bring home.”

“Má, I did not say those words!”

“You said exactly that just minutes ago!”

The tension dissipated as they laughed lightly, gently teasing each other in only a way a loving family could.

Even Hassel, looking sheepish and a bit worn out standing there awkwardly, cracked a small smile.

“We’ll give you some space, baby,” said Brassius’s mother. She kissed the top of his head lovingly. “We’ll be just outside, alright?”

His father didn't look pleased as his mother pulled him out of the room. Brassius raised his voice as they left. He didn't want them lingering.

“Go out and eat. Please, I'm not going anywhere.”

Hassel spoke up with a sort of reserved, polite confidence.

“Forgive my intrusion, but, if you're in the mood for breakfast, the hospital cafeteria won't do. There is a lovely little café we've discovered about three blocks away, if you don't mind the walk. I believe Brassius here likes the almond croissants.”

Something fluttered warmly in the artist's heart hearing the words we’ve discovered.

Brassius looked up at him fondly. It was nice when someone cared to remember the little likes and dislikes, even after only knowing him for such a brief time.

It already felt like longer than just one short week, and also not nearly long enough.

“It’s true. The place is charming, and the pastries are delicious. The coffee there is also perfectly rich and not at all bitter. Could you go and bring me one?”

His father huffed. “You know how your mother feels about you drinking too much caffeine--.”

“If I don't get one I will surely die.”

His parents rolled their eyes – that was some sort of private joke, Hassel guessed. The parents agreed to go to the little café and bring back a coffee, so long as Brassius promised to call them immediately if anything happened while they were gone, and answer if they called him first.

And with the click of the hospital door, the men were left alone.

Brassius was the first to break the silence.

“I’m sorry. I didn't expect to throw you at my parents like that. My family can be a bit overbearing…”

Hassel set his large travel bag at the foot of the bed, along with his guitar. The bitter coffee gifted by Brassius’s father was set on the table by the charging mobile phone.

Of all the things he was expecting in reply from the blonde, Brassius was not expecting tears.

Yet here they were, falling heavy on the musician’s warmly colored cheeks. He was crying and covering his fallen face with one hand, fingers making a web across his eyes.

It was all very childish.

“I’b so sorry… this is allb by fault… I dibnt know all that medicine was bfor-” Hassel hiccupped, “—or you couldn’t stress out your hearbt.”

Hassel exhaled deeply as he leaned over the edge of the bed, sobbing. Brassius felt a strong need to fix… whatever was wrong here. He reached out, carefully avoiding the saline drip in his right arm, and clasped Hassel’s hands in his own.

They were big and warm. He rubbed those hands gently, which seemed to help soothe the man who sat beside him.

“Listen,” Brassius said in a low tone. “I don't tell everyone under the sun about my variety of health problems, and you don't need to tell everyone about your… family problems? You've got nothing to apologize for…”

Hassel sniffed, but he didn't wipe his eyes. He allowed his hands to be trapped between the artist’s slender fingers, but his eyes were looking down.

“I do, though… she was sobeone ib my clan…,” sniffle, sob, “they always find me. I didn't meab to drag you into it…”

Brassius inhaled slowly.

One…two…three…

As he exhaled, he realized Hassel was trying to breathe with him.

“Who was that we were running from?” Brassius continued in a soft voice. He leaned in just slightly. “I just remember she had black hair…and a tacky suit… are you in danger? is your family threatening you?”

Hassel hiccupped. Charmingly innocent.

The blonde turned away slightly, breathing in and out, calming himself down. If he didn't want to explain, Brassius wouldn't push the issue.

They had time to learn, after all.

“I stobbed talking to themb years ago,” Hassel sniffled, then coughed to clear his throat.  He was opening up, slowly. “The only threat they pose is dragging me back in. They wouldn't hurt anyone, not seriously. It’s…complicated. They're the reason I don't stay more than a few months in one place. They start harassing me to come back… I… I don't want to burden you with all of this right now.”

Hassel had stopped sobbing, at least. He was speaking normally again.

Brassius reached across the table to grab him a tissue, which he took and turned away politely to use.

“You don't have to explain anything. We have all the time in the world. Besides… last night was fun. I mean, the other night… It was the most fun I’ve had in a long while. You have no idea…”

The artist, with a slightly shaking hand – he was still weak, after all – touched Hassel’s back until the man turned back around with his head hanging in shame.

“I can't forgive myself so easily. I can't have you consoling me, when you're the one strapped to a hospital bed…”

Hassel took Brassius’s hand – the one that had been on his back – and held it quietly for a moment. His molten gold eyes stretched across the span of pale skin on the artist’s outstretched arm, noticing for the first time a mosaic of scars.

It’s not like he’d had a moment over the past week to observe the younger man up close. Not like this.

Hassel touched the scars gently with his other hand, but only briefly, before Brassius pulled away and hid himself under the thin blanket.

“Don't--.”

“I'm…” sorry fell silent on Hassel’s lips. It was time for him to step up and take proper responsibility. He smiled softly, and brushed away a lock of curly hair that the artist was hiding behind.

They looked into each other's eyes, just for a moment, before Brassius looked the other way.

“It doesn’t bother me,” Hassel whispered. “You don't have to explain anything, right? Like you said, we have all the time in the world.”

It was all to clear that they both had plenty of secrets to share, but they'd have to hide them just a little longer.

Until then, patience.

Hassel reached forward, with a little bravery, and placed his hands gently around Brassius’s gaunt face. He turned the artist toward him – effortlessly, as perhaps the artist turned into it on his own – and pressed their lips together for the very first time.

The hospital was perhaps not the most romantic place for a kiss, let alone their first. Hassel had been planning on that after their dinner date, but the universe had other plans.

They broke apart slowly, as the heart monitor started beeping with a bit more intensity.

Brassius’s breathing was slightly hitched, coming out somewhere between a sigh and a light laugh.

“My mother will kick you out if you ruin my heart again.”

“I don't plan on breaking it.”

The monitor spiked high enough in that moment that a nurse ran in. Hassel backed away in a hurry, but the nurse gave him a look as she fussed around the bed, checked the monitor, and said, “Let's keep that heart rate down and stable for another 24 hours, okay, kids? Doctor’s orders.”

Kids! She may as well have said to behave.

Both men were pink in the face, but still, they smiled at each other as misbehaving children do.

But they both knew the artist's parents would be returning soon enough, so returned with a little emotional whiplash to a very grounded conservation. It didn't matter one bit if Hassel was still wiping a stray tear from his eyes.

“So I helped your curator Jareth out yesterday. I simply explained that you were tired, and he wasn't at all surprised. Even let me help box things up and work with the moving teams. He even paid me rather well to do it! Dinner was covered four times with that, if you were wondering.”

Brassius leaned back with a groan.

“I can't believe I thought you were broke. People just throw money at you.”

Hassel laughed loudly, bearing his teeth. “I can't help it if people like me!”

There's that smile again, Brassius couldn't help but think, bright as the sun…

“Ah, but Jareth is awfully generous… I'm not surprised.”

“He even extended your room in the hotel for one more day, thinking you'd need the rest.”

Brassius shook his head. “Perhaps he's too generous…”

Hassel nodded in agreement. “Generosity is a good quality in a person. Besides, it gave me all the time I needed to clean up everything for you. But I did pay for the room for one more night beyond that, so I’d be able to stay there tonight...”

“Generosity! You're one to speak,” Brassius smiled at him, silver-gray eyes glistening. “You didn't have to do any of that for some guy you just met.”

The musician shrugged nonchalantly. No one had ever accused him of going half in. It was all or nothing.

Brassius didn't know that detail yet, but he saw it as kindness, and as part of the man’s charm.

“Don't think I'm too nice though! I… I used your sketchbook,” Hassel proclaimed, changing the subject with a sheepish duck of the head. “I couldn't help myself. I went through it, and got inspired. You know I'm something of an artist myself…”

Brassius would normally have been annoyed at the admission. His sketchbook was private, like a diary. Had it been anyone else, he may have shown his temper, little that he had of one. He spent more time angry at himself than at others.

He hmm'd instead, teasing just a little.

“You don't say? I suppose the punishment for your transgression is that you'll have to show me. Where’d you put it?”

“Oh, its here in my bag--.”

At some point, they'd begun to hold hands. The blonde man was about to turn to his bag to get the sketchbook, but the door suddenly clicked open and he clasped their hands together tighter in some sort of backwards instinct. The artist squeezed back gently.

When the door suddenly opened and Brassius’s parents reentered the room, they didn't even pull apart until his mother placed a small latté at his bedside.

And one was offered to Hassel as well, by his father. There was an unspoken tension between them, but Hassel knew loud and clear that he was being assessed.

It was a familiar feeling. Though it had been a while, it never really went away.

The parents exchanged glances. The father nodded a little stiffly and stood behind his wife as she sat down.

“You were right about the place,” she said to both of them, though she was turned toward her son. “Excellent quality, for Unova. Nothing on the famous bakery in Cortondo, though. Or even the little shop by the house.”

“I didn't say it surpassed any of them,” Brassius said, rolling his eyes. “But you're right. Nothing beats an Americano and a cinnamon churro from that street vendor. It’ll be nice to be home.”

They had a little moment, mother and son. She touched his arm gently, only briefly. She knew he wasn't comfortable with it.

Which is why she was a little surprised to see her boy holding hands with this…stranger.

So she decided to open him up, a little bit.

“Hassel, my dear. You speak Paldean, yes? But you're not from there, so you must've stayed sometime. To give you a reason to learn.”

Everyone across the globe did speak a common tongue, so knowing a regional dialect was usually just reserved for those who were raised there.

Hassel hid a little behind the latté they'd brought him – plain, vanilla. Not his favorite, but it was good. It was polite to show respect to elders, especially ones he wanted not to disappoint, even if he didn't want to play this particular game.

“Oh, yes. I stayed for a few months in Levincia. But, I would like to go back and see more of the sights.”

“¡Maravillosa!” She exclaimed. “Where are you from? And what brought you to live here in Unova? Were you also at the gallery showing?”

“Má, he is a musician, but we met at the gallery.” Brassius swooped in, trying to save Hassel, though he too was curious. He didn't want his mother prying the blonde open when he knew he was uncomfortable about it. “I- in fact, when do you start tonight? Don't you have to prepare?”

Hassel felt a pit of guilt open in his stomach. He didn't want to lie, he was not a liar, and he absolutely did not want to become one now.

“Oh, I took the night off. I was worried about you, after all…”

But he didn't really have to. His excuse wasn't that far from the truth.

“But… now that your parents are here, I have some important errands to run. So I hope you don't mind.” He pat one of the Pokéballs visibly hanging on his hip. “Gible and the rest would do well with a bit of exercise…”

Brassius’s mother clasped her hands together. His father hummed in approval.

“A trainer! How wonderful.”

“Not by profession, but they really enjoy it.” Hassel took this moment to step toward the door. “And it pays the bills. I'll, uhh, call you later when I'm done. Thank you again for the latté.”

Brassius waved at him, but the blonde was out in a flash.

As the musician hurried down the elevator and out the front of the hospital, the weight of the awkwardness of the whole situation fell heavy on his shoulders, from waiting like a Rockruff for this guy he’d desperately fallen for, to very unintentionally meeting the man's parents, to kissing him gently in a cold, clinical hospital bed.

Hassel couldn’t get those reflective gray eyes out of his head, like looking at the full moon on a starry night.

His heart ached in some way he couldn’t describe in words. He could play it out in musical notes, but right now, he felt more like a candle that needed to burn, that needed a match.

As soon as he hit the street, he released Gible, who hobbled about curiously.

“C’mon, Mister Gible. Let's go to our training spot!”

And he ran, the little dragon gleefully keeping up pace at his side.

He left everyone in the park that afternoon in shambles, battling until the sun set down below the horizon.

One call from a blocked number.

Two texts from a new one.

Hassel regretted not checking his mobile phone more often. But he was so used to the tossaway prepays to keep his family from finding him, but somehow they always did.

He didn't want to miss out on these new messages, though.

[Brassius: (2:37) Having fun? I want 2 C U battle.]

[Brassius: (5:56) Visiting hrs end at 7. U coming bk? Left your stuff here.]

Damn his luck. It was half past seven.

He just didn't really want to see Brassius’s parents again. It was still far too soon to get familiar with them, just in case.

So he called, as promised. He wasn’t much of a texter, anyway.

“You're late,” Brassius answered, partly teasing and partly annoyed.

“Not even a Hello!” Hassel joked back. “Frankly, I'm shocked by this.”

Brassius chuckled under his breath. He was sounding much better.

“Better get used to it. I'm not the patient type. Besides, visiting hours has a hard cutoff of… about forty minutes ago.”

It was Hassel’s turn to be frustrated. He restrained himself from showing it.

“When did your parents leave?”

“About 40 minutes ago…”

“You see--.”

“They were hoping to hear how your battling went. I didn’t quite tell them the whole story about Levincia, but I did say you'd earned a badge there by accident and that you'd have to explain it.”

Hassel groaned, and nearly tripped on a stone in the grass in the training field. It was getting pretty dark.

“I can't tell them all of that…”

“Why not?”

Hassel pinched the bridge of his nose. He didn't want to come across as too stubborn, not in this pivotal moment. So he settled for some simple explanation that was true enough.

“I don't really know them.”

“They don't really know you either. It's an opportunity to…” the artist exhaled slowly, contemplating his words. “It’s an opportunity for me, too. I want to get to know you.”

Hassel was silent for a moment on his end of the line. So Brassius continued, tone surprisingly adamant.

“I’d hate to go through your bag to find my own sketchbook and give you a review of what damage you've done to it over the phone. I’d rather do this in person.”

The blonde closed his eyes for a beat and laughed. “I would love that.”

“No, I think instead I’ll teach myself how to play guitar instead. I have all night.”

Hassel laughed. “I'll be happy to teach you myself, but you’d have to learn left-handed on that particular model.”

“I'm versatile.”

“I bet.”

“But sadly, lessons will have to wait till tomorrow,” the artist sighed dramatically. “Until then, I’ll just be torturing the night shift and any other fools here who care to sleep.”

Hassel shook his head, not that the artist could see him. “No, I don't think it will have to wait.”

Brassius tsk’d on the other side of the line.

“They probably won't let you in.”

“That doesn't matter, I have a—fuck! Not again.”

The tense words that slipped through the cracks were in Galarian. Brassius sat up sharply in the hospital bed.

“What's happening? What's going on?!”

He heard a muffled cacophony of noises in the background. One woman said something he just barely couldn't make out, so this one was nearby. Then another one spoke up at about the same range. Then came the sounds of Pokémon being released.

“Just hang on. I'll be there in a minute. I've got to take care of something first…”

Click.

Brassius knew instinctively what was happening was related to the encounter the other night. His heart monitor spiked in the side of his vision, but not so erratically as it had before. He clutched at the blanket and cursed his situation aloud under his breath.

If only he could be there. If only he had any of his own Pokémon with him… But his parents had left them in his sister's gentle care when they flew out in a flurry.

Which was for the best, really.

Still, he was feeling afraid for Hassel. The man seemed confident enough when he had hung up, but Brassius remembered just as sharply how he had run, afraid of facing something that clearly was tormenting him.

Brassius needed desperately to know what that thing was Hassel was so afraid of.

There wasn't anything he could do but wait.

He clasped the phone tightly in his hands, wondering when it would ring.

But it never did.

Hassel heard the women from his clan approaching from behind only after some kids who were still lingering on the training grounds yelled excitedly about them.

“Look it’s the dragon trainers!”

“Maybe they'll actually beat that guy!”

The kids' Pokémon chattered and skree'd at their side, but in spite of their intrigue, they all knew to stand back and watch what was unfolding from a distance once they realized things were serious.

“We've got you cornered, Master Hassel! Ironically, it's out in an open field.”

“Forgive our intrusion, Master, but now that we've found you, we must inform you that we have been granted permission to return you by any means necessary.”

The two women stood back to back in formation, and released their Pokémon.

A Sliggoo and a Zweilous.

If this was their style, it was nothing he couldn't handle, no matter how many Pokémon they had on them.

Hassel said his peace to Brassius over the phone, clicked it closed, and threw it in his back pocket.

Many of his Pokémon were tired after battling for hours, but he would never leave them without backup, or himself without self defense.

He released Dragalge who, though demure as far as dragons go, proudly defeated two rounds on her own. He gave her reprive in the final round, letting his little Noibat happily finish them off.

The kids off to the side ended up cheering for him regardless, due to how much he dominated the scene. Because they were being watched, the women backed without a fight down after they were defeated.

“By any means necessary, you say?” He mocked the women as they licked their wounds. “You'll have to get much better if you want to even think about taking me back to that ice cold castle. Tell my father I send my regards, but I'm living my own life.”

The women both glanced over at the children, wide-eyed in amazement and curiosity, and stepped back.

“We’ll get you back soon, Master!”

“Master Hassel, please return to the Lord and Lady. We need you.”

And with that, the women ran off.

Before he even had the chance to think about what had transpired, the children applauded nearby, looking up at him with eyes wide with wonder.

“Mister! Can you show us?!”

“Mister, can you teach us how to use Dragon-types like you do?! They're so strong!”

Noibat flitted happily around them, but Hassel called the little flying dragon back to him with the temptation of a berry, which it took joyfully from his hands.

The kids oohed as the tiny bat-dragon munched cutely on the sweet berry.

But Hassel was quick to give them a reminder, much like a teacher would, that dragon types were not toys. As Noibat landed on his shoulder, it tried as carefully as it could to prevent its claws from sinking in too deep. This was after years and years of practice, so he made it look easy.

Having the children show up was a helpful distraction. He hated being so emotional, but he really couldn't help his nature. Their presence still prevented him from shaking, from letting a single tear fall. So he left them with a little something to think about.

“Your partner is a fire-type. And you have a ground-type. If you could use them fight against, say, a flying type like Noibat here—,” and the Noivern cooed as he brushed his fingers under its chin, “—what attacks might you use? Maybe use a defensive technique instead. There are abilities that can change the landscape to suit you better. Worry less about the strength of your opponent, and more about how you can exploit their weaknesses. Because everyone has one.”

The children may as well have been taking notes, given how wide their eyes were from paying attention to the brief but valuable lesson. It was nothing a 101 course wouldn't give them, but not everyone received a formal education, let alone the highly specialized one he had.

The kids ran off with a gleeful “Thanks, mister!” and Hassel resisted the urge to tell them to be safe and head home, given how dark it had gotten. He supposed he was feeling his age creeping up on him.

He pet Noibat once more as it finished the berry. Finally he sniffled, allowing himself to feel the conflicting emotions he had over…everything, really… but managed to refrain from crying. A rare success.

“Thank you for your help today,” he whispered as he returned Noibat into his ball, swapping the bat for his big, sweet Dragonite.

He patted her cheek lovingly, and she roared off in the direction the man's clansmen had run.

“They won't be bothering us again tonight. Don't you worry.” She nuzzled him protectively, which caused him to laugh. “I'm not worried. I'm not!”

She didn't believe him. And of course, she was right. The unsettling feeling of having been firmly and properly located here in this city meant his family would send out more people to try to persuade him to return, and with more frequency. For all their threats, they'd never harm a hair on his head, not that he would let them if they dared to try. But he would not be able to let down his guard again in this place now.

It was time to move, yet again.

But one thing was giving him a little hope.

Dragonite allowed him to climb on her back, and she lifted off into the night, going wherever her trainer desired.

[Hassel: “Open the window”]

He texted while flying, hoping the message would be seen before he arrived at the hospital. He didn't want to be spotted by an officer, after all.

Brassius had just finished texting his mother wishing her an early good night – he wasn't about to bother her about the real things on his mind - when he received the notification of another message coming through.

[Hassel: “Open the window”]

The artist squinted and reread the message, just to be sure he was reading it right.

Can the hospital windows even open?

He rolled his legs over the side of the bed and stood up. Oh, he’d been up and moving about all afternoon, but his back still hurt from being in bed most of the day. He rolled his saline drip and heart monitor slowly alongside him over to the window, and pulled back the thin curtain to discover it was a roller that only opened one half of the window out a few inches on the bottom.

Curse my luck! There must be another way…

Careful not to pull too much on the IV needle embedded in his arm, he reached around the large but stubbornly solid window frame for a way to fully open it.

Aha! A latch on the top near the center. Surely it couldn't be this easy.

Is this even what he meant by that message? I guess the night air is nice enough, regardless.

The artist, in his flimsy hospital gown, stood barefoot before the window open to the night air. He let the cool breeze of late summer tousle his now severely unkempt wavy hair. He closed his eyes and felt…small.

In his horrid teenage years, the artist would've considered jumping out that window. Three storeys up would have been enough to end his anguish.

Anguish. Over his own physical fragility, the visible facet of his self loathing. But also lay beneath his pallid skin the invisible; his mental instability which, since as early as he could remember, plagued him with delusions and violent emotional whiplash.

Now it was all reduced to periodic migraines and panic attacks due to having found the right combination of medications. He felt as normal as he had ever felt, at least, when he took them correctly, and without mixing with other substances.

It’s no wonder he had managed to make his most interesting pieces – the ones that garnered him the most attention – at nineteen. The height of his experimentation & involuntary instability, shortly before he finally found the right doctor and the right medicines, and the right patrons who were interested in looking at his shocking art while only ever purchasing the mundane ones.

He rubbed one of his scarred forearms absently. Why am I thinking about this right now?

Oh, right… Hassel saw these…fragments of a past life…

His eyes looked down at the ground below. A neat row of shrubs and roses lined the street below, framing the hospital walls.

But he didn't feel the pull of the earth like he would have in years past.

Brassius smiled softly to himself.

It…feels good to be alive.

He barely noticed the presence of a chunky Dragonite until it arrived, with her rider in tow, on a light breeze made by the flapping of her slightly undersized wings. The man and his dragon flew down from above.

The angel who overcame the serpent.

But the halo behind the shimmering angel was created by the glow of the city lights rising from below, and the serpent had evolved into this dragon with a wide, goofy grin. This image before his eyes was something he could paint. But in a rare moment of clarity, perhaps caused by regulated medication for 48 straight hours, he focused on the human before him with open arms instead of artistic inspiration.

“Hassel!” He cried. “You're alright!! You—you aren't hurt.”

Dragonite made a restrained noise, trying to keep herself quiet. Hassel pet her gently.

“Of course I'm ok,” he said, just loud enough to hear. “May I come in?”

Hassel extended his left hand dramatically, a bit romantically, but Brassius stood right on the edge of the window himself in a sweet moment of awareness, extending his right hand not to pull the other man forward, but to gently entangle their fingers.

“May I come with you?”

An interesting impasse.

Hassel inhaled deeply. No one had ever made this request before. He’d never contemplated dragging someone along with him.

It’s possible that in this moment, he had stars in his eyes.

Dragonite aggressively nuzzled their entwined hands, reminding them of the fragility of the moment.

Brassius, a bit overwhelmed by the strength of the dragon pushing at his hand, found his fingers forcibly separated, and he stumbled back into the room.

Hassel firmly reprimanded his Dragonite, while still allowing her to rub against his hand, demanding affection.

“Don’t be jealous, Dragonite. I love you. Please lean me over to the window. Okay?”

With a small grumble – jealousy after all! – she leaned her back to the window, and Hassel jumped off, landing safely inside.

He returned Dragonite to her ball with a kiss of gratitude, before anyone could catch her lingering outside, then placed her back on his hip with the others.

Brassius folded his arms as best he could, given his situation, looking slightly perturbed.

“Was there not room for two?”

Hassel brushed off the artist's prickly demeanor with a wave of the hand.

“There is,” he said, shaking his head. “But you're not exactly dressed for the occasion.”

Brassius looked down at his hospital gown, then at his IV arm suspiciously. Then he extended his arm and started picking at the tape restraining the needle.

Hassel ran forward and grabbed the artist’s hands, perhaps a little forcefully. But Brassius didn't really fight back, like he might have in past years.

“Don't do that,” Hassel said, a little bit of a nervous expression ghosting across his face. “I can fly you around once you’re better, if you still want to. But let's give it the night, okay?”

Brassius agreed silently, leading Hassel back to the window ledge.

“Can we at least have a cigarette? I really need one. And can you please tell me what the hell happened out there??”

Hassel pulled back, more than a little dismayed.

“A cigarette, now? In a hospital room?”

“The window’s wide open.”

“That's not the point! Ah, I wish I’d known better. You shouldn't be smoking in this condition.”

The artist scoffed and ran his fingers through his own hair to settle his nerves.

“Been doing it for years. I won’t be stopping now.”

He may, in the years ahead, choose to stop, but for now he was adamant.

Hassel, to his credit, succumbed to the younger man's wish. It wasn't beyond him to understand the value of disobedience if it allowed you even an ounce of freedom.

He rummaged through his back pocket, opposite the one with his cheap phone, and pulled out the crunched carton.

There was only one left. He’d been using them on his breaks at Maxwell's all week.

Brassius leaned in close, and with slender fingers reached into the carton and grabbed the cigarette between two fingers.

“Let's share it.”

And so, they did.

Leaning halfway out the window like misbehaving children, they passed the tobacco between themselves for a few minutes before it needed to be ashed. Hassel took the stub, put it firmly out against the outside walls, then tossed it into the bushes three storeys below.

As they stood there, breathing in the smoky night air, Hassel carefully put an arm around Brassius’s slender shoulders and allowed the shorter man to lean into him.

It was comfortable. They stood like that for a moment, sinking into each other.

“So will you tell me what happened out there?” Brassius inquired in a low voice. “I know you don't want to talk about it too much, but… if I'm going to be spending any time with you, I need to know if you're in danger.”

Hassel inhaled deeply, then laughed tensely, restrained.

“I’m not in danger. The only threat to me is being dragged back into my family by force.”

“What do you mean by that? You make it sound like they're trying to kidnap you.”

This time Hassel laughed louder, nervousness apparent.

“You’re correct. They are trying to kidnap me. But they won't do it in a way that would hurt me.”

Brassius was only more confused by the half answers. He looked up, a perplexed look in his gray eyes.

“So they're your family, trying to kidnap you, but not hurt you…,” his voice dropped to a whisper, “…are you in a mafia? Are you running away from a gang? Were you in Team Rocket or something??”

The blonde’s jaw dropped. He released Brassius and stepped back, like he’d been accused of murder. Something smoldered in his amber eyes, despite trying to restrain himself.

“What? No! It's nothing like any of that. They're literally my family. My blood!”

Brassius raised his hands defensively, like waving a white flag.

“I’m sorry! I am simply trying to piece it all together. I don't…I didn’t mean to pry…”

A sudden cool breeze passed through the room, causing the artist to shiver. The hospital gown did nothing to help. So he lowered his arms and wrapped them around himself.

He shouldn't feel bad, but he did.

Hassel stepped forward again, releasing his self-defensive temper with a deep exhale. He pulled the shaking artist in close once more, and guided him back into the room.

“No, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to… I'll explain it. Soon. Just…not right now. I can't right now. I'm sorry…”

“Don't be. I shouldn't keep pressuring you. If I knew you longer, then…I understand.”

Hassel leaned down into Brassius’s soft, moss-green hair. He hadn’t fully noticed just how short the artist was until now, but it felt just right.

“I just don't think I've told anyone before… As soon as they locate me, I leave. That's it.”

Brassius nuzzled closer, slowly wrapping his free arm low around Hassel’s back.

“Nevermind any of it. Say, why don't you go get my sketchbook? Hmm? I promised you a critique…”

Hassel smiled softly, holding back tears.

“…Thank you.”

The musician went to his large travel bag that had been moved to the corner, opened a zipper, rummaged through, and grabbed the slightly oversized sketchpad.

He also moved over to the window and closed it, carefully, pretending nothing at all had transpired there. He closed the thin blinds, too, as Brassius sat cautiously on the edge of the bed.

Hassel looked over his shoulder, expression a little uncertain, suddenly shy.

How is he older than me? Brassius thought, a little concerned, a little amused. He’s so emotionally fragile!

Brassius pat the space next to him on the bed, beckoning. And the musician pattered over obediently, sketchbook in tow.

Brassius gently took the sketchpad out of Hassel's hands as he leaned against the blonde, flipped it open to somewhere past the simple Gible with Hassel's mobile number, and the 3 pages of his obsessive detail of the guitar case, every angle and sticker shaded in until he’d fallen asleep somewhere in the middle of the 3^rd page.

In the empty space left on that page, Hassel had drawn another cute little Gible walking with that very same guitar case on his back, flowers popping up behind where he stepped.

Brassius couldn't hold back a smile. It was simple, sure, but the pencil marks were bold and firm with smooth curves.

“You love that Gible.”

Hassel blushed and laughed lightly. “He's my oldest friend. I adore him.”

“I see.”

As Brassius flipped past the next few pages where he himself had sketched his Pokémon the morning he’d been alone again at the café.

Hassel slid an arm around the artist's waist, and leaned his head against the top of Brassius’s mop of hair.

Brassius relaxed into the embrace.

The artist looked carefully over the various new sketches which filled the next 2 pages, drawn exclusively by Hassel.

The window from the hotel room with a full moon shining in, an Umbreon looking out. An elegant Dragalge underwater surrounded by bubbles. Two Applins cuddling on a tree branch. The table at the café, with a man who looked roughly like himself sitting there drinking coffee. A Shelgon emerging from its cocoon like it was unraveling a pair of wings, ready to evolve..

Brassius knew the man was talented, but these really were excellent.

“Superb work. Your attention to detail is remarkable. And you have a very steady hand.”

Hassel tensed up, just a little.

“Oh, no, you don't need to flatter me so much.”

“Nothing wrong with a little flattery. Besides, I'm a harsh critic. This is just the truth.”

Hassel’s hand tightened around the artist's waist.

Brassius’s breath hitched ever so slightly. So Hassel did it again.

Such a tease! The artist thought as he found his cheeks growing warm.

“I'm still connected to that heart monitor, you know,” Brassius said, touching a place near his heart where the thing was taped under the gown, the long cord sticking out of the bottom. “We can't have a repeat of this morning.”

Hassel smiled sweetly as he reached his free arm forward, and slid his hand up and under Brassius’s own. The blonde pulled the artist's slender hand up to his lips, kissing the back of it once, then twice.

“I know,” he said in a low voice, “I like that it shows me how you really feel.”

The beeps on the monitor were rising again. As much as he didn't want to, Brassius pulled his hand away and patted Hassel’s cheek in a mock slap.

“I don't want you to get found and kicked out, alright? I'm sorry. It's just for tonight.”

The musician pouted and pulled back, just a little.

“C'mon now, it’s not my fault. And definitely not what I want…” Brassius said, voice a whisper at the end. “Let's look at these sketches in more detail, okay? Explain them to me. What inspired this first one?”

“Well, I…”

And Hassel leaned over again to discuss his creative process. They managed to focus on these details for about an hour before a nurse knocked on the door and abruptly walked in. The woman shrieked in surprise at the two men leaning against each other on the bed, staring at her over their shoulders as though she was the problem.

“Excuse me, sir, but visiting hours are long over. You must leave, or I'll be calling security.”

Hassel grumbled but complied. But he leaned over and kissed the artist warmly on the lips before he gathered his things and left.

“Call me.”

Brassius grumbled the whole time the nurse checked in on him. But at least his sketchbook was in his hands. As the nurse left, for the moment, he busted out the charcoal pencil and gray gummy eraser, and began to draw a Gible playing with a Lilligant as he waited for the musician to call or text.

It only took a half hour before the text came through.

[Hassel: “Hi. At the hotel.”]

And they texted through the evening. Until Hassel's prepay mobile phone cut him off abruptly somewhere around midnight.

Hassel flipped the mobile closed with a click, and fell comfortably asleep.

Adding money to his prepay phone was nothing he couldn't fix in the morning.

Hassel checked out of the hotel at approximately 9 am.

He’d showered, grabbed a coffee, and prepared as early as was reasonably possible to get back to the hospital before the man who'd caught his eye had the chance to check out.

He’d tried calling Brassius’s mobile from the hotel phone, but the artist with the beautiful silver-gray eyes didn't pick up.

Maybe he doesn't answer random numbers, Hassel considered, running a hand through his hair, staring to become a little stressed.

He asked for Brassius at the front desk of the hospital, to discover the man had checked out early and left with his family for an early flight.

Brassius is already at the airport? Hassel panicked. Arceus! This damn mobile is worthless.

He cursed his luck. He needed to add minutes to his phone, and fast.

He never paid for his mobile minutes with credit, otherwise he’d be easier for his family to trace. So he asked around for the closest Chansey Supply and booked it as fast as he could.

When he was finished at the store – almost an hour later – he paid for an excessive amount of time and texts.

What felt like a billion messages flooded in at once.

One voicemail.

Two calls from a blocked number.

[Brassius: (11:57 pm) “u should see it.”]

[Brassius: (11:59 pm) “buenas noches"]

[Brassius: (5:32 am) “buenos días”]

[Brassius: (5:35 am) “parents changed flights 2 leave @ 11. Call me"]

[Brassius: (6:25 am) “u sleeping?”]

[Missed call 6:52 am]

[Voicemail 6:55 am]

[Brassius: (7:02 am) “plz call"]

[Brassius: (8:45 am) “released frm hospital. heading 2 airport. U still sleeping? Lazy”]

[Brassius: (9:39 am) “flight lvs @ 11. Where r u"]

It was ten forty five and he was probably too late to catch Brassius on the phone. But he tried.

It rang. And rang.

Straight to voicemail.

Shit!

In the middle of the busy city street, Hassel released Dragonite and jumped right on her back. He didn't care if he got screamed at by the cops, he needed to fly.

And fly he did, high above the city.

There was a hard rule not to fly too high. The Dragons might be able to handle it, but not even the best trained and best equipped human could endure the true heights that a Dragonite could reach.

Hassel still traveled at the highest arc he could, speeding toward the airport.

But he still reached the place at ten after eleven.

He pet the panting Dragonite gently as they both watched the planes take off and land from a nearby field.

Every call went straight to voicemail. He didn't need a college degree to know that connections were terrible at the airport, and there was no connection at all on the plane, and Brassius wasn't even getting these calls at all.

Right?

A pit opened deep in Hassel's gut. Tears fell unrestricted from his eyes. Maybe he was being irrational, but nothing about any of this was rational anyway.

Hassel had spent much of his life on the run. He recalled the chastising words of his father, reminding him of his place, his failings, and his importance. He recalled his mother petting his hair tenderly after many a firm reprimanding, reminding him that his father was right, and he needed to grow up. He remembered many of his tutors, some family and others not, yelling at him again and again to improve, to stand tall, to stop crying.

“Your parents granted permission for corporal punishment, so I am obligated to fulfill their request if you fail at this one more time, understood?”

 “Apologies, young master, but this is the best way to remind you of your place at the head of the family.”

“My dear, sweet son. You inherited a great burden. Dry your tears. I am afraid you must be a man and grow stronger.”

At sixteen, he ran away from all of it.

He was so used to running, he really wasn't familiar with chasing.

He kept seeing the artist in his mind's eye. The man dressed to the nines at the gallery across the alley from his temporary job. The man smiling from the booth at the bar, laughing and singing along with the other drunk patrons. The man, panic-stricken after getting hammered, long after midnight, medicating to sleep in his arms. The man sitting in the café, casually drawing in his sketchbook.

The man who's moon-gray eyes rolled back in his head and fell like death in his arms after they ran from Hassel’s own family.

The man who's weak heart fluttered on the monitor every time he approached, and who leaned in every time they kissed to kiss him in return, the few brief moments they'd even had the opportunity to.

He sat on the grass, watching the planes come and go. Eventually his tears dried up, and he regained a little lost energy. He released his dragons, who lay all around him. He fed them berries and they scratched at his head, tousling his golden-blonde hair like he was one of them.

Which he was, of course.

After a while of staring at the sun and contemplating the moon, he asked his beloved Dragons a very serious question.

“What do you guys think of Paldea?”

The Dragons flew and danced about. Any idea their trainer had was a good idea.

They didn't judge or plot and plan and have unrealistic expectations like humans did.

They were free of all that irrationality.

“I'm getting us tickets. We're headed there today. Brush up on your Paldean, okay? You say ‘roooar' and you say ‘graaaa'. Remember!”

They roared and yipped as they leaned in to embrace their trainer with joy.

“My loves,” he cooed them, kissed their noses and rubbed their ears, “We’re going to be okay. I promise you.”

He laughed alongside them for a little more time, before he returned them all to their Pokéballs set neatly around his waist.

Hassel went in to the airport and booked his international flight. There was an open seat on a flight out in about four hours. He checked his bag and his guitar, and after an hour and a half going through Unova customs, patiently sat in the terminal.

Worst case scenario, we get to go back to Paldea. But even still, I hope he returns my calls…

Hours later, he got on his flight.

On that long international flight, he dreamed vividly of curly moss-green hair and silver eyes, and then he dreamt of himself raising a paintbrush to start painting on a freshly pressed canvas that stretched out somewhere beyond the horizon.

Brassius returned home in a terrible mood.

His parents brought him back to their home – his childhood home – to collect his Pokémon and stay the night in his old bedroom. After a nearly 8 hour flight, a 6 hour time difference, 1 hour in return customs, another 30 minute air taxi back to Artazon, and no responses from the only person he’d really wanted to spend more time with, he wanted to fall into a pit and get buried there.

His sister was still there, keeping watch over all the Pokémon, but it was practically the witching hour and everyone was dead asleep.

He was still surprised, when he rolled his travel bag into his old room to discover his parents had made some recent changes that made him smile.

There were now beds and blankets and various toys for all his Pokémon, who were sleeping very soundly snuggled together in only one, a little blanket sticking out of Smoliv's mouth. He crouched down, careful not to wake them, and tugged the blanket gently out, wrapping them a little better than they had attempted for themselves.

I may have terrible insomnia, but at least they don't.

Given the exhaustion of the travel, his hospital stay, and the emotional rollercoaster of his love life, he didn't even need his sleeping pills. He plugged in his phone and fell onto his bed, right on top of the covers. Within moments he was out like a light.

And as soon as the sun started to rise only three short hours later, his Pokémon awoke in tandem.

Petlil and Smoliv were the first to realize he was there. His arm was hanging off the edge of the bed, foot dangling off of another, and he was actually in a deep enough sleep to be snoring, though it wasn't loud.

They climbed up his sleeve, poked around his face lovingly, then cuddled up.

That was enough to rouse him from slumber. His eyes, heavy-lidded with fatigue, opened slowly. He yawned and pet them each with a hand. Oh he could never be mad at his little muses.

“My loves, my darlings, good morning.”

They danced around enthusiastically as he heard the pitter-patters of Shroomish with Bounsweet on his back on the floor below. He picked them each up, gave them a kiss, and they all cuddled together on the bed.

“I’ve missed you dearly. Yes, Petlil, I will be taking my medicine soon. It's a little early, but I know. Don't fret.”

Petlil nuzzled into his hand warmly.

“Hold on, little ones. I need to check something.”

Brassius reached over to grab his mobile phone and flipped it open.

Three missed calls from Hassel. And one text message.

[Hassel: (4:59 am) Phone died. Just arrived in Mesagoza.]

[Hassel: (5:03 am) I’m so sorry. Please answer.]

It was from only about a half hour ago.

Brassius hit the call button so fast he felt dizzy.

It rang three or four times before a sleepy voice answered.

“Hullo… Sorry. I mean, Buenos días.”

“Good morning, Hassel,” Brassius kept his voice low so as to not wake the rest of his family. “So your phone… died?”

Perhaps a bit harsh to get right to the point, but they were both exhausted and words didn't need to be complicated at this hour.

Brassius heard shuffling on the other line, and a slight groan. The man on the other line spoke in a low, gravely whisper.

“I have a prepay phone, and the minutes ran out. I couldn't have dialed emergency services if I needed to.”

“Really now?”

“Not usually a problem, but I guess I was distracted and didn't notice until it was too late.”

Brassius couldn't really respond to that. He noticed his Pokémon staring at him curiously.

“Don't look at me like that,” he whispered out loud. Smoliv bounced a little, but the rest waited patiently.

“What was that?”

“My Pokémon…they're judging me.”

Hassel laughed under his breath, staying quiet.

“Can I meet them today?”

“Yes,” Brassius answered faster than he should have. He ran a hand through his thick, wavy hair, a little stressed and a little nervous. “I mean. Come to Artazon. You’re still in Mesagoza, right? Just take the sky taxi.”

“Yeah, I… can I crash at your place? I only slept a little on the plane.”

Brassius shook his head. “I'm at my parent’s right now. But if I get back to my apartment…”

“I don't really care. I'm on the street right now.”

“On the street!? Don't be a fool. Get here how. Meet me at the foot of the windmill.”

“The foot of the…windmill…” Hassel spoke sleepily, committing it hazily to memory. “Artazon. Windmill. Okay. I'll see you.”

They said their good byes and hung up. Brassius jumped out of the bed, startling his Pokémon.

“My little loves. I want you to meet someone I met while in Unova.”

They chattered a bit louder than he’d hoped, so he pet them all firmly but gently.

“Shush. Don't be worried. He's very nice, and very handsome. You'll have to tell me what you think when you meet him.”

He didn't really have the time or the energy to put on a clean outfit from his travel bag. And he didn't want to wake his parents or his sister at this hour. So he found his belt of Pokéballs on the nightstand, put his dear grass types back in, grabbed his bag and ran downstairs. By the front door, he pet his parents’s playful Sprigatito, slipped on his uncomfortable new shoes, and hauled his ass as fast as he could without aggravating his body – again! – to the center of town.

The big windmill.

It had been a landmark in Artazon for centuries now, and more recently in the last few decades had become Paldea's Grass-Type gym, led currently by the head gardener of the local landscapers guild.

In his youth, perhaps not all that long ago, Brassius imagined himself many a time climbing to the top, and jumping dramatically to his death amongst the poppies and marigolds.

Now, he stood before the flowers, laid his travel bag down, and waited.

People were waking up and passing by, waving hello.

One even asked how his showing went, and he answered “Good! Very good.” briefly with finesse.

“Happy to be home.”

After about forty minutes of waiting, he considered just heading back to his apartment on his own. It wasn't a far walk, not from here.

That was, until he heard the strumming of a guitar.

He curiously picked up his travel bag and began to walk.

He stepped down to the narrow walkway which widely encircled the windmill. He heard the strumming grow louder as he approached the opposite side.

There weren't many people awake at a quarter to seven who weren't headed off to work. The sounds of music weren't too loud, too obtrusive to the early morning public. But still, people stopped to watch.

Brassius rounded the corner to see the man of the hour at the top of the hill, in front of the flowers by the steps up to the battle arena. That familiar guitar case rested neatly at the base of the tower, oversized travel bag at its side.

Hassel's eyes were closed as his long fingers slid across the strings like a leaf being carried down a river.

The musician was far too tired to sing, but he still carried a tune on the old acoustic just loud enough for the artist to hear and be summoned.

When it was over, the handful of people who were watching clapped. One threw him some coins, which he accepted gratefully. A group of Sunkern leapt about giddily.

Brassius stood there, feeling rather dumb in that moment.

Their eyes met, and Brassius saw the light of the sunrise strike the older man’s strong jawline and made those molten gold eyes glow. Those eyes widened at the very sight of him.

Brassius dropped his travel bag on the cobblestone street and hurried up the hill. Hassel threw his guitar behind his shoulder and opened his arms.

The men embraced for a long, long moment, before pulling back to kiss each other briefly on the cheeks in greeting.

“You're here..!” Brassius exclaimed breathlessly. “You're actually here.”

Hassel looked down at him, smiling.

“Sorry I missed your flight. But I did make it.”

They paused, staring into each other's eyes. Words were useless in this breathless moment.

Brassius couldn't stop himself. He stood up on his toes, grabbed firmly at the worn old band tee, pulled the blonde down toward him and kissed Hassel properly.

The musician returned the kiss in kind, pulling Brassius in tightly at the waist and opening his mouth in a little desperation, holding firmly on to the one who caught his heart.

For a long time, they refused to let go of each other. Something indescribable pulled them in.

The sun bathed them in a warm glow as it rose. For a moment, briefly, all their fatigue and jetlag faded in each other's arms.

“Shall we have a smoke first?” Hassel said a little breathlessly, just loud enough for Brassius to hear. They leaned in closer, lips against a waiting ear, to finish, “or can we go back to your place?”

“I usually prefer a smoke after, but whatever you want…”

Hassel laughed under his breath, and whispered, “we've got time.”

Brassius leaned in harder to the embrace. It just felt right.

“We do.”

And the two young men leaned into each other, carrying their bags casually over their opposite shoulders as they leaned against each other, walking along the light of the sunrise, to the flat that Brassius called home.

In quiet, fatigued meandering, they walked in near silence toward Brassius’s meager flat on the other side of town.

It was like they'd known each other for years, not hours. It was a strange, exciting feeling.

And yet, arm in arm, they walked at pace, leaning into each other's embrace.

They had all the time in the world to start their journey.

These were merely the first steps.

--- epilogue ---

The first time they'd truly met was in years long past.

Brassius sat with his older sister in a wide open field overlooking the grand olive orchard. His mother and father, a few cousins and aunts and uncles, and grandparents were all in attendance. It was a regular family gathering, nothing notable, someone’s birthday perhaps.

Definitely not his though.

His grandparents had planned the event. He was about eight and didn't think twice about bringing his sketchbook and pencils along.

Everyone knew he was interested in art. His cousins asked to look at his sketches. His aunts and uncles asked if he had plans to make a career out of it – not that any eight year old would've considered the possibility.

His grandparents lovingly patted his long, curly moss-green hair – a trait he’d gotten from his father’s side – and flipped through his sketchbook with the greatest judgment of all.

“These are very good, but are you sure you like just drawing scenery like this? It’s very mature of you. What about drawing Pokémon?”

He glanced around at the various wild Smoliv playing nearby. A little Petlil hid behind a shrub. Two Diglett were rummaging about in the distance, kicking up dust in their wake.

“They're alright,” Brassius admitted with a shrug, “I like Smoliv. They have fun.” He quickly put pencil to paper as his grandfather handed the sketchbook back with a smile. The kid simply wasn't in the mood to be talkative, so they decided to leave him alone, lost in his own thoughts.

He’d been on medication to calm his mood swings for about two years now, and it often left him quiet and distant. It would be another year before his parents decided to try and switch things up, but for now…

For now, his mind was focused.

People and Pokémon were fuzzy things around him. The flowers, the trees, the neighbor’s garden, the setting sun… these were the things that still moved his soul.

And so, it’s what he drew.

He drew the olive orchard below – intricately detailed for someone of his age, sweeping trees and a misty skyline made of rubbing the charcoal pencil just right with his thumb.

He sat so still and focused as he sketched that the Smolivs, normally quick to run in fear, danced and played closer to him. The Petlil shyly advanced, too.

Eventually, two Smoliv and one gentle Petlil lay against him, resting peacefully. His mother noticed from afar and snapped a picture on her Polaroid.

Brassius only stopped to look up at something other than the scenery below was when some of his cousins yelled and pointed up at something they saw coming across the sky from the left.

Dragons. A whole collection of them, fully evolved.

It wasn't exactly uncommon to see Dragon-types flying about on their own, typically at sunset or late at night. It was far more unusual to see a variety of them, flying together in formation.

That meant a rare sight. Dragon trainers. And a good number of them.

They suddenly flew low overhead with a whoosh. Their shadows were cast across the grasses where Brassius and his family were enjoying themselves. They all stared up in awe at the sight.

“That's a new one.”

“What could be going on?”

“Is there a tournament, perhaps?”

“I haven't heard of any recently.”

The adults chattered to each other in confusion, but only for a moment. It's not like any of it concerned them, after all.

The kids, however, all began racing toward wherever the Dragon trainers were landing. It must have been nearby.

“Don't interrupt them! Be on your best behavior!” yelled one of the adults.

The kids all chimed back We will! We promise!

Brassius, however, paid it little mind. He may have had a small curiosity, but once he realized the Pokémon were sleeping beside him, he gently shifted so as not to wake them.

And returned to sketching.

He found himself absently smearing the landscape to add the shadows of the dragons as they'd down overhead.

The young artist was feeling as pleased as he possibly could – his emotions were far too tamped down on this medication for excess – but the change added a little something avant-garde to the composition that he managed to shift his neutral frown into something that resembled a small smile.

The adults were all watching the direction where the other kids had run off to, they didn't notice a lanky figure moving quietly through the trees and stepping out, running toward the far ledge to stare wide-eyed at the orchard below.

The stranger – another child, just a few years older with bright blonde hair pulled tightly back, and wearing a very peculiar indigo uniform – suddenly noticed Brassius nearby and ran toward him.

The blonde boy had a long, elegant Dragonair at his side, who was peering behind them both, as if on watch.

The Smolivs and Petlil woke up and ran off abruptly. They were lucky that the Smolivs hadn't been shocked enough to throw oil at either of them.

“Hullo,” said the strange boy, speaking the universal tongue with a bit of an odd accent, “I see you are an artist! Are you drawing this beautiful landscape? May I see?”

Brassius looked up to see a boy awash in sunlight, with eyes that seemed even brighter, somehow. People around him may have mostly seemed like shadows, but this one was a beam of warm, amber light. Just like him, this foreign boy was not smiling, despite the outpouring of energy behind his positive tone.

The boy tilted his head, waiting.

Unable to form words, Brassius lifted his sketchbook. Instead of taking it out of his hands, or standing overhead, the blonde boy sat down beside him to look carefully over the young artist’s shoulders, Dragonair quietly standing guard behind him.

Brassius heard a sharp intake of breath at his side. The taller boy leaned in closer to see the detail of the sketch.

“Wow! This is remarkably detailed! Even one as I can see the leaves on the distant trees. The bricks of the town in the distance. Oh, that town… it is Cortondo, is it not?”

He speaks so strangely…

Brassius nodded, then quietly spoke, “Yes, it is Cortondo.”

“I have never been to this town! But it is my dear mother’s birthday today, and father has requested a very particular cake for the gala tonight. The servants were quite upset at the change of schedule, so I do not believe him in the slightest. I believe instead that I am being tested!”

Brassius’s head began to hurt.

Why is he telling me all of this?

The boy stood up abruptly and squeezed his fists tight, perhaps inspired by his own monolog.

“I humbly must go into the town and procure the requested cake without being distracted by such a beautiful sight! The trees. The rocks. The swaying grass. There is too much natural beauty here, I cannot help but to be distracted! I could see it from above, and absolutely must see it up close.”

Dragonair nudged at the boy, who pet her cheek absently, whispering something soothing to her in his native tongue.

Brassius pieced it together. This boy was obviously part of the entourage of dragon trainers who had just flown above them.

“It’s pretty up here,” Brassius said, slowly. He wasn't shy, but perhaps his medicated self seemed to portray a type of slow shyness. He extended an arm toward the grove below. “But not as pretty up close. There are Vespiquen between the trees.”

The blonde boy suddenly laughed, nearly shocking Brassius out of his stupor. The boy struck a powerful pose, hands on his hips, chest flared out in pride.

“Nothing dear Dragonair and even I could not handle! No mere Bug-type can defeat us.”

Brassius shivered slightly. He was definitely scared of Vespiquen. They terrorized the Smolivs who played among the trees.

But this boy was older, bigger, stronger, and had a Dragon-type at his side. Brassius supposed it was alright.

“Brassie, my darling boy, where did your cousins run off to – oh!” his mother shouted from where the adults had gathered, surprised to see her son next to the lanky young dragon trainer with a bright blue Dragonair. “Who is your friend?”

Neither boy had the chance to open their mouths to utter a single word before they heard the sounds of Brassius’s cousins and older sister running and laughing toward the adults mischievously.

And from behind them, two older Dragon trainers came hiking along with firm steps.

The blonde boy must have cursed under his breath, given the way he snapped the foreign words, and how Dragonair seemed to coil around protectively.

“Young Master! Where are you?!” a woman yelled.

A man's voice carried on the wind behind them. “Come back, Young Master! Please don't delay our task. We must head into Cortondo at once!”

The boy tensed, fists clenched at his sides. But then, he counted to three, and exhaled. The visible tension dissipated, though Brassius could still detect it deep within.

He recognized that feeling.

Despair.

The boy approached the two older Dragon trainers with slow steps.

“I am here. Please do not shout so…”

The two came and knelt before the boy.

“We are so sorry, Young Master.”

“We needed to locate you before--.”

A stern older voice came upon them suddenly, causing Brassius’s shoulders to tense up, too. An older Dragon trainer approached, long gray hair pulled back into a loose, long tail.

“You took us off course, Young Master. We will have to report this back to your Father.”

The boy started to shake.

And sniffle, just a little.

But the boy did not bow, or apologize, despite the quiver in his voice.

“I n-meeded to see the view from below. I d-do not care to simply accomplish this task. Not with… not without stopping to enjoy the beautiful view.”

The elder nodded, and turned to the sight.

“…You have a keen eye, Young Master. This is, after all, one of the ten great sights of Paldea. Your father was right to see to me accompanying you on this task, or you would be stopped here all day, enjoying the scenery.”

He ended it with a scoff. The boy sniffed, and wiped a stray tear from his left eye with a gloved hand.

“Come now, let us return to the Flight and land down below. We can still make it back with plenty of time.”

The boy’s shoulders fell, and he nodded in compliance.

“I only wish to see it a moment longer.”

“Be quick about it.”

And the blonde boy turned his head away from Brassius as he turned his back on the Dragon trainers behind them. He didn't want the shame of his tears to be witnessed by anyone.

Brassius knew these feelings, too. Embarrassment. Shame. The desire to run away.

So the young artist, in a moment of pure, innocent connection with this stranger, tore the page out of his notebook. The sound was louder than anticipated, and suddenly he could feel all eyes on him.

Thank goodness his anxiety was being repressed, or he could never have gone through with it.

He stood up slowly, and stepped up to the blonde boy.

The boy’s eyes were still a little wet with fading tears, and he sniffed as he gently reached for the paper.

“Are you…giving this to me?”

Brassius nodded. “Perhaps this will help.”

The blonde boy’s eyes widened, all molten gold and amber and glistening with new tears.

And for the first time, Brassius saw the boy smile.

The blonde’s smile was wide and genuine and wobbled a little in tearful joy as he clutched the charcoal sketch as close as he could without smearing it.

The boy then bowed deep, far too deep, in gratitude.

“Thank you so very much. I will treasure this.”

Brassius stood still as a stone as the elder Dragon trainer put a gloved hand on the young master’s back, cloak trailing behind, billowing in the breeze. Dragonair hung close to the boy’s other side. The other two trainers followed closely in their wake.

And pretty soon, the strange group faded away as they made their way back to the Dragon-types they rode in on.

Brassius’s cousins all ran toward him, and his sister shook his shoulders playfully.

“You talked to them!!”

“They took your sketch!”

“What did they say?!!”

They all asked at once, too many things at once, so he covered his ears and closed his eyes tight until his sister shooed everyone else away. She held him close a moment, to show him she was there to help – a language of trust they'd cultivated all on their own – and then tapped his shoulder gently to get him to open his eyes.

She pointed up.

They watched the flight soar above them once again, then down into the valley and the grove below toward the entrance to Cortondo.

The next two pages of Brassius’s sketchbook was of an array of concentric circles, like the ripples of droplets on still water. He couldn’t quite have explained why in words, only that they were suddenly very interesting, conceptually.

Later that day, after the family event packed up and they'd returned home, Brassius’s mother pinned a number of new Polaroids on the corkboard by the entrance to their cottage home.

One was of her son handing the sketch he'd been so focused on over to a strange blonde boy with a Dragonair.

Eventually, that Polaroid was tossed into a box with all the rest.

But perhaps, in time, it would be found again, when the time was right.

 🌹