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“What are you doing here, today of all days? Those hands of yours are meant to play music. Don’t waste them here, putting ice packs on my head and fixing my hair. I can do it myself!”
The help being provided was more than those mundane things, but for the sake of politeness, neither would admit the rest out loud. The unspoken help was getting dressed, heading to the showers, cooking meals and even feeding him on occasion. The side effects of the treatments Brassius was on had made him so weak, he sometimes wouldn’t have gotten out of bed without a lift.
He was getting better, little by little, but progress was slow, and progress is always nonlinear. Some days and even some moments felt like they were sliding backwards by miles and miles.
Of course, today was one of those days. Everything ached deep into his marrow. His body and his mind were both sluggish and slow.
But still, Hassel reprimanded him, for his own good, just like any other day. As though it wasn’t supposed to be an important day.
“The last time you ‘did it yourself’, you ended up on the floor for hours! I don’t know what would have happened if I did not come by to check on you…”
Brassius turned his head as far as he could, which wasn’t much, but he was trying to send a message.
So Hassel adjusted the cold pack around Brassius’s neck and shoulders, forcing the artist to be comfortable even when he fought against it.
“You check on me practically every day, but I promise you I don’t need this much fretting over. I would’ve been fine,” Brassius grumbled. He raised a hand awkwardly up to his forehead to flick away strands of his long, unruly green hair that had fallen into his eyes.
Hassel brushed the artist’s hands away and tucked the hair behind his ear, and continued to talk.
“You almost WEREN’T fine. Listen to me carefully. Your hands are meant to build, to create, but you cannot do that ever again unless you rest. Don’t waste your precious energy being stubborn.”
Brassius grumbled. He didn’t take well to being cared for.
He would have wasted away in his apartment if it wasn’t for other people forcibly caring for him. His family stopping by, calling him at all hours, and a very small list of people he trusted with a key coming by to make sure he was eating well, taking his new medicine at the right intervals, and getting to his treatments on time.
Hassel was the only one who was not a family member who was given this sort of access. Though sometimes Brassius regretted getting spares made for anybody. Those were the days he felt worst of all.
He held his hands in front of his face, and in a moment of weakness, he winced looking at them. He couldn’t look his companion in the eye.
“I don’t deserve to build anything. My art is trash. Its only worth is in destroying it all. There’s no point in a future in art for me. I can’t create anything of value. I’ve given that up. But enough of all that. You’re wasting YOUR future just being here right now. You’re on a schedule today!”
Hassel sighed. He had heard this plenty of times before, too, but rarely with such earnestness. He poked at Brassius’s forehead playfully, causing the forlorn artist to pout.
“I don’t think you fully understand,” Hassel started with a huff. “The only future I want is one where we are both able to create beautiful things. You know, Brassius, that a single instrument alone can’t create an orchestra, but… even without instruments, we still have our voices…”
Brassius rolled his eyes.
“You’re babbling…What in Arceus’s name are you trying to say?”
The blonde took a deep, slow breath. He reached out, his hands cool from being on a cold towel, and took Brassius’s hands in between his own. The feverish warmth radiated from between Hassel’s long fingers, and managed to crawl up Brassius’s neck up to his cheeks. He was powerless to run away, but his head was swimming when Hassel leaned forward ever so slightly to speak.
“What I’m trying to say is that I don’t care about music more than I care about seeing you get better. I believe in a future that we can build things together. Our own harmony, whatever that may be…”
This was too embarrassing, even in the confusing haze of the moment. Brassius tried to pull away, to look away again, but his efforts were weak.
“Our own… no. Don’t waste your time with me right now. YOU have an interview to get to. I can handle dying all on my own today.”
Hassel exhaled sharply and furrowed his brow. He squeezed Brassius’s hands slightly, and looked him sternly in the eyes.
“You are being melodramatic. You’re not dying, not while I’m around.”
Brassius groaned, loudly and with intentional dramatic effect, earning a soft chuckle from the blonde who sat adoringly at his side.
But of course, the artist was displeased. He turned, slowly, to look out the window. The sun was bright but inviting.
“Don’t be so foolish. You’ll regret it if you don’t get there on time.”
“I don’t regret any decision I’ve ever made, least of all helping out here,” Hassel quipped back immediately.
It was almost too gentle to bear. So Brassius struggled to release his hands, and pushed at Hassel’s chest, but it was a half-hearted effort.
“I can’t tell if you’re being stubborn or just stupid,” said the artist, red-faced. “I am trying to tell you to leave. Go! Go make something of yourself. Your final interview for the Orchestra is at eleven in Mesagoza, and you’re messing around here instead. You’ve got so many instruments lying around, it’s like you practically live here… take one and go! You won’t make it in time unless you leave right now—”
“I’m staying right here. Who’s helping you with physical therapy today? Your parents are not in town, and your sister is on call. And your other friends—”
“Other friends?” Brassius wheezed while he laughed, then laid back for a moment, briefly exhausted from the exertion. But it didn’t last long. “What friends? You mean my old agent? The one who told me I needed to make more ‘collectible merchandise’ that could be mass produced? Or the trash artists from the academy who got me into… whatever. Bastards got me into this mess—”
The blonde winced at the vague insults being hurtled out, even if he was not the target. He didn’t know all the details of Brassius’s past, coming in at the tail end of what seemed to have been a rise and fall in the younger man’s popularity. He didn’t know any of the people who had influenced the artist before that time, or the full picture of what he’d gone through, though he’d met the agent…
Suffice to say, even the dragon trainer’s polite kindness had its limits.
What mattered to Hassel is that he saw something beautiful in those simple, smooth sculptures, and a keen eye for color and design; Brassius had a skill Hassel could never dream of accomplishing himself, but he knew he wanted to see what more the man could create.
As the artist vented some frustrations, Hassel took Brassius’s left hand and gently turned it over, pressing a thumb to his pulse point as he spoke.
“I don’t have any friends who care about me. They only cared about my art… specifically how much I could sell.”
Hassel didn’t even look up as he focused on his thumb, counting the beats on the pulse point under the pad of his skin.
“I care about you,” he whispered.
Brassius once again adjusted uncomfortably. He didn’t want to respond to that, but there was something soothing about the way Hassel shifted the blanket around him with his other hand as though it was nothing at all.
“Stubborn. Idiot.”
Hassel shrugged. “You can’t insult me away. I’ve been called worse.”
Though they were only teasing each other, this got under Brassius’s skin. He finally looked Hassel in the eyes, glaring in a way that could only be described as defensive.
“Who would dare? You’re far too nice to say... anything... I’ll go… tell them off… on your behalf…”
The room started to spin, and whatever Brassius actually was trying to say came out in bizarre clips. He leaned his head back heavily on the upright pillow.
Hassel’s hands seemed to be everywhere at once, frantically making sure everything was alright. He’d been like this for the past few weeks, ever since Brassius got out of the hospital, so none of this was new or surprising.
In spite of his years of journeying, trying to find himself, playing music and battling for a few bucks as he roamed from country to country, Hassel found an odd sense of purpose in helping this fussy artist he found in the Paldean countryside. It was like he couldn’t pull away and move on like he used to, even if he wanted to – he had the ever-increasing dread that he never would, but he leaned long ago that fear and excitement were one in the same, so he faced it with determination.
The first time he had to fly on his own, on the back of his beloved Dragonair, it was his father - of all people - who explained these feelings to him. Who made his worries make sense. Who taught him to love flying instead of being overwhelmed by the fear of falling.
Hassel couldn't help but think back to that moment, that lesson, whenever he felt that fear again.
And what was more frightening, really, than watching someone he cared deeply for struggle like this?
One hand gently held the back of Brassius’s neck as he adjusted the ice pack and the pillow. Then he was wiping a layer of sweat from the artist’s forehead with a cool towel. He lowered the blankets, tugged at the neckline of sienna-brown bedclothes to make sure it was loose and that he could breathe.
A little while later, once everything settled down, Hassel held a cold glass of water against the artist’s cheek. Brassius sighed as the condensation cooled him down. He leaned forward, clasping tight to the glass. He managed to drink a few good sips without any help, a good sign on a bad day.
“I’m sorry, that was my fault,” Hassel said with a bit of a sad look in his eyes. “I got you worked up about your art again… It just came out. I’m sorry, I know we’ve got to keep your stress as low as possible for a while longer, until you can get back on… whatever that one medicine was. Your heart rate was terribly high for about a minute, but it came back down. Record time, in fact.”
Brassius looked up skeptically, his gray eyes focused just past Hassel’s face. It was as confrontational as he could manage in that moment.
“And how can you tell that’s what it was?”
“Isn’t it always? I can feel your heartbeat. Here, on your wrist…”
Once again, a thumb was placed on the pulse point on the wrist for a few moments as they counted one, two, three, four…
“But also, right here. The nurse showed me the pulse points a few weeks ago. She said it would help with monitoring your stress.”
The dragon trainer leaned over and brushed Brassius’s hair out of the way, moss-green curls sticking uncomfortably to pallid skin. He pressed two fingers gently just under the jawline where the neck began and the artery pulsed warmly underneath. The pulse elevated ever so slightly from the intimacy of the gesture, but not dangerous like it had been, so they waited briefly for it to stabilize again.
“See?” he practically whispered, the calmest tone he knew. “Just like yesterday, and that time last week… You’re in good hands, I promise you.”
The younger man sighed and leaned back, finally trying to relax instead of fight against it.
“You should be a doctor…” Brassius replied in a matching calm tone. “Speaking of which… your interview…”
Hassel smirked and looked away – an unfamiliar expression for him, which caught Brassius’s attention.
“What’s that look for?”
Hassel tapped his hands in a rhythm at the ledge of the bed. He was nervous, thinking about something that he didn’t really want to articulate just yet.
Brassius leaned forward and placed a hand on top of Hassel’s, and the tapping stopped.
“You want to go. I want you to go. Make something of yourself. You deserve it. The world deserves to hear your music. I shouldn’t have to keep persuading you.”
Hassel hummed for a moment, then stood up. Silently, he walked over to the door leading to a tiny balcony. It didn’t even have room for a single chair, but still Brassius kept a few potted plants out there in perfect condition. He opened the door wide and stepped out as far as he could go, leaned over and looked around, mind buzzing with the things he wanted to say.
The streets of Artazon weren’t exactly bustling like in the big city, nor was it tightly connected like the village he grew up in, but something about this town felt like home. Someone in his heart, he wanted it to be home.
Maybe it was the Jumpluff floating lazily in the air, or the vast amount of open fields and forest for his dragons to play in, or the good company he found himself in.
His fears began to subside as he breathed In the fresh air.
“I’ve only been in Paldea for a year and a half, you know. To tell the truth, that’s a little bit longer than I thought I’d be here,” Hassel started. “I didn’t expect a recruiter for the National Orchestra to hear me playing out on the street. I don’t think… Oh, how do I explain this…? I don’t think it’s right to play National if I am not from here. It has been bothering me.”
The dragon trainer heard some shuffling from inside. He should have known that what he said would motivate his friend to get up and move. By the time he spun around, Brassius had already swung his feet to the floor.
“You must not do that!” He practically ran over to the bed. “You need to wait till the physical therapy nurse arrives!”
“I think you’re a fool! No, I know you are with absolute certainty.”
Brassius was getting worked up again. Trying to shove him back down was only going to make it worse. So Hassel stood nearby, just in case something went awry.
Hassel also felt a little insulted, but that didn’t stop Brassius from waving his hands around and pointing directly at his friend.
“You think you’re not Paldean enough to play in our orchestra? That’s the most idiotic thing I’ve heard in a good long while. Art is art, Hassel. It has no boundaries, no nationality. It is the destruction of the self and the creation of something new and wholly unique. Do you not lose yourself to the sound when you play? I’ve seen you do it.”
Brassius lay a hand on his heart, and Hassel took a step forward, in case it was an emergency. He was often on edge about a dangerous situation, but in this moment, there was nothing to worry about, nothing to fear. Brassius had a fire in his eyes, not pain.
“Inspiration doesn’t care where you’re from. A Pokémon egg laid in the forest will still hatch on the mountain, and be in equal measure of both. Where you’re from, where you’re born…none of that matters when you’re creating something new and beautiful wherever you are!”
Hassel’s eyes lit up. There was the passion hidden in his friend’s heart! Under layers of a protective shell formed out of failure and illness and waves of despair, the passion still managed to bubble up out of him like a spring.
The dragon trainer found his own heart racing.
“Pick up that flute. Or one of the violins. That oboe you're borrowing from my neighbor is in the corner. My viola is right beside the bed, here, down at the floor. Hell, drag that half-useless keyboard out with you! I don’t give a damn, just go play for them.”
Hassel looked around, weighing his many, many options. In the time he spent thinking, he stated to pace around, a few steps toward each instrument, then back to center.
The gears in his head were moving wildly, and he nearly couldn't keep up with his own thoughts.
Brassius, with some effort, reached down to grab the viola case on the floor. As he lifted it up, using what felt like every muscle in his core, his shoulder nudged a sketchbook with variously graded pencils and a stick of charcoal, sending two pencils scattering to the floor, and everything else dangling precariously on the edge.
The artist pretended to ignore it with the slightest sneer. But of course, like a loyal, oversized Fidough, Hassel came running to pick it all up and straighten everything on the table.
Brassius reached out and clasped at Hassel’s wrist, silently asking him to stop. The grip was surprisingly firm.
"Don't bother with that useless thing."
Hassel didn't listen, of course. He slid out of Brassius's grip with ease.
“I see you’re feeling a bit better.”
Brassius stared him in the eyes, a challenge.
“I’m fine now, I promise. It was just a moment of weakness is all. A moment! Take this and go.” Brassius tried to shove the Viola case into Hassel’s hands. “Just make sure to keep it safe if you decide to fly on Dragonite instead of using the air taxi. That wind chill can freeze up resin faster than you think.”
But Hassel pushed the case firmly into Brassius’s arms.
“No,” Hassel said resolutely. “I’m taking the violin. The good one, not my old one.”
“Of course mine is better than your expensive one that you beat up. Remember what I said about the chill—”
“Of course, of course…”
“Now get going! Before I walk over to the phone and call you an air taxi myself.”
“Don’t you dare move from that bed,” Hassel said. He may have had a teasing lilt to his voice, but it was a serious request. “Not till the nurse comes by.”
“I promise nothing.”
“Please. I’ll bring you back your favorite almond tart if you behave.”
Brassius chuckled weakly and leaned forward on his hands, implying he was planning to stand up. He didn’t, though, earning a sigh and shake of the head from his friend in the doorway.
“I will try to behave just this once.”
The sly expression on Brassius’s face was offset ever so slightly by a layer of sweat on his brow. Hassel’s breath hitched as he caught sight of it, and felt his nerves - his fear - kick in again.
They felt a little like a swarm of Noibat flying around in his chest.
But he turned the knob with a small, knowing smile, and with a familiar wave of the hand, he stepped out into the hallway, violin case in hand.
He stood there for a minute after locking the door before walking away.
It was funny how much Brassius knew of the world of professional art, but knew very little about how the music industry worked. Or perhaps the pain he was in had simply distracted his mind.
Hassel couldn’t just take any instrument and play. The Orchestra had been expecting him on the Cello, the instrument he was playing that day the recruiter caught wind of his song. He had at the time recently started renting it – it was already hard enough traveling so often with an old violin and a guitar.
The cello was still back in his little flat in Mesagoza. He left it there on purpose.
The night before, he’d been up late, pacing around and thinking hard about this day. Arctibax and Gible both worked together to pull their trainer’s head out of a fog.
It wasn’t that he didn’t want to join the orchestra. He only came up with his excuse to Brassius so that the artist wouldn’t feel bad, thinking he was the reason the dragon trainer used to stop moving forward with his dream.
But he was the reason. And the excuse was flimsy at best.
Hassel had re-scheduled all of his previous interviews. The hiring team was growing weary of his excuses. And he was growing a little tired of their tone when he explained he needed to help a friend.
He had to be reliable and committed. He needed to put every minute of his time into this career.
And that made something in him twist. It didn't seem fair to live in a world that didn't put kindness first.
Of all the people Brassius had helping him, Hassel was the one with the most flexibility in his schedule. He enjoyed spending time with the artist anyway, and had already dropped everything to be there at his side multiple times over the past year, well before the younger man nearly succumbed to illness triggered by existential crisis exacerbated by other underlying conditions.
The dragon trainer knew in his heart the reason why he felt so passionately. But of course, he couldn't bother his friend with his own feelings while the man was recovering.
But he could still show how he felt in other ways. And maybe he could break the news to Brassius without further stressing the artist’s heart.
Hassel stepped outside the little apartment complex, one of many just like it in the village. His worn old shoes pattered gently on the cobblestone streets as he walked lazily down to a local bakery, Gible at his side and violin case in hand.
He did have a promise to keep, after all.
By the time he came back with the almond tart, and a few chocolate-orange biscotti for himself, he was pleased to discover the sweet sounds of the viola radiating out from Brassius’s balcony.
“Well, that’s a pleasant surprise,” Hassel whispered down to Gible, who was nibbling on a buttery croissant. “He's surprisingly capable at playing, isn't he?”
Gible grumbled back, an incoherent jumble of noise. The expression on the old boy's face spoke for him; a little bit frustration, and a little bit understanding. The squat little dragon had been with Hassel since the day he had been born. It knew the human was prone to whims and passions – these were his most excellent qualities - but watching him pine was becoming insufferable.
But Gible knew the man was stubbornly determined, so gave him a little pat-pat on the leg to be supportive, come what may.
Hassel carefully unpacked the violin from its case. He held it in his hands like a treasure.
“I love how he keeps his instruments tuned, even if he doesn't really play much,” he continued to speak to Gible, even as he heard the sounds of the viola slow and pause, then start up again. “He takes care of the things that matter to him. Making sure they're ready to be used as soon as he feels the desire to use them. I believe that is why he still has that pad of paper on the table. I know he's itching to create something again. Even if he denies it, he isn't nearly as good at hiding his feelings as he thinks he is.”
Hassel put the violin to his chin, setting it in place.
“I want to see what that next creation is.”
Gible ate the last bite of croissant, nodded sagely, then plopped down into the grass in the shade of the apartment building. There wasn't anything it could do but watch.
Hassel put the bow to the strings and began to play.
After only a few short seconds, Brassius’s Bonsly shuffled out onto the patio and leaned between the iron bars to see the blonde dragon tamer who had been glued to his own trainer’s side. It ran back inside, chattering loudly.
Brassius, of course, was listening, too.
It wasn't Hassel's intention to summon the man from his bedrest, but it happened anyway. After a few short minutes of playing, he heard the viola strike up once more, louder, more precise.
Immediately, Hassel switched his solitary song to match the music from above.
They'd played this song plenty of times before. There were a thousand duets between the violin and the viola, but only a small few that the artist was familiar with from when he learned to play back in school, and Hassel was perfectly content playing whatever he could.
He dreamt of a day in the future where he could teach the artist something new, but for now, this harmony they made was simple and clean. Even Gible found himself swaying along to the music.
The other locals had gotten used to hearing music coming from the artist's apartment, but they still opened their windows to peek out and listen. A few passersby paused their chatter to enjoy the impromptu performance.
As soon as the song was over, they heard a few claps, but Hassel could only feel the pressure radiating down from up on that balcony.
Brassius, clearly struggling as he leaned heavy against the doorframe, was the first to speak.
“What in the world are you still doing here?”
Hassel replied by pointing innocently to the pastry box.
“I thought you promised me you'd stay in bed until I returned! Now I can’t in good conscience give you your reward for good behavior.”
Gible sighed. It was as though his charge, the heir to a noble and ancient family, a promising young man with a bright future, simply could not hear himself talk. If he could, he would have been embarrassed, but there he stood looking up at the balcony above with a wide and sweet smile.
Brassius raised a hand to hide his reddening face. It was one thing to banter privately, but out in the open like this was…
He peeked through his fingers to look down at his friend’s smiling face. With the halo of blonde hair, even pulled back he looked like one of the many Sunflora walking around town.
Three Sunflora stood nearby, looking up with identical expressions, and suddenly it was as though Hassel was just one of them.
It was adorable. He couldn’t help but smile as a thought began to swirl around in his head. An idea, or a vision, formed in his mind and made his hands twitch.
He nearly forgot to breathe, so when he glanced back at his sketchbook in a hurry, he felt dizzy. Even after about six weeks of recovery, he still couldn’t move too fast, not without risking damage to his already fragile – but improving - condition.
As he left the tiny patio, he called out with a small wave of his hand.
“Ridiculous... Just get back up here, already. Or I’ll start throwing out all your things.”
Hassel bounced on the balls of his feet, and nearly forgot the pastries on the bench.
The keys rattled in the door while Brassius made his way toward it, holding on to the wall as he went. But Hassel was faster. The blonde handed the box of sweets to Gible in a rush, and practically threw the violin case on the counter.
He led Brassius to a nearby seat with an arm around his waist. He was still warm to the touch from over-exertion. The viola was taken and put away with care, while the artist asked for his sketchbook and started to ask more questions.
“You’re messing with me far too much today! This isn’t like you at all, Hassel. So you’re definitely not telling me something. Did I get the date wrong? Did I sleep through it somehow?”
The sketchbook was dropped on a side table in a rush while Gible came over with the box of pastries, which Brassius took from it and slowly, painstakingly moved over to the table as well.
Hassel ran over with a fresh ice pack, draping it over Brassius’s shoulders. He took care to pull Brassius’s long hair out from under it, fingers lingering a little on his friend’s slender neck.
“Sweaty…”
“Sorry…. Hey, answer my question!”
Instead, the blonde brought over a fresh hand towel and got to work. Anyone else might have complained that it was gross – and for quite a while, Brassius fought against his involvement at all – but the dragon trainer thought, in some newfound sense of selfishness, that it was a special privilege to be allowed this closeness. This trust.
“Hmm. Might need to trim your hair again.”
“Maybe. My mother can handle that. Why aren’t you ans--”
“I think I could do a good job instead,” Hassel interjected once again. “One more thing off of your mother’s long list of worries. Maybe after the nurse leaves today?”
Brassius finally swatted Hassel’s hands away from his hair. The artist managed to catch one of those hands before they pulled away entirely, clasping it between his own. His expression went from joking to serious in an instant.
“Just tell me already. I don’t know why you’re being evasive. Were you already accepted?”
Hassel pulled back, looking away. It was impossible for the blonde to lie. His micro-expressions always gave it away.
“Don’t give me that face,” Brassius complained, as he distracted himself with a pencil. He opened his sketchpad to a fresh page as he continued to talk. “Were you rejected? After all those times they had you come in?”
“No, nothing like that.”
“You didn’t seriously give up because you thought you needed to be born here in order to play for the national orchestra and just wouldn’t fit in…”
Hassel began to pace around again.
“No, no, I mean, that did weigh on my mind, but…”
Brassius stared at the page in front of him. The lines were shaky at best, but slowly, he managed to start the vague shapes of something. Something like a lamp, or a coat rack. Something he could sell in the shape of those meandering flower pokemon outside his window that suddenly caught his eye.
“You need to get it out already,” Brassius grumbled in complaint. “You’ve been annoyingly stubborn all day, and it's still early.”
That was his way of saying you’re stressing me out.
Gible found his way to Brassius’s side, crossed his little arms, and made some noise of agreement. The artist reached a hand over to pet a nearby fin, scratching behind it gently, which Gible happily leaned into.
Hassel narrowed his eyes at the little traitor. Of course Gible would take Brassius’s side in this.
So he signed, and gave in.
“I guess… if you’re not feeling too bad right now, I will admit it. Just, please don’t be mad.”
Brassius looked up from his sketching, tired gray eyes narrowed in obvious frustration.
“I’m already mad.”
He clearly wasn’t, but Hassel still took it as a warning. The dragon trainer turned to face his friend, determined to see this through.
The Noibat were back to fluttering about in his stomach. So he paused to take a breath before speaking.
“I turned them down.”
He finally admitted it, starting to pace faster, pausing himself halfway through before it became a problem. “I called the hiring office just before I left today to officially cancel the final interview, and before I could even say what I wanted to say, they just asked me if I was rescheduling again. It made me so angry that I… I may have said a few things that would guarantee the deal was closed for good.”
Brassius blinked a few times as he listened. He seemed surprisingly calm when he replied, even if his voice cracked just a little. Visibly perplexed, his head tilted to the side, sending more stray strands of his unruly green hair to slide in front of his eyes.
“Rescheduling again…?” Brassius asked weakly. He pressed the hand with the pencil in it against his head, gently rubbing at his own temple. “Why would they say that? Why would you cancel your interview? You deserve your break into the industry. This is your chance. Listen, Hassel. You can still salvage it—”
“I don’t want to salvage anything,” Hassel interrupted, tone elevated. “Yes, I rescheduled previous interviews. And they seemed patient the first time, but they made it very clear that I couldn’t just skip performances just because I had more important things to do.”
“And what could possibly be more important than getting to be in the orchestra?”
“Being able to take care of you when you need it!”
Hassel let the words out without thinking twice. He didn’t turn to look at whatever expression might have been on his friend’s face. He knew he’d be in trouble if he did.
So he kept talking.
“I’ve thought about it a lot, and I think perhaps the timing was just bad, Brassius. Purely by happenstance they heard me playing, but it was just days before we brought you to the hospital. Days! It didn’t seem fair, but then every time they wanted to see me, something else would happen where I just needed to be here instead. I managed to get to the first interview 2 weeks later. I had to postpone it three times over that week. Thankfully your parents were able to take a whole day to be here, so I was able to slide in kind of unannounced at the concert hall… It went really well, though, but that's just the start.”
He heard Brassius inhale sharply, but wouldn’t let him speak.
“That second interview – remember, it was about a month ago. That was the same week you dragged yourself to the shower and stressed out your body so badly that you could hardly move. I was told under no uncertain circumstances that I couldn’t just swap with someone else if I needed to take the time off. Attendance in each performance is paramount! I knew exactly what they meant, and it didn’t sit right with me…”
He was pacing again, hands on his hips. His fingers tapped in a quick rhythm on his slacks, thumbs taught in the belt loops. Subconsciously he was playing a familiar song in his head, sped up a few times too fast, and he ended up spilling his thoughts at the same pace. He'd been holding back too much.
“It’s like this opportunity just wasn’t meant to be. B-but I don’t actually mind. It’s not the end of the world. There will be other chances. Once you fully recover, we can— umm, I can do an actual job search. Certainly there’s somewhere in Levincia where I can play. Or… The League is usually hiring. I’m not half bad with Pokemon battling, you know. Maybe I could get an apartment nearby, o—or move in?” He laughed softly, like he was playing it off as a bit of a joke. “Like you said, it’s like I practically live here already.”
A moment of heavy silence hung in the air. After a few beats, Hassel thought he maybe something was wrong, that he said too much and overwhelmed his companion – precisely the thing he was afraid of doing. He finally turned to face the artist in the chair to find the man leaning heavily over his sketch pad, motionless except for the slight shaking of his pale hands.
Swiftly, Hassel moved to his friend’s side. But Brassius swatted him away.
“Why didn’t you say anything before?!”
Brassius was glaring. His brow was furrowed and damp with perspiration. There was a certain glistening of his eyes that indicated that he was on the verge of tears; even though he was unpredictably emotional, he loathed crying and avoided it at all costs.
It was especially hard for him to remain as calm as possible ever since he was released from the hospital, to avoid putting strain on his body. He knew it was bad to become overwhelmed, like he had before Hassel had stepped out – even if his attacks grew less strained over time, he still needed more time to recover.
But after hearing his friend spill that he had been struggling so hard, choosing to be a caretaker instead of moving forward – ‘And seeing me fall apart’ the artist couldn’t stop himself from thinking, ‘He saw me spin out the same night I met him.'
‘I can't let him ruin his life because, for whatever stupid reason, he's grown attached.'
“You're allowed to be selfish, Hassel,” the artist's voice was strained, tense and threatening to break. “You won’t ever achieve your dream unless you put yourself first once in a while.”
The dragon trainer closed his eyes. In his own mind, this was his own selfishness. He just didn't know how to convey that with words.
So instead of arguing, or saying anything at all, he silently pulled up a folding chair, and rolled out the ancient keyboard on its stand, letting Brassius continue to let out his feelings.
“I don't know what you're thinking at all, just letting this go like it wasn’t the opportunity of a lifetime! Hassel, you don’t just let a chance like this slip by!”
Brassius huffed and looked down. He continued to scratch at the paper with his pencil. With his frustration rising, it felt almost natural again, like his hands weren't shaking from the side effects of his medication but from righteous indignation.
But as the dragon trainer shuffled around, testing the cables and the settings on the keyboard; he took the wind out of Brassius’s sails by remaining calm. When he dug his heels in, there was no persuading him differently.
“I'm not letting go of anything worth holding on to,” said Hassel, voice smooth and steady as he settled in and raised his hands into the proper place on the keys. “There's no such thing as an opportunity of a lifetime, because ahead of us is a lifetime of opportunities! You only learn to fly once, but then, after that, you can just do it whenever you want to. Now I know that I can, I suppose I could probably get into any other orchestra or a band or a quartet perhaps. It will be fine. There will be other chances.”
He loudly started to play before Brassius could voice a single additional complaint.
After a minute of the sounds of a digital piano filling the entire room with song, the artist finally started to sputter. Then he started to laugh. He raised a hand to his eyes and wiped away whatever wetness was there before it fell.
“What’s so funny?” Hassel asked, glancing up as he played, never slowing his pace.
Brassius continued to laugh and wipe at his eyes, which subconsciously made Hassel smile, in spite of his confusion. His friend had been upset – rightly so, and expected – but now was laughing. It was all very strange, but it felt just right.
The artist took the hand towel which lay nearby and wiped his own forehead, and then dabbed at his eyes. Then he lowered it in a hurry, tossing it back aside. He had the look of someone charmed.
“You… You’re so sincere when you say things like that,” Brassius said, shifting the hair away from in front of his face again, but some of it fell right back. “’Lifetime of opportunities’. Hassel, please! I’ve never met anyone who says such intensely optimistic and taudry things without a hint of sarcasm. But—” he paused to narrow his eyes just slightly, and with his grin he appeared slightly wistful, “—you really mean it, don’t you?”
When Hassel caught his eyes, the dragon trainer’s fingers suddenly hesitated on the keys. He could feel a warmth rising in his chest, so he paused playing and stared down at the keyboard, hoping that his friend wouldn’t notice his distraction.
“I was raised to not hold back, and to be direct, whether in pokemon battles or otherwise,” he said, voice soft but firm. “Why wouldn’t I mean what I say?”
Suddenly there was a loud and deliberate shuffling and fussing about, which distracted them both. Gible was standing up. The little dragon grumbled loudly, pointing at Hassel as it spoke. Then it threw its tiny hands in the air in frustration, and returned to its pokeball all on its own.
Both men paused at the drama. Even Bonsly peered out from behind a table to observe.
“Oh?” Brassius found himself amused, looking down at where Gible had just been. “What’s gotten into him?”
Hassel shook his head.
“Gible has been kind of mad at me lately.”
“I can imagine why…”
Hassel shook his head. He ran a hand through his own hair. Stressed, he ended up tugging on a knot, then playing with it subconsciously.
“Hey, listen… What I was saying before...” he started, slowly. “I really do mean it when I say I want to move out here. I think it would be easy for both of us if I moved in here with you. I only grabbed that little place in Mesagoza when I arrived in Paldea because I needed somewhere to stay quickly. It was in the middle of everything, the orchestra is there… but it’s really inconvenient now, and frankly I’d rather not be there. I don’t have much in the way of possessions; Most of it fits in my one travel case. And I stay over here so often, I think half my wardrobe is already in the laundry pile.”
Brassius, forced to be at peace whatever Hassel was going through, opened the box of pastries as his friend spoke. He pulled out one of the chocolate-orange scones, leaned forward, and playfully waved it as close to Hassel’s face as he could reach, lightly tapping him on the cheek with it.
The scent caught the blonde’s nose, and Hassel looked at it briefly before catching it in his teeth. He knew exactly how his friend would react.
Brassius softly laughed - or rather, he giggled, a tinkling sound that he never let anyone else hear.
“You’re just like one of your Dragons when you do that…”
“Mmmmff gmgm.”
Hassel’s mouth was full of fresh biscotti, which made the artist chuckle even more.
“Now you sound like them, too. Foolish, stubborn to hell, and, I suppose, hungry.”
The dragon trainer finished the bite, while Brassius pulled out the almond tart and messed with the paper wrapping. He started to shift to a more subdued tone.
“You know, Hassel… I suppose you're right about other opportunities, ridiculous as giving up on this one might be. You have the talent and the passion... But moving in? The laundry, and the key…"
The artist took another small bite, pausing his thoughts for a moment. "You told me a year ago that you were a traveler, didn't stay in one place for long. Are you really changing your mind about that, too? And you must know my mother has been handling the laundry, and she has started to ask questions about your intentions.”
Hassel’s stomach dropped. This was not the direction he expected this to go in.
“I think you should know that moving in would only cause her to ask even more questions. Like what your favorite foods are, or if any of your Pokemon need new accessories. umm.. your favorite colors. Where you came from, and if you really plan on staying a while… That sort of thing.”
The artist kept his eyes on the blonde as he took a small bite of the pastry. One positive side effect of his current medications was that it gave him something of an appetite.
But suddenly Hassel lost his own.
“I think I’ll make us some tea.”
The blonde stood up abruptly, shaking ever so slightly, thankfully missing the keyboard with his knees. But Brassius didn’t waiver as he observed.
“Coffee for me, please.”
Hassel practically sprinted toward the kitchen, which was only a few steps away. As he was grabbing for one kettle, he stopped and reached for the other as soon as he heard his friend’s request.
“Ah, yes,” he said, sounding jittery, “Then I will make some coffee.”
“Hassel, please. Make whatever you want. It’s, umm… It’s your place, too. If you're serious about staying, that is.”
“Of course, I will make wha— huh?”
Hassel looked over the center counter to stare at Brassius. Brassius, who was as pallid as always, had a little color rising up in his cheeks. The tired but fond expression in his eyes caught Hassel by surprise.
The dragon trainer stared for a few beats longer than was technically casual, until Brassius, embarrassed, shook his head and looked deliberately down again at his sketchbook. The mop of green hair fell into the artist’s face like a veil, coyly hiding everything but the pink tips of an ear where some hair was pulled back just enough to give away his normally carefully hidden shyness.
Hassel’s brain registered the information as quickly as it could. Once it clicked, he couldn’t stop himself from grinning.
Of course Brassius would accept his proposal. Of course he would, but it still made Hassel feel giddy.
He started humming a little tune he had been writing himself as he pulled out the materials for their drinks. After a minute of pouring water and heating up a kettle, he heard Brassius humming along, too.
He started to tap his foot on the floor in rhythm. It almost seemed too simple, too easy to be here.
So much easier than being at an interview at a place that might have constrained him.
A pang of tension stung like lightning in his gut, the joy and the fear melding together into one. Was he making a mistake?
It was too late now. He was already in the air.
He wore a soft smile as he started walking back with two steaming mugs of caffeine, he heard the pencil scratching stop abruptly. Even though Brassius didn’t look up, he acknowledged the mug set at his side with a nod and a quick thank you. Before Hassel could fully release the handle, Brassius touched the back of his hand just so, stopping him in his tracks.
“How much time left till the nurse comes? About an hour, right?” the artist said, voice quiet. “Since you're sticking around, would you mind playing a little something? It helps me think.”
Brassius finally looked up, something warm glistening in his gray eyes that made the pang of anxiety dissipate in Hassel’s gut and get replaced by something a little like bubbles.
The blonde put that hand firmly on his friend’s shoulder and squeezed. Brassius inadvertently leaned his head toward the grip of those long fingers, but before he could lean in too far, Hassel pulled away and sat back down on his little makeshift piano bench in front of the keyboard.
The breeze picked up outside. A few of the plants growing on the balcony shivered, but Brassius leaned back with a sigh, eyes closed. The ice pack on his neck paired with the cool breeze felt like heaven.
Hassel distracted himself by focusing on the keys, placing his hands on the cold plastic.
“Have anything in particular that you’d like to hear?”
Brassius shook his head lightly. “Whatever you feel like playing is fine.”
The dragon trainer inhaled deep, thinking quickly through his options. A popular tune that he knows Brassius enjoys. The song he was playing on the violin when they met. Some traditional music he learned as a child. Some Chopin.
He started with a more advanced version of a song his mother taught him, back when he first showed interest in music; Before his parents got him a tutor, just playing for the fun of it.
It seemed to satisfy Brassius, who flipped to a new page in his sketchbook.
At last, the artist was properly inspired. Sitting up, eating, alive, and inspired.
Hassel let the music flow as naturally as the wind. Even Brassius’s quiet Shroomish made its way out of its hiding place to listen, scuttling to a place by his feet to settle in.
A moment of peace.
Whatever the future would bring, he knew, at least, that he had made the right choice. After all, more than anything, following his heart never led him astray.