Archive of Our Own

From the time he was little, Grantaire could only remember ever having nightmares. Dark dreams of twisted creatures. Arms wanting to grab. Letting others down. Sharp shots of light in the midst of extreme darkness.

They didn’t come every night. They didn’t even come most. But there was no relief even in their absence. He would either awaken frightened, drenched in sweat and tears alone in his dark room, or feel as though the night had hardly passed. Like he’d blinked, rather than slept, and night had become day. It was preferable, he supposed, to the nightmares. Still compared to the vivid dreams, to the worlds of wonder he sometimes heard others express at school when asked to write an assignment on dreams or just during recess or at lunch, he felt like he was missing out.

Sometimes he wondered if something was wrong with him. If something was wrong with his life or with his family. But no, there was nothing out of the ordinary there. He had a mother, a father, a handful of their old Pokémon who were part of the household -- more than pets but less than kin -- and a sister two years his senior. Things may have never been perfect, but things were good enough. They fought and made up, they were happy unless they weren’t. Nothing special, but nothing alarming either.

The house felt emptier when his sister left on her Journey. She took their mother’s Arcanine, a fierce looking creature who would defend you within an inch of its life if it had to. She wrote home about once a month, detailing the people she had met, the battles she had fought. How she couldn’t wait to come home and begin her secondary schooling, but in the meantime was having the time of her life. She said she thought of them often, and dreamed of them as well. But his dreams, if anything, had gotten worse in his sister’s absence.

They almost missed each other completely. She came home shortly after her twelfth birthday having made it to the second round of the Champion’s Tournament before losing her way out of the competition. She did, however, have all 8 badges and a world of stories to tell, as well as dreams and ambitions of Pokémon photography. He was only able to hear her talk for three days before the time for his own Journey was at hand, and he set out on an adventure all his own.

He ended up taking his father’s Hypno. The Pokémon was so old, so close to the family, it felt rather like bringing an old friend as much as it did a partner -- someone to fight with. To fight alongside. Eventually, he would catch his own Pokémon and then.... he didn’t know what he would do then. He supposed he would discover where his own affinities were, and what it was to have a team of his own. He already had an interest in ghost-type Pokémon, so the psychic one seemed... close, even if perhaps not the best match in battle. Still, Hypno was old and strong, and he knew that with a little luck, he would be able to build a team of his own.

The first Pokémon he ever caught was a Litwick, a tiny little candle-like creature who practically jumped at the chance to gain a human partner. Perhaps the tiny ball of light made him feel a little more drained during the day, but he understood that risk. Litwicks require a little bit of spirit to survive. He took it as unobtrusively as possible, and after a few days there was practically no difference whatsoever -- he suspected Litwick had found taking a drop or two from enemy Pokémon was a much more varied, and delicious, meal anyway.

Litwick also provided illumination after dusk. This made nights a little more bearable, if only slightly. Despite his sister’s reports that she had all sorts of amazing, vivid dreams while she was on her Journey, his remained ghastly (rather like the third Pokémon he found to call his own after encountering a rather obnoxious but affectionate Clefairy).

His first gym battle went fairly much according to plan. He couldn’t use Hypno directly of course, so Hypno was sent back home for the week around the match. His Pokémon were well trained, and when it was finally his turn to go up against the gym leader, everything went more or less according to plan. However, two remarkable things happened that day.

The first was a glimpse of blond hair -- for a moment he thought it the halo of an angel -- as it headed around the corner toward the exit as he made his way in to the gym’s trainer prep room.

The second came that night, as his battle-bruised Pokémon healed in the local Pokémon Centre, the taste of victory still fresh on their lips.

For the first time that he could recall, Grantaire dreamed.

The halo, he later found, belonged to one Alexandre Enjolras, who seemed to be using the oddest trio of Pokémon he had ever seen: a Horsea, a Trapinch, and Swablu, somehow using their strengths together in a way he still couldn’t quite comprehend to battle the third gym leader, an ice specialist.

He was watching the match between attempts at this gym himself; his first time had almost ended in victory, only using Haunter in fact, before the leader had pulled out his strongest Pokémon and beaten him swiftly into the ground. Someone at the Pokémon Centre told him that observing a few matches was good for developing strategy, and so between training sessions (sometimes with wild Pokémon, sometimes between his own team, and sometimes with the folks in town or other trainers preparing for a match or rematch themselves) he would stop in to watch a few in the designated viewing area.

With one final blow -- a rock slide attack from the Trapinch -- the match was over and Enjolras had won. He tried to catch up with the blonde afterwards, but the boy? (it had to be, with a name like Alexandre, right? but he had been so beautiful, a thing to behold....) had disappeared once again.

The halo haunted his dream that night and the next. Always blindingly beautiful, and always just out of reach.

The dreams seemed to come more often as his journey continued, and his team grew in strength. Before his fifth match, he sent Hypno back home for the last time, intent on keeping to his own team from then on. The next day, he got to watch Enjolras battle before him -- he was truly stunning to see in action.

The fierce yet gentle face graced his dreams for a week straight.

“You realize you can’t go on like that,” he heard a voice say as he made his way out of the seventh gym, still fiddling with the badge’s placement in its case. It took a moment to realize that the comment was directed at him, and another to come to the realization that the voice was linked to a very familiar head of blond hair.

“What do you mean?” he replied, crossing his arms over his chest. He had, after all, managed to beat the gym leader on his first try, even if he had been down to his last Pokémon at the time. (Haunter -- no, Gengar now -- had been able to finish what Lampent had started, and just in the nick of time at that. Another attack or two and he’d have had to stay in this town a week practicing, and he wanted to get a move on! The championship for that year was in less than two months and he still had so much to do if he wanted to enter, let alone have any chance at winning, and he didn’t want to be on the road for an entire other year. No, he needed to go, and soon. But really, winning any battle on your first encounter was considered good, so he’d certainly done nothing wrong, and if his strategy worked last minute, well it still worked, right?)

The blond, whatever-his-name-was Enjolras, shook his head.

“Your Pokémon. You’ve been using only ghost-type for the last several gym battles, and all of them pure or primarily ghosts at that,” the blond stated, frowning as if explaining something to a young child who didn’t want to sit and listen. “One of the Elite Four specializes in dark Pokémon. You’re going to be at a severe disadvantage with your current set, even if your training is above and beyond what most do, and judging on how you missed an easy opportunity to knock out his Weezing about five minutes into the match, I somehow don’t think that’s quite the case.”

Grantaire blinked, taking a moment to let that all settle before realizing the implication of Enjolras’ words.

“You’ve been watching my battles?”

“We seem to be going from town to town at about the same speed,” Enjolras replied simply. “I like to spend a day watching battles before my own. It helps me strategize. And as it was, the trainer just before you happened to be a close friend of mine.”

“The guy with the actually skilful Metapod?”

Enjolras sighed. “You know that cocooned Pokémon are able to learn several attacks if they’re caught at their larval stages, right? And that TMs and HMs are just as effective on them as on any other Pokémon.”

“Well, I-”

“And that although he does specialize in bug Pokémon, he keeps a B-team of others, including a set of elementals, ready at all times. In fact, we often fight our teams against each other in the evenings when we can.”

“At least he has a preference,” Grantaire shot back, grumpily.

Enjolras crossed his arms as his brow furrowed. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, who the hell trains a Seadra next to a Trapinch? It’s like yours have no rhyme or reason to them at all! Most people specialize to give themselves a focus and find something that fits their identity, whether by type or ones that are particularly cute or able to perform songs or look like ancient gods or something, but yours look stupid next to each other, like a kid putting together a line of toys without giving any thought besides that they’re all toys.”

Enjolras’ mouth spread into a thin line, and then he huffed a response. “I’m sorry, I thought I was talking to someone who knew enough about Pokémon to understand what I was talking about. Good luck moving forward. I’m afraid you’ll need it more than I thought.”

And with that, he turned on his heels and walked away.

His dreams that night were full of Pokémon, some he recognized, and some he didn’t. All of them were mingling in a group and talking to each other, wearing badges that showed affiliation, and trying to climb onto weird shelves. The next day, as Lampent finished his healing, he went to the computer station and did a few hours’ worth of research on types, strengths, weaknesses, and breeding.

It felt very weird competing with a whole new team for his eighth badge, but indeed it was for the best. And it was lead by that damned Clefable that he had caught early on -- apparently fairies happened to be really good against dark, after all.

And really, it seemed like a miracle, training with a totally new team and yet winning on his first try. But then he won, and was on his way to the Elite Four.

“Dragons.”

Enjolras turned towards him from his seat in the waiting room – he wondered which of the four the blond was here for today, but that was beside the point.

“All of yours. All of them. Many are secondary types, but they’re all... they either are dragon types or are going to be sometime when they’re done evolving. And you have two Trapinches because they learn different things before and after they evolve, and you can’t have both.

“Three actually,” Enjolras corrected, “one for each level of evolution.”

“Why the heck do you want to be that thorough?”

“Because I never know when one attack or another will be useful. I want to be prepared.”

“But aren’t you at a disadvantage, just like you told me?” Grantaire wondered. “I mean, dragons are weak against --”

“Fairy, ice and themselves. That is why many of mine are secondary types, and I have ones whose primary ones should, theoretically, cause mutual strengths and weaknesses to emerge, making such advantages moot.”

“Oh.”

Enjolras went back to his Pokédex, looking over the information on the stream, but Grantaire had another question.

“Are there any dragon Pokémon who are known for giving good dreams?”

Enjolras turned and looked at him once more, this time giving a rather odd expression. “No. Why do you ask?”

Grantaire shuffled and shrugged. “No reason. Good luck. With your match, I mean.”

The blond still looked puzzled, but he graced Grantaire with a genuine smile.

“Thank you. You too.”

It was a different boy, one with hair much like his own, but with a much more charming face and a more stylish outfit that approached him a little while before the Champion’s Tournament registration was due to open.

“You’re the one who likes ghosts, right?” he’d asked. “I’m Michel Courfeyrac. There’s a ‘de’ on my nametag, but I don’t really like it. I’m getting it removed when I’m old enough to change it myself. But that's enough about me. There’s a group of us that were thinking of planning for the tournament together. The more the merrier, I always say, and if you’d like to join us, you’re totally welcome. We’re meeting at the Pokémon centre at six tonight.”

Grantaire shrugged, nodded, and eventually agreed. At the very least, it meant a chance to spend time with that angelic boy, and get some good training in after all.

That being said, there wasn’t much time for ogling once he arrived. He found himself pitted against the bug specialist -- Combeferre -- instead, for some training battles that took far more concentration than he expected given his opponent’s Pokémon of choice.

“I figure I’m the only person to have a level 97 Metapod,” Combeferre admitted, sometime after their third fight (Combeferre having won all three, though they’d become increasingly close with each match) “but I enjoy that bit of strategy. No-one suspects much when they’re fighting a collection of cocoons, but if trained properly, they can be surprisingly effective. I mean, they literally have rock-hard defence, and can be trained in offensive strategies as well. You just have to know what you’re doing and how.”

“And you do,” Grantaire guessed.

“I try, “ the bespectacled boy agreed, double-checking that all his Pokémon were in decent shape before putting them into their balls and turning toward Grantaire one more. “Anyway. I heard you were wondering about dragons and dreams?”

“I….” Grantaire started, a little taken aback, but eventually nodded yes. “How did you know about that?”

“Enjolras told me,” Combeferre replied with a shrug. “He thought it an odd question, and was curious himself. I… tend to do a lot of research on Pokémon in general –- I want to be a professor when I grow up and I’ve always wanted to know all I could about everything as a result.

“Anyway, last I checked, it’s much more a psychic thing than a dragon thing to be involved with dreams, and the only double type is legendary, so chances are you haven’t run into any of those. That being said, among psychic Pokémon, there are several that can enter or affect dreams or cause others to enter a trance state. There’s also a move, dream eater, which is specifically for use against sleeping Pokémon, and Munna and Drowzee and their respective evolutions are known to sustain themselves on a diet of dreams…..”

Munna and Drowzee? But that would mean….

“What… what kind of dreams?”

“It depends on the individual Pokémon really. Most prefer eating bad dreams – kind of like doing a service to the public. Others are very omnivorous, and enjoy having a mix depending on what’s available. And some find that good dreams taste sweet like candy, and want to eat nothing but those. Are you sure you’re feeling alright? You were really red a minute ago and now you almost look like a ghost yourself.”

“Y-yeah,” Grantaire stammered, scrambling to get his things. “I think I need to go now. Get a good rest and everything for tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Combeferre agreed. “Take care of yourself, and we’ll see you, okay? Good luck.”

Grantaire managed to give a word or two of goodbye in response, then was out, pacing the streets and letting his mind process all of that.

He had been wrong all this time.

It wasn’t at all that Enjolras –- that beautiful angel of a boy –- had been bringing the dreams to him. No. It had been Hypno, the gentle Pokémon that had been so caring to him for his entire life, who had been taking them away. And now, now when the battle was done, he’d be going home not having changed a thing, hadn't fixed his ability to dream at all. No. He’d be going back to the same as before. Back to the nightmares and voids. Back to nights that would haunt him forever, and all so that one of the family’s most cherished Pokémon could stay well fed.

With all that on his mind, it wasn’t surprising he didn’t sleep well that night. Though, as it was the first day of the Champion's Tournament, he doubted that many others did either.

His first match, surprisingly enough, was against Enjolras himself. The two fought hard, but in the end a mere mortal and his ghosts were no match for an angel backed by dragons, and then it was all over.

He planned to go home the next day, but was talked into staying by Courfeyrac and the others – now nine in number – to help stay and train with them so that those who went far had fresh and varied opponents to practice against.

In the end, Enjolras and Combeferre went the furthest, but it was a plump girl with a team of psychic Pokémon to match her fortune teller’s eyes who won the tournament.

“Thank you again for all your help,” Enjolras had said to the group of nine assembled, their things all packed as they met one last time before heading their separate ways. “We couldn’t have made it so far without you. Together, we’ve been able to do a lot, and I’m really glad you all decided to stay and support us.”

“I don’t think we’re done yet,” Courfeyrac noted in response, looking around with a smile on his face. “I like this group idea. I think we should do more like this.”

“Like what?” one of the boys, a skinny little thing who kept a Cubone out of his ball at most times, asked.

“I don’t know,” Courfeyrac replied with a shrug. “But there’s a lot of things that could be done with a group, and we work well together. Maybe… maybe when we’re all done with school, we could get together again and do more than just train for battles. Like, maybe we could change the world. Or do something really cool together.”

Enjolras smiled. “I like the sound of that,” he agreed. “Does everyone have everyone’s contact information?”

Grantaire, to be honest, wasn’t sure of what he thought of the idea of changing the world. Especially when his world meant going to a place where dreams die at the gentlest of hands. But now, he thought, there was at least a hope of what was to come. An idea to work towards.

Your Journey is supposed to help you figure out who you are and what you want to make of yourself after all. If that blond angel and his friends were the greatest takeaway he had, then maybe that was that.

And maybe, just maybe, even if he couldn’t dream it, he’d be able to picture himself proudly standing alongside him and the others, one day.