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The heavy scent of Sootopolitan summers always made Wallace recall a vivid memory of his former master, Juan, who frequently took him on gentle rides atop his Whiscash all the way to Lilycove City to play in the park.
It’s good for kids like you to be around grass every once in a while, Juan would always say, referring to Sootopolis' bleak, yet richly historic landscape. Sootopolis gets lonely sometimes. Especially for children.
Juan was the only person whom Wallace allowed to push him on the swing set as a child, unable to trust anyone else with such a dominating task in which he had little control. In this particular memory, Feebas was clamped under in Wallace's arm, tightly secured to his chest. His other hand clutched the cold metal chain of the swing so hard that the blood drained from his pearly-white knuckles. But Juan had a genuine smile on his face, Wallace remembered; a real, genuine smile that made him feel safe. Wallace trusted Juan. Proudness radiated from his mentor's bright eyes in such a way that made Wallace feverishly desire to please him, the way any son should a father.
Not too high, not too high; higher—Wallace was a pushy child; demanding even, especially when cornered by his sharpest of fears. Juan’s gentle pushes and words of reassurance transformed the swing set from something out of Wallace's nightmares into something that made him happy, that he wanted to play on all the time. At first, Juan had to sit on the swing himself, with Wallace crying on his lap, promising again and again that he wouldn’t let Wallace get hurt; that there was no reason to be scared—swings are fun, not scary. See?
Wallace learned that the sky looked like water at the climax of a swing, and the air rushing through his hair felt exhilarating when he closed his eyes, like he was submerging himself in a pool of water. His stomach would drop on the way back down, but Juan was always there to catch him, stop the swing, and send him off into the air again. I’ve got you, I’ve got you; it’s all right, like the breeze in his ear—Juan's gentle reassurances always evaporated his fears.
Those days at the park—that evening in particular—were filled with laughter and a peculiar form of love and admiration that Wallace found difficult to put to words. Difficult, but important enough to garner conversation, as Juan's impact on Wallace's childhood shaped Wallace into the confident man he became later in life.
Wallace remembered Juan helping him carefully step off the swing with his Feebas tightly clutched to his chest. Wallace threw himself into Juan for tightest hug he could muster. Juan laughed and ended up kneeling down to give Wallace a proper hug, and there—embraced by his master, with Feebas squished between them, Wallace took a snapshot in his mind. I’m never going to forget this moment, even if I try.
The memories continued to come, spreading like wildfire as Wallace stared stony-faced out of the tiny window of the plane, watching, but not seeing the ocean's endless pattern of ripples. Steven’s hand was firmly intertwined in his own beside him. Despite neither of them having spoken for hours, Wallace knew that Steven understood his every thought and emotion: lost, lost, lost in his labyrinth of memories and thoughts. Regrets and heartache.
Prying himself from the window, Wallace spoke softly: “I’m sorry, love. This isn’t how I was planning on spending our fifteenth anniversary.”
Steven responded by uncrossing his legs and leaning over to give Wallace a sincere kiss on the cheek. A lingering squeeze of Wallace's cold hand said more than any words could have to make him feel better. Wallace eventually pulled himself back towards the window, allowing himself to worry himself sick over his former master.
There’s nothing wrong with showing emotion, Juan would always say.
As the years slipped by into eventual passing decades, the two retired champions joked about how Juan was going to outlive them, despite being around twenty years their senior. Juan was the epitome of health. With the energy of a man decades younger than himself and the self-realized physical aesthetic elegance enough for him to still attract flirtatious women everywhere he went, the thought of Juan growing weak in his old age seemed surreal to both Wallace and Steven. Impressive Master Juan; Immortal Master Juan. It’s going to kill me to have to go to attend either of your funerals when we’re all old, boys. So take care of yourselves—I'm being most serious, now, I'm afraid.
Juan's age took a long time to begin catching up with him, but when it did, his health took a sudden turn for the worse. The deteriorating state of his former master left Wallace in a near-constant state of worrying despair. Wallace and Steven began taking frequent trips to Juan's Kalos home to visit the retired gym leader and coordinator. Steven was fortunate enough to be able to do the vast majority of his business from Kalos, not feeling bad about using his power as the President of Devon Corporation to shape his and Wallace's life into what was best suited for them and Juan.
Wallace and Steven went straight to the North Central Lumiose Hospital after arriving in Kalos late at night. The unnatural, sparkling night life of Lumiose City pulled Wallace into the jaded memory of his first ever pokémon contest.
He was practically in tears, sitting on the floor with has back against Juan’s sofa while Juan fumbled to do something special with Wallace's growing hair. Juan stared down at the artistic mess in determined concentration, three bobby pins loosely dangling from the corner of his mouth. Wallace gently scrubbed Feebas’s scales to shining perfection. Nervously, he whispered, “You’re beautiful, Feebas. You’re gonna do great.”
To Wallace’s surprise, Juan kissed the top of his head. “You’re beautiful, Wallace. And you are going to give a most stunning performance out there. But you can’t expect to be confident in your pokémon without first being confident in yourself.”
Wallace took the advice to burning heart as best as he could, eventually leading him to becoming a great contest Coordinator, just like his Master Juan.
Wallace tried hard to remember all of Juan's words when he timidly made his way to the center of the stage. Hold your chin up high, shock the judges with a fabulous pose. You own the stage; the judges are merely your beloved, adoring fans.
The stage lights burned Wallace's eyes—he remembered the faux excitement in the coordinator's voice, and the fifteen or so people in the crowd—most likely family members of the young, beginner contestants that seemed just as nervous as Wallace did.
Wallace froze, feeling hot tears forcing their way into his eyes as he panicked and scanned the crowd wildly for Juan. Upon spotting Juan—beaming and proud; applauding with more confidence than Wallace brought with him, Wallace pulled his face into a forceful smile and gave Juan a small nod. Swallowing his fears, Wallace nervously began instructing his Feebas through their well-rehearsed routine, never taking his eyes off of Juan in the audience. By the end of the performance, Wallace felt like he was a part of the stage, smiling one of those rare, genuine smiles.
After the judging was over, Wallace slugged his way out of the contestants’ hall with his head hung low. To Wallace's great surprise, Juan ran up to him as if he had won first place, picking him up with a laugh and spinning him around, giving him a congratulatory kiss on the forehead. “Wallace, your performance today was most elegant. Absolutely beautiful! I’m very proud of you.”
“But Master Juan… Feebas didn’t win the trophy,” Wallace said sadly, which triggered another tight hug that Wallace couldn’t scrape from the depths of his memories. Master Juan didn't care about the rankings. He was proud, and making Master Juan proud always made Wallace feel like he’d accomplished something great, like he was on top of the world.
Outstanding, Juan would always say.
Wallace and Steven held hands like they couldn't let go of each other as they made their way up to Juan's hospital room—up the wide elevator, past the night-shift nurses’ station on the fourteenth floor, gently pushing back the medical-teal colored curtain, where Juan was asleep. He looked much older than either of them remembered: a pulse oximeter clamped to one finger and an IV taped into his other arm, binding him down like synthetic angel’s wings to the machines around him; tubes in his nose, down his throat; eyes shut so forcefully that both men were certain that Juan wasn’t getting any rest. Various sized tubes and wires messily crossed under his hospital gown, and the mathematically certain incremented beeps and releases and air-flow were the only thing signaling that he was, in fact, alive.
Juan carried a distinct smell, Wallace thought—one more homey than Sootopolitan summer nights or the scent of Hoenn’s clear oceans. But the sterile scents of the hospital overthrew the familiar smell of Juan, bringing Wallace’s mood down even further.
Wallace forced his hand away from Steven’s tightening grip to subconsciously cup both hands over his mouth as he light-headedly sunk onto the tiny couch by the window on the far side of the hospital room. Steven crookedly followed and weaved his his hand back into Wallace’s, leaning his head on his husband's shoulder. The sight of Juan in such a terrible state was exhausting.
Wallace fell asleep awkwardly on his side, with his chest resting against the arm of the tiny couch. Steven eventually dozed off on top of him, equally awkward in his positioning. Steven had taken his shoes off and spread his suit coat out like a blanket over Wallace, who had fallen asleep first. Neither of them had slept for a while after receiving the news about Juan's worsening condition.
Both men woke instantly at the sound of the rhythmic beeps of Juan's machines changing into abnormal increments. Wallace sprang from the couch, making Steven have to catch himself from falling where Wallace had been sitting. Wallace rushed to Juan’s bedside. “Master Juan,” he demanded softly.
Drugged and groggy, Juan cracked his eyes open, looking as though it was more effort to keep them open than closed.
I haven’t been your master in years, Wallace; there’s no need to be so formal, Juan always said.
“Are feeling all right, Master Juan?” Wallace asked quietly, putting on an excellent performance of reserved calmness, one that would have made Juan proud if Wallace were competing in a pokémon contest. He cupped Juan’s limp hand in both of his own, carefully not to irritate the IV taped to his arm. With no response, Wallace blankly raised his head to look at Steven for answers, who had also made his way over to Juan's bedside.
"Stop giving me those looks, boys," Juan said with great effort, voice nasally from all the tubes, strained in his weakness. His smile blew Wallace's performance out of the water. "I'm not going anywhere yet."
Wallace smiled back with half as much effort as Juan. "We're glad. You should get some sleep, Master Juan."
Juan grunted, signalling his agreement when he closed his eyes again and shifted his back into a more comfortable position.
Wallace mindlessly grabbed Steven's hand again and said quietly, "The doctor on the phone told us that you would be okay to go home in a few days. We'll be here the whole time, okay?"
One of the rare, genuine smiles appeared on Juan's face, surprising Wallace and Steven. "Thank you, boys. I love you both dearly."
Tears streamed down Wallace's cheeks, rendering it impossible for him to verbally respond without choking. "We love you, Master," Steven responded gracefully, squeezing Wallace's hand again in uncomfortable dread.
Remembering Juan's words from decades before about how one shouldn't bottle their emotions, Wallace's sobbed out an "I love you", and carefully hugged Juan as best as he could, blocked by tube's and the fear of Juan's frailness. Juan attempted to wrap his arms around his boy. "Everything's going to be just fine."