Chapter Text
Failure, failure, failure.
Again.
Leon scribbled and scrawled, ballpoint pen in hand, paper at the ready. Tan speckled cotton, the best of the best, the most expensive of brands. How fancy, he’d thought, how absolutely self-indulgent. He tapped onto the table with the tip of the pen once, then twice. The sound reverberated throughout the empty space, devoid of any other living soul, not a singular person within sight. Leon’s gaze bore into the hollow parchment—tap, tap, tap. The sound, despite being entirely within his control, was driving him mad. He stopped. His body yearned for a reprieve from this agonising exercise in misery. He’d been there for hours. Leon forged ahead nevertheless, having promised himself to see this through. A letter, he told himself, and nothing but a simple, singular letter. It wasn’t hard, writing letters. Toddlers could write letters. So could pokémon, to a point. Why couldn’t he write a letter?
“Knock, knock.”
Leon swiveled in his chair, golden onto teal. His eyes proceeded to drift downwards, his gaze landing upon a silver tray with a rather underwhelming-looking sandwich. His exhaustion smothered whatever witticisms lay on his tongue regarding the meal.
“Hello, Rai.”
“You’ve been here a while.”
Leon snuck a peek towards the flaxen, lambent clock mounted on the wall. It ticked forth ever so fluidly, ever so effortlessly. Two hours. He’d been there for two hours. The words had yet to be written, existing within the vacuum of Leon’s mind, nowhere to be found. He mourned the loss of his concentration.
“Huh,” Leon hummed, taken aback, “so I have.”
“I brought you a sandwich.”
Leon cast a sideways glance toward the snack, one eyebrow sceptically raised. His stomach growled in protest, a perfectly decent meal in front of them, just out of reach. It had been a while. He stood his ground nevertheless.
“How many pans did you destroy making this.”
“Piss off, mate.”
A titter, a slap on the knee. Leon pretended to wipe a tear from his eye. “I’m just joking around, Rai. Heard the kerfuffle. I know it’s two.”
“Excuse you, one and a half,” Raihan corrected, puffing his chest.
“That’s not something to be proud of.”
“Hey, at least I can walk a straight line.”
Leon winced at the non-sequitur, his ego mildly bruised. He would survive. “Ouch. Point made.”
“What’re you writing?”
“A letter.”
“Huh.” Raihan leaned onto the table, arms nonchalantly crossed as he feigned subtle disinterest. Nothing more than small talk. “To whom?”
“My br…” Leon dithered, changing his tune. Something coiled and pulled within, his expression morphing into one of severity. “My family. Been a while since I sent a letter to them, you know? They’d appreciate the gesture. See how I’m doing.”
He took a bite out of the sandwich. Raihan wasn’t dumb, not in the slightest.
“You hesitated.”
“Did you put honey in this?” Leon inquired, his countenance twisting as he swiftly changed the topic. The multi-flavoured layers contained within the sandwich assaulted his taste buds, simultaneously sweet and salty, the worst of juxtapositions.
“It’s a Vernus specialty.”
“Tastes like shit.”
“This implies you’ve eaten shit before.”
A scoff was uttered. Leon cast the distasteful, disastrously-prepared sandwich aside, wishing for nothing more than a flavourful drink to wash away the rancid tang left behind.
“Oh, how I absolutely loathe you.”
“Right back at you, mate.”
A pause.
“You’re coming, right?” Raihan said, much to Leon’s befuddlement. “To the party?”
Leon’s expression of arrant derision had not been lost on Raihan, not at all, the most virulent of sneers. He tap, tap, tapped the pen down onto the wooden table below, eyes meticulously surveying his surroundings, as though Rose might materialize within the room in the blink of an eye. It was impossible, he told himself, completely and utterly impossible. The thought loomed like a shadow nevertheless, hanging above his head like a swaying noose. Leon wasn’t a worrywart. It was unlike him. He liked to think he worried just the right amount. Tap, tap, tap. Leon had, in his musings, almost forgotten he’d been asked a question. His voice was laced with bitterness and acerbic venom, the thought of attending yet another gathering with investors and sponsors and uptight celebrities awakening something acrid within him.
“I don’t see why I should,” he said at last, putting the pen down. Were he to continue tapping, he would undoubtedly shatter the tip, that he was sure of.
“The Chairman will make you go by force.”
“Not if he can’t find me.”
“Planning on hiding, Lee?” Raihan cracked a grin, sharp pearly whites exposed, beaming from ear to ear in his hubris, so thoroughly self-assured in his own brilliance. “The closet’s available if you’re looking for a proper laugh.”
Leon didn’t look amused in the slightest.
“Hardee-har-har.”
“In any case,” Raihan continued, ignoring the sharp, trenchant response he received, more pleasant thoughts bubbling to the surface, idyllic, “I’ll be there, eating cake and drinking champagne while you deal with your whole sponsor schtick.”
Leon did a double take.
“You’re seventeen,” he said, stating the obvious, “you can’t legally drink.”
“It’s only illegal if you’re spotted.”
“You’re a hopeless one, Rai.”
“Yes, I am.”
. . .
Hop could quite indubitably claim he’d coercively borne witness to many phenomenality one could only dream of being corporeally and psychologically able to fathom. It hadn’t been a deliberate endeavor, not in the slightest. One could confidently assert that Hop was, in a metaphorical sense, cosmically drawn to peril. Back and forth, back and forth, a swaying force that couldn’t be quelled, couldn’t be ignored; the thick, luscious crown of a tree, wavering with the wind. He closed his eyes and listened intently to the pitter-patter of paws atop grass a little ways over, a meagre distraction from the otherworldly horrors that plagued his psyche like the dying branches of a lone tree scraping against a window, formidable in its purpose, thoroughly indomitable yet equally as fragile, a juxtaposition by its very nature. Back and forth, back and forth. The wind picked up, both objectively and allegorically.
A thought came to him, piercing, harrowing. It went, for a second, ignored. Two seconds, three seconds—it was, at that point in time, timorously, apprehensively contemplated. It hadn’t been deliberate, not in the slightest. It never was.
“Guys…?”
Victor’s glance shifted from the blade he’d been diligently polishing with a dry towel towards his friend, an eyebrow raised in interest. “Hm?”
“Do you ever think—”
“No,” Gloria interrupted, tickled, “no, we don’t.”
“You didn’t let me finish.”
There was a brief, fleeting interlude, Hop’s discomfiture rising with every second spent entertaining this puerile song and dance, their clashing personalities stark in contrast to one another. “I didn’t think about that.”
“... Thanks.”
“What were you saying, Hop?” Victor inquired, hoping to steer the conversation back to its original track. Hop could only mentally thank him for it.
He hemmed, pondering on their conundrum, punctiliously ruminating on the splayed puzzle laid out before their very eyes. “Do you ever stop to think about all the traumatic things we went through? I mean, really think about it?”
Victor’s face twisted into an acerbic frown. “I’d rather not. Why’s that coming up now?”
“I… It’s nothing.”
Gloria paused her stirring, casting the cooking utensils aside for the time being. “It’s not ‘nothing’ if it’s bothering you.” Silence, withering. “Come on, bud, spill.”
“It’s just… I can’t quite put my finger on what’s bugging me, but something is. I keep retracing our steps, thinking back to what happened. I don’t want to, but it just… happens. Sometimes, when I stop for too long, I can see it.”
“‘It’?”
“Eternatus.”
“Oh…”
“The smell of smoke, that sensation of electricity coursing through my veins.” Hop flexed his fingers sequentially, golden irises lacklustre, catatonic, as though spellbound. “Is it… Is it weird that I miss it? Is that messed up?”
Victor seemed fairly ambivalent, dithering. “I don’t think I’m qualified enough to comment on it.”
“Fair.”
“We… We’ve all been through a lot,” Gloria said, equally as unsure as her twin, their frowns indistinguishable. She reached for the silver ladle, patting about, her hazel gaze never leaving Hop, as though he may turn to ash were she to dare look away. “I don’t think I could fault you for that.”
He could only chuckle in the face of such a dilemma, humourless. “I’m so fucked up…”
“You’re not fucked up.”
“Then what am I?”
“I…” Victor looked beset, face tinted with arrant concern. “... I don’t know.”
Gloria intruded upon their exchange, two bowls in hand, her expression austere, so completely uncharacteristic. “I think that’s enough psychoanalysing for now. Sit up, I made curry.”
“I would sell my soul for your curry, Glo,” Victor emphasized, promptly placing his camping knife within its leather sheath.
“Pay up, then.”
“It’s long been sold, sorry.”
“Balls.”
Hop indolently hoisted himself up, a walking corpse in the making, eyes glazed over, and instinctively accepted the bowl of curry alongside the necessary silverware, gently placing them atop his lap. The warmth the container radiated could be sensed through his denim jeans, broiling. He ate nevertheless, a sense of anguish and regret washing over him forthwith. Victor said nothing. He could have. He did not. Gloria joined them shortly, and the three of them ate in complete and utter silence, not a peep having been uttered. Hop’s lips pressed into a thin line. He could’ve said something, really could have. Could’ve cracked a joke, could’ve offered some obscure wisdom acquired through an equally as obscure book, could’ve cracked two jokes. He could’ve said something. He did not.
“One penny for your thoughts.”
Hop’s glance went to Victor, lips curled into a friendly smile. The spoon within his grasp swayed to and fro. Something clicked, jagged and acute. There, Hop found an opening. His lips moved before he could process the action being performed, his mind snapping into place halfway through.
“Do you remember the Slumbering Weald?”
Gloria’s face was eclipsed by a metaphorical thundercloud of remembrance, abysmal memories abound as she said, bitter, “I remember.”
“What about it?”
“When I fell onto that lake, when I drowned, I… saw things.”
Victor immediately found himself sitting up upon hearing such unanticipated news, spine ramrod straight, aghast. “What kind of things?”
“I can’t tell you. My memory’s hazy, like a photo within a washing machine, or a burst of static, like touching an electric fence. If I try to dwell on it, really try, I get a headache.”
“So how do you know?” Gloria inquired.
“I have a hunch.”
“I don’t think I understand.”
“Yeah,” Hop said, nibbling on his curry, “neither do I.”
They ate in silence.
. . .
Leon ended up going to the bloody party.
‘Sponsorships’ this and ‘reputation’ that, Rose had managed to slowly but steadily chip away at Leon’s resolve, his tenacity, until nothing but a hollow, thin husk had been left behind, an empty, discarded shell of a man who’d once managed to stand his ground. Leon could never say no to the Chairman. It was one of his weaknesses—the fear of disappointment, of being on the other end of a father figure’s chagrin. He clicked his tongue, weaving his way through the crowd of well-dressed gentlemen engaging in polite conversation regarding their troubled economy. The mere thought of being forced to partake in such a subject aroused a nausea within Leon that simply couldn’t be quelled. He’d been there, he’d done that; would not recommend. Thankfully, for as important as he was for the League, for how influential he was as the Champion himself, none of the dapper individuals bothered to pay him any mind; a cursory glance, at most. Leon managed to thread through the throng and towards the back of the ballroom.
He’d expected Raihan to be there. He’d not been expecting him, however, to be on his third champagne flute of the night, sipping onto the drink as though his livelihood depended on it. Leon, glancing about, understood the urge. Raihan’s glance fell upon him, teal eyes glistening under the clinical lights of the ballroom.
“So you came, after all.”
“The Chairman forced me to come,” Leon responded with a vexed exhale. Raihan nodded, knocking back the rest of his champagne.
“Didn’t go into the closet, did you?”
“Under the table.”
Raihan raised a singular brow, baffled by such arrant stupidity presented to him on a silver platter. He cast the flute aside, wiping at his mouth with a sleeve.
“… Under the table, Lee? Really?”
Leon, at the very least, had the decency to look sheepish when faced with his friend’s cynicism, his black, crowned cap pulled down in abashment, shrouding his expression. “I... don’t have a suitable enough explanation for that.”
“And I’m the hopeless one, ay?”
“Yes, you are.”
Raihan placed a hand on his chest in faux hurt, countenance twisted into a sorrowful glance. “Why, you wound me, my friend. However shall I cope? Ah, I know.”
He snatched another flute from the table, guzzling apace.
“Raihan,” Leon hissed out, his glance apprehensively shifting between his friend and the businessmen a few steps away from them, ever the worrier.
“What? Nobody’s watching. These stuck-up pricks are too busy talking about politics to care.”
“You might get caught.”
“Bet.”
Leon watched helplessly as Raihan imbibed yet another flute, resigning himself to the unfortunate fate of having become his friend’s lookout, gaze swaying to and fro, anxious. They were going to get caught. They were going to get caught, and he’d undoubtedly strangle Raihan for his foolishness. A lesson had to be taught. With a reinvigorated sigh, as though he’d drunk the most refreshing of drinks, Raihan placed the flute down, alongside the remaining empty glasses. An idea came to him. He snatched the nearest flute of champagne, full, and handed it to a distracted Leon, the liquid within oscillating with the motions, but never spilling.
“Here.”
Leon’s eyes widened. “No, I— I can’t do this.”
He gently placed the flute down and recoiled, as if shot. Raihan rolled his eyes when faced with this bout of histrionics.
“Sure you can, it’s incredibly easy. Observe.”
The champagne that’d been set down was then picked up once again and easily, swiftly consumed. Once he was done, Raihan discarded the glass. Leon’s gaze shifted towards the table to their right. The amount of empty flutes was, to say the least, extremely concerning.
“How many of these have you drunk?”
“Oh,” Raihan said, nonchalant, “I’ve lost count at this point, heh.”
He reached for yet another flute, seemingly aiming to get as inebriated as was humanly feasible. Leon promptly snatched the item from within his grasp, cradling it against his chest protectively, eyes reprovingly narrowed. He then forcefully placed it down. The table juddered with the effort.
“That’s enough champagne for tonight.”
“Drink it.”
“No.”
“You know you wanna,” Raihan sang.
Leon’s gaze was alit with determination, with conviction. “You can’t peer pressure me into becoming an alcoholic, Rai.”
“More for me.”
“Give me that.”
Raihan reached for the flute. Leon was faster, seizing the liquid and holding it above his head. And thus their tussle unraveled. Raihan reached for the flute, and, for all of the champagne available on the table, he’d taken this as a challenge in itself, a game to be played. Leon, not quite as amused, held it just out of reach, twisting and coiling his body with Raihan’s motions—a song-and-dance as amusing as it was pointless, this fruitless waltz of theirs. Raihan couldn’t contain his laughter, chortling loudly. Neither could Leon as he tittered, the liquid within swaying and spilling.
There were footsteps.
Leon, recognising this pattern of taps in particular, panicked. Unsure of what to do, of how to conceal this monumental lapse in judgement, proceeded to make the biggest mistake of his entire life: he downed the flute in one go, before casting it aside.
“Leon!” Rose said, ever so cheerful. “How are you enjoying the party?”
Leon, standing on edge apropos of the multiple empty flutes behind the two of them, that which Rose seemingly had yet to notice, as well as struggling with the irresistible urge to vomit from the disproportional amount of alcohol he practically inhaled in one go, passively responded with:
“It’s... It’s a fine gathering, Chairman.”
“Atta boy. Speaking of which, some of the sponsors wish to talk to you.”
Raihan stepped forth, having long acknowledged Leon’s crumbling expression, his sudden sickness. “Um, can he go later? We were kinda in the middle of something.”
“... Very well. You have five minutes.”
And, with that said, he turned on his heels and left. Leon, upon making sure he was no longer within hearing range, proceeded to nearly cough a lung out in his respite.
“Thanks…”
“You’re supposed to drink it slowly.”
“Wow,” Leon hissed out, his ire apparent, “thank you for telling me after the bloody fact.”
“You’re welcome. So, how do you like it?”
“You kidding me...?”
“Nope, don’t think so.”
“Tastes like shit.” Raihan opened his mouth. The sheer venom contained within Leon’s gaze kept him at bay, stuck in place, jaw hanging open. “Don’t you say it, I will disown you.”
“You drank it too quickly. Here, try it again.”
“Hell no.”
“Triple dodrio dare.”
“I hate you so much.”
“Hate the game, not the player, boo.”
Having been triple dodrio dared, undoubtedly a fate worse than death, Leon had the flute of champagne pushed into his grasp by an eager, beaming Raihan. He clung to it like a lifeline, one step away from losing his mind. The liquid inside could be spotted glistening under the light. Leon felt as though he were holding a mini-universe within his hands. He seesawed it to and fro, dithering. The liquid sloshed and swilled with the motions. Tenderly, methodically, he took a sip, steeling himself for the bitterness that would follow. Nothing came. The drink fizzled and crackled on his tongue, sheer, arrant electricity. Leon found himself taking one more sip, followed by another, and another—a repetitive cycle. The flute was emptied. Raihan’s toothy grin held nothing but pride; self-assured, knowing. He’d won. Leon couldn’t argue against it. The flavour lingered, sweet.
“It... It doesn’t taste that bad,” Leon said.
“What did I tell you?”
Leon’s hands moved before he could fully process the action in itself. He grabbed another flute of champagne, gently sipping on it. Then another. Then another. The process would inevitably repeat itself, from one drink to another, from one glass to another, from sobriety to inebriation, reaching the point where Raihan himself, the self-proclaimed ‘king of alcohol’, had to intervene.
“Um, Lee, I think you’re overdoing it.”
“Heh,” Leon chuckled, drunk and giddy, “look who’s talkin’!”
Raihan stepped forth, placing one hand atop Leon’s in a futile attempt at preventing him from snatching another glass. “Yeah, I got a tolerance, this is your first batch—”
“Shush. Shuusshh.”
Leon drank another flute, swallowing the liquid inside without rest and in its entirety. He nearly tossed the glass away like a crumbled flier, but caught himself.
“I’m done now. This, heh— this feels good.”
“Alright, party boy, that’s enough alcohol for you. Let’s get you out of here.”
“But the spooonsors—”
“—wouldn’t want to see you like this.” Raihan tugged at Leon’s hand. He trudged along, a ragdoll in the making. “C’mon, I know a shortcut.”
. . .
“We’re here.”
Leon giggled artlessly, leaning heavily onto Raihan, his makeshift cane in a time of need. “Yay! Thanks for bringin’ me here, Rai-Rai.”
“Rai-Rai?”
“Yeah! It's, like, double the Rai! Rai-Rai.”
Raihan chuckled, mildly amused by his friend’s lack of sobriety. “If you say so.”
There was a yawn, transient. Leon valiantly attempted to stifle his fatigue for the most fleeting of moments, but to little avail. He slumped and swayed forth, having lost his footing. Raihan, thankfully, managed to catch him. One second, then two. They stood like that, frozen in time, two statues in the middle of the living room.
“‘M tired.”
“Alright, then,” Raihan said, “let's get you to bed.”
“But I wanna stay uuup!”
“Nobody likes a whiner, Lee.”
Leon could only whine in response.
There was a brief interlude, piercing. Getting Leon into his own bed had proved itself a bigger challenge than Raihan had foreseen, fond as he seemed to be of treating his friend like a provisional huggable toy. A beat, then two, then three. The clock tick, tick, ticked forth, a purposeful, metaphorical stride forth, always one step ahead. Raihan, at last, managed to plonk Leon into his own bed, enswathing him with the multi-layered, colourful covers, much like one would do with a baby. After ensuring Leon wouldn’t roll off his bed in his stupor or something of such a calibre, Raihan turned on his heels and proceeded to make his way towards the door. His hand landed on the knob. Leon turned his head in his general direction, eyes lidded.
“Raihan.”
Another pause, equally as booming as the previous.
“Yes?”
“I was…” Leon hiccuped, blinking. “I was writin’ a letter to him.”
“Him?”
“Hop.”
Something akin to recognition flashed within Raihan’s teal irises, scintillating, bright. His lips briefly curved into a smile when faced with such a realization. An oversharer, then. “Ah, I see.”
“I miss him.”
“I don’t doubt that.”
“He’s so small, so chubby, so cute.” Another hiccup, louder. It was, Raihan thought, indistinguishable from a sob, wildly uncanny. “D’you… D’you think he misses me?”
“I think so.”
It was at that point where Leon truly, honest-to-Arceus began to weep, tears trailing down his cheek and splattering onto the mattress below. He looked, in Raihan’s gaze, fairly ridiculous, a blubbering, bawling mess.
“I love him so much.”
“I think you shouldn’t drink alcohol anymore,” Raihan said, “you’re a very... volatile drunk.”
Still crying, Leon bit back with, “No, I’m not!”
“Case in point.”
“... Night, Rai.”
Another smile, tender. Raihan turned the knob. “Night, Lee.”
And he left.