Chapter Text
“Man, they must all be asleep or something!” Nate declares, almost certainly scaring away whatever fish Pokémon may be swimming nearby.
Curtis squints into a particularly fearsome gust of wind, watches it jostle the chestnut tuft of hair sticking out of Nate’s visor. (Is it always this windy? Is he always this cold? Why else would he be shivering? Why are they there?)
“Why are we here?” Curtis says under his breath, his gaze still stuck on Nate’s hair.
“Huh?” Nate looks up at him, wide-eyed as always, from his position on the blanket. “What? Did you say something?”
Curtis meets his gaze, tries his damnedest to read it. They’re camped out on Route 6, in their usual spot on a lower bridge, fishing. This, their second such outing in as many weeks, features:
- Curtis’s shakily deployed blanket (deep maroon with a gold trim and emblazoned with Fast Balls, a cherished gift received from a Johtonian weaver);
- Nate’s Darumaka-shaped Fire Blast-model electric lunchbox (containing the remnants of bento lunches, five in total, soon to be completely emptied by the ravenous second winds of two teenage boys)
- Vulcan (Nate’s Pignite) resting to Nate’s left
- Nellie (Curtis’s Donphan) resting to Vulcan’s left
- two Good Rods (Nate’s gray and slung over a vested shoulder, Curtis’s neon green and lax at his side);
and about twelve other little aspects of the afternoon, none of which offers an explanation as to why they’re here.
Curtis finally says, “Uh, no. Nope! I didn’t say anything. Uh, here—” and sits down.
The rosy tint to Curtis’s cheeks, if Nate happens to ask, is just a result of the frigid May wind.
[The boys’ game of literal telephone concluded some two months prior. Upon their meeting at the Ferris wheel (a rendezvous, Nate had called it) and the subsequent return of Curtis’s cross-transceiver, Curtis was met with a twofold surprise: his anonymous pen pal seemed eager to hang out again sometime, and this same pen pal was ridiculously cute.
Curtis subsequently cut his filming schedule in half to make time for Nate, to the absolute outrage of his manager and the creeping curiosity of his fans; his phone was now regularly blowing up from angry missed calls and nonstop mentions on Chatter. To his best friend and cohost Yancy, he explained that he enjoyed the downtime offered by Nate’s easygoing nature, and wry sense of humor, and cool fashion sense, and dreamy eyes, and stuff.
Yancy got the picture, and told him he was down cataclysmically for Nate, and Curtis said, shut up.]
Curtis takes no issue with these sporadic hangouts—rather the opposite—but admittedly finds himself rather confused by Nate’s…choices in venue.
Like today. He has no idea why they’re here. (Well, Nate’s also dogshit at fishing, but for once that isn’t the issue.) For the life of him, he cannot fathom why they’re on Route 6 of all places, where they can only catch Basculin and the errant Poliwag, where the Parasol Ladies give him strange looks, where the Scientists at the Season Research Lab think they’re reinventing the damn Pokeball for trying to figure out how Deerling forms work.
Still, he figures the least he can do is make the best of the situation. Hanging out on Route 6 still means hanging out with Nate. So rather than comment on Nate’s amateur fishing skills, Curtis says, “Thanks for suggesting this hangout, man. I really needed this.” He pauses, and adds: “Work has been…stressful lately.”
“Oh, right, the top-secret, super cool job you supposedly have,” Nate lobs back. “The one where you’re busy for weeks on end, the job whose details you can’t even share with your cool new buddy Nate? That job?”
Nate ends this diatribe with his usual grin, and Curtis needs to steel himself against it. Man, he just hates that smile. It’s this thing, a bright, owlish thing set resolutely in the arch of Nate’s eyebrows. It’s this look, like he’s just told you something vital and fascinating and just hilarious. Curtis wants to bury that smile in his heart and keep it there for all time.
“Yes, that job,” he answers finally, his own smile materializing. For all the headway he’s made on this new friendship, Curtis Polachek hasn’t gotten around to telling Nate about his second life as Christoph Peck, television personality and teen idol.
And he doesn’t really feel the need to. Irritating romantic feelings aside, Curtis really likes Nate. They have invigorating conversations together, so much so that he’s often tempted to invite Nate onto the show as a guest.
He would do it in a heartbeat, if not for what he considers to be the best part of their friendship: it’s their friendship. He likes having a friend outside of work (sorry, Yancy) who doesn’t treat him any differently or want anything from him.
Besides, Nate spends so much time training that he’s practically allergic to TVs, so there’s little chance of him figuring it out on his own. Win-win.
Still a little curious about Nate’s decision to hang out in this exact spot, Curtis gently adds, “But you do know you don’t have to take me fishing all the time, right?”
“Are you kidding me? I love fishing! I mean—” Leaning a bit, Nate yanks his Rod out of the water and spins it around in a maneuver he probably thinks is impressive. “I’ve been waiting for a chance to show off my skills.”
Vulcan the Pignite snorts from his place curled up on the blanket. The flames from his snout tickle the side of Nate’s bag. Curtis says, “Well, look at that! Even your Pokémon have a better sense of humor than you.”
Nate closes his eyes, probably to avoid seeing Vulcan’s horrendously proud expression. Like Trainer, like Pokémon. “I’m gonna choose to let that one go in the name of unit cohesion.”
Curtis balks. This guy cannot be serious. “Maybe just stick to training.”
“You’re just praying on my downfall.”
“Yes, I am.” Curtis deposits his pole in a nearby nook and stretches out a bit on the blanket. He glances up at Nate, and Nate looks back down at him. Nate smiles, and Curtis melts.
“How many badges are you at now, anyway?”
“Five, baby!” Nate grins. “Just defeated Clay yesterday. Dude was tough, and I’ll tell you something else, he is not the most easygoing opponent either. Everything’s all serious business with him. But we beat him all the same!” Here Vulcan leans up and slaps a hoof against Nate’s outstretched hand, something Nate definitely taught him to do.
Curtis smirks at their exchange, at the ease with which the two can celebrate their shared victory. He isn’t a Trainer himself (or, at least, he doesn’t really consider himself one), so he often finds himself fascinated by the unique bonds between Trainer and Pokémon. To have that level of cohesion and coordination, all while moving towards a set goal…he doesn’t usually admit it, but he kind of envies that level of certainty. The idol life is many things—glamorous, engaging, eternally stimulating—but never consistent.
But he doesn’t voice this. Instead, he says: “Congratulations! You’re sweeping through this league like it’s a dusty basement. I wouldn’t be surprised if you made it to the Elite Four by next month or something.”
“Aw, what?” Nate smiles, but his tone wavers. “You, uh…you really mean that?”
Okay, that’s weird. Nate’s previous cockiness surrounding his win is definitely still there, but it’s now joined by something else. Something resembling uncertainty and…modesty?
“Of course I mean that.” Curtis frowns and leans in, analyzes Nate like he’s a blown fuse. “Nate, you’re one of the best Trainers I’ve ever seen. Certainly the best one currently on the Gym Challenge, at least if you go by the season coverage on Best Day News—” He realizes that he’s basically just admitted to following Nate’s progress on the gym channel, and promptly stops talking.
Nate seems to play back Curtis’s last words in his head. “What?”
“Nothing—my point is that you’re an excellent Trainer with a fierce attitude, and you will definitely end up becoming Champion one day.” Curtis says this with as much support as he can muster, which is a much smaller amount than he thought it would be, even though he means what he says. So much for those acting classes.
It seems to do the job, though. Curtis watches as the uncertainty melts away like snow, and a grin blooms in its place. Jeez, how has no one scouted this guy for TV yet? Curtis wants a 26-episode series pickup dedicated solely to that smile.
“Thanks, Curtis.” Nate blinks, and Curtis swears his eyes are misty. “If nothing else, I can always ask you to vouch for me at the League Gates. Something tells me they’d hear you out.”
Curtis tries not to physically swell from pride at the implication that his input is particularly special. “No problem.”
Ever the keen observer, Nate pivots his gaze a bit and asks, “Aren’t the Deerling great this time of year?” Curtis follows the direction of his extended finger to spot a trio of them resting on the banks of an upper portion of the river. “I’ve heard that in other regions, only the Spring form exists for some reason. I wonder why that is.”
Okay, maybe those weird Scientists are onto something after all. “That’s true,” Curtis responds finally, and beckons for Nellie to come to his side. “Hoennian Deerling all have that same pink color. Really makes me miss home when I’m there.”
“What?!”
Nellie settles down next to Curtis. Her trunk hangs off the bridge’s edge and just barely taps the surface of the water. She seems overall indifferent to Nate’s second outburst of the afternoon.
“You’ve been to Hoenn?” The Deerling have been abandoned; Nate is now locked onto Curtis. “Like, the Hoenn?”
After a pause, Curtis cracks a smile and leans in slightly. “Yeah, man, I’ve been to Hoenn.” He likes this, the rare ability to enrapture Nate with some tantalizing detail from his otherwise very separate life. “I told you, I thought. About my job. It takes me all over.”
Nate huffs—actually huffs. “Right. Your job. How could I forget?”
Here Nate finally laughs, and Curtis can’t help but join him with a bashful chuckle. Then Nate: “But wow, Hoenn! That’s nuts! What was it like?”
Curtis looks back at the flat route in front of him. The wind has picked up again, and he watches the grass sway steadily. One of the Deerling drinks from the river, its lips touched to the cool, clear water in a careless display of peace.
“Mountains,” Curtis settles on. Nellie grunts.
“Mountains?” Yancy ponders in a low tone. Today she sports a prim white overcoat, blue eyeshadow, and a bewildered expression. Even at her most incredulous, she still never raises her voice above the level necessary to be heard in a library. Curtis’s face is in his hands. “He asked you to describe Hoenn and you said it was mountains?”
Curtis’s groan practically rattles the entire makeup trailer. They’re filming today, not at the nice studio, but the Virbank one. They’ll talk with some Sinnohan specialist for a segment about poffins making their way into Unovan pop culture. Big whoop.
He finally glances at the mirror in front of him. Today his hair, positively irradiated with gel, is smoothed straight back, the blond fading to green at the tips. Combined with his slight widow’s peak, it’s a configuration he can only describe as vampiric. He groans again.
“Curt, please, you can’t do this now,” Yancy warns. “Elyce wants us back on set before the half hour. We barely have time to adjust our mics right now, so there’s definitely no time to figure out your awkward relationship drama either.”
“Yancyyyyy.”
She stomps a soft foot. “Oh, heavens. Fine.” She steps away from the safety of the trailer door and settles into the salon chair next to him. The scent of her Rawst Berry lotion fills his nose once again. Then, glancing over her shoulder: “Barnaby, you’re on guard duty.”
Barnaby, Yancy’s fabled Ursaring, snarls an affirmative from his typical spot on the trailer’s couch. Curtis relaxes a bit, understanding the meaning: No one enters the trailer until Yancy gives the all-clear.
Curtis glances at his friend in one of the mirrors, reads the intent yet patient look on her face. If there’s a stranger object of the public eye than himself, it’s Yancy. She’s centered, but stylish, making her the most weirdly popular fashion icon of the decade. Famously quiet, though not antisocially so; as Nancy, her patient and collected interview style magically soothes anyone who sits in that chair opposite her. People in the circuit still talk about her strikingly emotional sit-down with Lt. Surge about his time in the war.
Yancy swivels her chair towards him and folds her hands over her lap, and Curtis knows: she’s shifted into Nancy-mode. She mutters a soft “Here we go”—her catchphrase, and the Nancy equivalent of firing a starter pistol.
“Okay.” He sits up. “Nate and I have been hanging out a lot. Specifically, he keeps asking me to hang out, which is really really cool, and I love it, and I hope he never stops.”
She’s focused, and nods tightly. “So far so good. Proceed.”
He lets out a breath. “The weird part is that he always picks the weirdest spots when we do hang.”
Yancy blinks, and rubs at a spot under her eye, and then, “What?”
“He, uh...well, there’s the fishing—”
“You love fishing, Curtis.”
“Yeah, but it’s always on Route 6. And I’m pretty sure next week we’re going to Lentimas Town for some reason?” He scans his own reflection again. His black overcoat doesn’t do much to diminish the whole vampire thing he has going on. What are the stylists thinking? “It’s confusing, and I think that’s why I fumbled there at the end. I’m always off guard around that guy, but being in these increasingly weird spots makes it even worse.”
“Well, I guess you have a point, dear.” She stands and lays a gloved hand on his back, and his shoulders slump, guard officially down. “Besides, he really caught you off guard with that incredibly invasive question. Just uncouth behavior.”
“I know! Because—”
“That was a joke!” She flicks his earpiece, hard. “They are called adjectives, Curtis! Use them!”
“Well, at least I said something!” He glances in her direction through the mirror, unable to look at her straight on.
Yancy-in-the-mirror scowls at him. Shit. “Curtis, what does Stu say about flubbing on live TV?”
He lifts his head, and the two chant their director’s eternal mantra: “Shitting the bed is not better than not shitting the bed.”
He finally pouts over at Yancy-out-of-the-mirror. “It really was rough, Yance. I almost passed out.”
Yancy softens, her eyebrows parked in a small, sympathetic ridge. Sometimes Curtis swears she looked just like a porcelain doll—all tittering and careful not to push anything too far lest it break. “Well, I stand firm in my belief that you could have handled the situation a bit more tactfully. But it sounds like the rest of it went well!” She sits back down and folds her hands together. “He really likes you, Curtis. That much is obvious from all those times he called you after he gave back your cross-transceiver. These dates—”
“Hangouts.”
“—hangouts are his way of spending time with you, in ways I guess he thinks you’ll like. Even if you don’t quite understand why he takes you to such places.”
Curtis ponders this, and is equally annoyed and relieved to find that it makes sense. Yancy can always put these things in just the right perspective. Damn her.
“Okay, fine. I guess it wasn’t that bad.”
Yancy glances aside. “No, it was bad. You really did pooch it. And anyway,” she continues, ignorant to Curtis’s outraged expression, “I guess I would be similarly shocked if Nate took me fishing. I do not see the point of the activity.”
Curtis frowns, adjusts his earpiece. “That’s because you’re a girl.”
Yancy yanks his earpiece clean off his head and dunks it in his water bottle. “Coming, Elyce!”