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Dull beeps and the shuffling of feet couldn’t ground him, and the ramblings of an exhausted nurse couldn’t reach him. He was walking alongside her (what a patient soul) through what felt like an endless labyrinth, pale green walls flying by.
Maybe he should slow down. Slowing down meant the poor woman beside him could breathe for the first time in minutes. Slowing down also meant the truth would catch up. Hassel wasn’t ready.
Thunder crept through his brain from stormclouds crammed in his skull. Rain splashed around in his head, threatening to spill from his eyes.
He pressed his fingers onto the bridge of his nose. The fluorescent lights, in all their blueish-white glory, radiated above. The floor below them was so thin and frail that every step he took made it (or maybe, just his vision) tremble. All the air in between held bated breaths.
Arceus, it’s such a shame he’s taken up all this space.
[“Hass, it’s a splendid set-up! Such rigor you’ll instill in these pupils. And, as for the room itself-”
“Hah, why thank you! I tried to leave it less avant-garde , if that’s what you’re thi-”
“Yes. And I say that’s the worst part about it. For a sanctuary, to feed one’s hunger for creation, it’s quite… bare. Have you thought…” Brassius choked on nothing, buying time as he carefully wove together the world’s most stupidly obvious solution. “Thought, much, about putting up your own art for them to see?”
What a novel, yet antithetical, idea. “It is bare, indeed! My own art- that just won’t do, though. That space isn’t for my own display, it’s theirs! Those walls will be filled in time.”
These sort of fundamental differences could only be expected between a career artist and a hobbyist with a performing arts teaching certificate. (Close enough, said Clavell, for he had more than enough experience to qualify for an Honorary Master’s degree. Tyme is to never know.)
“Do you think they’ll be inspired by empty sage walls?”
“I’ve seen you do it!”
“Alas, not all these students know sage by what I know it- what it IS about green which gives me such vivid inspiration.”
“Ah, you know it by what, the Sunflora?”
“Your overcoat.”
Hassel went red, and his silly little paintings took up some space in the corners from then on.]
Hassel wasn’t ready, but his steps lagged anywho, and he couldn’t tell whether he meant for that to happen or not. If it were up to him, he would sprint out of this place. Away, he could only imagine, from the shadow that loomed behind and the pain before him. (Flying through the skies on his dear Dragonite wouldn’t make all of this okay, but it would surely make it better.)
The world spun as he stopped a little too fast. His eyes met their own reflection on the wall- he’d just barely caught himself, a hand far above his head as if he was fingerpainting.
Looking in that reflection, it became obvious the rain from before had unleashed a hurricane on his cheeks. He’d probably been crying this whole trek. That wasn’t a surprise.
“Master Hassel,” The nurse shimmied to where the man could meet her gaze if he wished. When a few seconds passed without such acknowledgement, she continued. “I understand this- it’s- a lot to process. The lobby is just around the corner, so if you could follow me there to…”
To cool off, her face spoke. Once Hassel could finally bring himself to look her in the eyes, a tidal wave of shame and fright washed over him. The poor woman couldn’t be more than half his age (not saying much at 50, and yet). Her hands were struggling not to shake, her stance not to waver, as if the dragon of a man would bare his fangs any moment and strike her down.
“I am so, so sorry, miss.” He made a valiant attempt to collect himself- but surely, any show of respect landed flat after that whole display. He’d try anyway. “My pain is not something I should let run amok for you. That was- that was wrong of me.”
Managing to jump over the cracks in his voice, Hassel thought about patting her on the back before remembering how wildly inappropriate that would be, on top of how wildly stupid he already sounds. (Doesn’t matter how much he needs someone, anyone, to hug.) He takes one more breath, which almost seems to leak out more air than it lets in.
“Thank you for your time.” So self-sacrificially, he turned on his heels so she could make her escape. It was the kindest thing he could think to do.
Arceus, he needs to get out of here; he needs to stop wasting so much space.
[The first time Brassius collapsed, it was hard to tell which came first- the damned cardiac sickness or the whole skipping-a-few-too-many-meals ordeal.
The scene plays out in his cruelest of nightmares, and his mind hardly ever bothers cushioning it with variation. One second, Hassel was watching from the couch, fingerpicking some old Santana as Brassius poured them some cereal. Music of his generation, melodies and stories of which he’d been educating the man a few years his juni-
An earthquake tore through the house, he almost thought.
In a second, Brassius was on the ground. A spoon clattered on the tile, landing somewhere under the oven.
Hassel stumbled at a breakneck pace to the kitchen. The guitar's B string snapped off. He wouldn’t notice for a couple days. Brassius was on the ground, and he wasn’t getting up.
No.
No. No. No.
Every muscle tensed, and without really thinking, he almost made a break for it. Almost. Instincts didn’t overwhelm him enough to leave the man’s side, because he had no idea what to do but be there. (And call an ambulance after two long, unresponsive minutes. It seemed smart, better safe than sorry, all that.)
It might have been the smallest (and the least ever used) kitchenette Hassel’s ever seen, but there’s just enough space as the dragon protectively, sorrowfully, curled around his tamer.]
He wasn’t running away, surely- just getting some fresh air. As Hassel swam past the sterile room and the eyes that followed him, his brain tried to piece together the situation- to no avail. He rejected that lucidity and instead focused on his own heartbeat. It already pounded in his ears anyhow, a chilling allegro as he made his escape.
Then there was a rotting bench underneath him, gracious old sunshine above him, and his hands held his head; and he was weeping yet again. (He had to give himself a break sometimes. He was still learning when and how to let those tears flow. He was still learning.)
A little flock of Starly hopped along the cold concrete, chattering amongst themselves as if the world weren't falling apart.
On any other day, the fervent dragon was quite content- happy, even- to watch the little creatures as they thrived amongst the urban Levincia sprawl so effortlessly. Their adaptation to the harsh grays of the city is a modern biological wonder, and he could clamor about it for hours to anyone at all. They lived and loved, seemingly unamused by the tragedy abound. A starly in this place was proof the earth was still spinning, regardless of a single man’s pain.
Arceus, he was taking up so much of their space.
["Where is home for you again, Hassel?" The last syllable landed a bit sharp, uncertain of whether it belonged or not.
With a jovial smile and a gentle pat on Artibax's head, Hassel spoke brightly, as if he had an answer.
"I'm still finding it! But tonight, I take it, home will be… perhaps the inn we passed out by the park? Ah, I'd better head that way soon if I want to make it before dark.”
Paldea was easily one of the pricier regions he'd ever trekked (behind Kalos, but not much else) by virtue of the Pokecenters giving absolutely no shelter. No matter, because he'd managed to not spend too much Poke on the outing with this new friend of his today, leaving just enough for a room tonight! He'd start out to Levincia in the morning, and though tomorrow could never measure up to the grand sights he'd seen today, he'd busk on the north side of town and earn his kee-
"Oh, no. That won't do."
Through his meticulous thoughts and plans to get from one day to the next, Hassel didn't even notice the younger man shift and search around- until Brassius swung his closet door shut and trudged past with a quilt far too big for his arms. He paused for a moment to speak, muffled by the heap of fabric.
"Stay a night! I can't offer more than the couch, so grab some pillows from my bed, would you?"
Hassel's breath froze in his lungs, heart debating whether or not to accept what he more than definitely wanted. Before the air could thaw and he could run through pleasantries about overstaying his welcome, Brassius blew some loose hairs away from his face and chuckled.
"I wouldn't let my worst enemy lodge at The Macedon. The place is such a hygienic and culinary disaster! You'd promptly pass of a heart attack at, what, 25? We can't have that."
That got a snicker out of them both.
"Well, I suppose I could take up some of your air tonight!"
"I'm honored."]
It was here, on a damp bench that creaked every time he shifted his weight, that Hassel finally let the gears keep turning. With no excuses left, not being ready doesn't stop him.
This wasn't the first, or second, time they’d washed up here. Yet, when Brassius talks of his pain so proudly in the past tense, when he says his muse is now beauty, not gloom- it’s so easy to believe him.
He can chalk up an unused fridge (not empty, Hassel knows better than to let that happen) to the busy treasure hunt season and eating out more than in; his clothes are fitting looser because of that cursed heart medication they put him on. Confidence lights a bright, cold flame within him; Brassius spins lies, or at least one would think so after all this, but-
Neither of them have any control at all. It's so easy to forget.
If the whole thing were fair, winning- recovery- would be worth anything more than stumbling right back where they started. And if it were fair, he'd be able to do anything at all to stop it.
Arceus, he needs to….
["We are honored to gather here today, celebrating the life and mourning the death of my father- Dragon Master Johan…"
His grandfather's funeral was exactly how he'd pictured it for the last slow, dreadful year. Far, far too solemn. An abundance of strangers to shake his hand and wish his family well.
And, of course, the talk.
"Son, if I might-" not may, might, because he doesn't need permission- "..you must remember, that will someday be me in the casket."
His father was the only person Hassel knew who could say something so gut-wrenching as easily, and effectively, as he'd command a Haxorus.
He resisted, though without vigor. "And?"
"And, you'll be giving the eulogy." He turned, cape gliding back with the sudden motion. " If you're worthy. Which, I'd say you are."
What did the foul beast expect, a thank you?
"However- you must first apply yourself. With how brilliant you are…"
Oh no, this again. "Dad-" in a hushed tone, giving them the courtesy of privacy that his father wasn't- "can we just talk about this some other time-"
"You're grown, Hassel. You must accept these responsibilities sooner than later. Such a pivotal place in our family. My son, "
and it was so hard to tell if he cared.
"Do not waste yourself. Do not waste the space you've been given."]
His thoughts move at a breakneck pace, faster than he can reach out to grasp them; swirling images crumble away as soon as they appear like a shedinja husk.
[The baby Frigibaxi, fumbling around like they didn’t know they were creatures yet, weren’t ready- but Hassel sat alongside his father, stretching his neck to compensate for what puberty hadn’t helped with yet.
With no effort at all, the towering man hoisted up one of the hatchlings- eyes narrow, hands gentle, in spite of it all. Then, he’d put it down with a huff and pick up the next.
“This one,” his father finally decided, holding up his (seemingly arbitrary, to the kid’s untrained eye) prized pick. “He’ll be yours.”
“Why that one?” Why not, gravity nagged him to ask, the cute one with the scar over its snout or the one already rolling around, or the runt with a big yellow birthmark on its back?
“Because he is.” Unwavering as ever.
“And the others?”
Something between a sigh and a grumble filtered through his coarse beard. “Someone will want them, but until then- they are only taking up space in the nest.”]
His breath hitches. The Starly fly away in haste.
[His ear faced the fury of a wildfire. The strike blazed across the side of his head.
Vision splotched black, then red. Then it blurred together behind the fog in his head.
Two dragons- one old and one young, one ferocious and one meager, but both still children inside, at the end of it all- stood.
The beast roared.
"Arceus. Get out of my sight."
Each step was an earthquake.
"Stop wasting space here. Before I hurt you."
"You alrea-"
"NOW."
The hatchling ran with no direction. How kind his father was, to give him a chance at escape.]
Sage and blue and brown and static clash together in his vision.
[Twenty five years ago, Hassel might have called himself ready.
"Why, I take it you've never found yourself in Artazon before."
Hassel's reaction lagged, but soon enough, a surprised jump sent tremors through the whole windmill. The other guy, whoever he was, was nearly blown away, but he held firmly onto the base. If he hadn't, that'd just be one more excuse to follow him down.]
Hassel always wondered why he called his father that day.
["You-" the roar escaped him as a squeak. He tried again. "Stranger, sir, I'd look away, if I was you."
Morbidly curious passerby littered the street below. The little soldiers in aerial view made his gut churn.
The structure shook once more. Probably just a breeze, but it almost felt like a wave crashed through the air as this other man- shorter, thinner, obviously not as drunk as himself- realized the gravity of this…whatever it was. Situation.]
What a terrible kid he was back then, acting out in explosive teenage stupor. It was about ten years too late to be excusable.
[Any misstep, through words or through footing, could ruin it all. They both knew.
“Now, now. With the wind, there’s no way you’ll land in one piece. Yet, if you ventured up here… I doubt it was just to enjoy the view.”
Hassel sloppily inched toward the windmill’s nearest blade. Brassius inched closer, faster, carefully.
“Enlighten me. Wh’ so great about the view?” The taller man spat as the wind took the spite and splashed it right back in his face. In a moment of not-quite-lucidity, Hassel realized he looked like homeless shit (maybe since he was) in comparison to such a handsome stranger. What a talented man too, for getting up here with such ease… Agh, focus, Hassel! You came here to-
“Oh, thank you for asking!” Before either of them knew it, they were side by side- a testament to this man’s careful, practiced haste in a place like this.]
He remembers he’d gathered up the last of his quarters to shove in a payphone and dial the number he knew like his own name. His father must have been out in the field, like he always was. Three voicemails later, he exchanged the rest of his payphone- and taxi- money for the cheapest booze he could find.
[“And look yonder, in the distance where the indigo melds into a pale green. That’s the ten million volt skyline…”
Through whatever magic ran in this strange man’s veins, he filled the air with intricate descriptions of the night before them, twisting the world into art before their very eyes.
At once, and for it all, Hassel was captivated. Joy imbued itself into the air as his breaths gained rhythm. Fog gathered in his vision. For the first time in years, it was the nice kind- the fog that lifts after a morning dew, or some other poetic comparison only hindsight could offer.
“...Most of all- though I never caught your name, traveler-” the enthusiasm in the artist’s voice simmered into a reassurance, quiet as to soften the blow of the punchline. “You’re not ready to jump from here.”
It still stung.
“...S’pose you’re right.”]
Hassel called his father that day for confirmation. His memories of home did the job too, but maybe he’d wanted the real thing one more time. To be told he was a waste of space.
[“Come, come, traveler. I can see the taxi.”
“My name’s Hassel, by the way-”
“Oh, Hass? How avant-garde!”
“No, no, ah- Hass-el.”
“Now, don’t say such a thing. This hasn’t been a hassle at all.”]
Great, now he was giggling.
(It took until they met again- weeks later at a cafe in Levincia, and after way too many awkward apologies from both parties- for the poor man to actually get his name. The nickname is better anyway.)
The protective and self-deprecating fury once blazing through his chest, when tamed by that same magic from all those years ago, cooled to a gentle warmth. Bittersweet, sure, and salt still stained his tongue, but it was a newfound reassurance that quelled those sour thoughts.
[The rest of the night was a blur, though its colors were suddenly so much more beautiful. Not much else stuck in his brain besides the sickeningly clean three-star-inn lobby smell, and ar string of words said somewhere along the way.
“Rest yourself. The world is not done with you yet.”]
It wasn't until a couple of weeks later, after a surprisingly short inpatient stay, that the two were able to sit down and have a true conversation about it all.
And near the end, when Brassius started on his solemn apologies and laments, Hassel found it in him to put a finger to his lips with a "shhh. Shhh. Shhhhhh."
It was tender, if not comical, but he spoke once more before they retired to the warmth of their bed.
"Let me reassure you, Brassie, like you've always reassured me. You've never wasted my time, or space, or..."
They leaned in, almost on instinct.
"Or any of that. I love you."