Work Text:
Hassel is a lot of things to a lot of people.
First and foremost, he is a professor – he wears this badge with pride. He considers it to be his magnum opus, a chance to enrich the minds of Paldea’s people with the pleasures of art. Hundreds of students had come and gone in his tenure, and yet, he can still look on each one with fondness. Even those who felt art was useless to them came out of his class with a newfound appreciation – whether that be for music, dance, traditional or digital – for art.
Second to that, he is a member of the Elite Four. He is as honored to be part of such talented trainers as he is to be a revered professor. Under Chairwoman Geeta, Hassel continues to work tirelessly on encouraging trainers to take on the challenge. He even finds himself mentoring the youngest members of the team: Poppy and Rika, at different levels. Poppy often comes to him for advice on how to keep her Pokemon even happier than they already are. Rika focuses more on the interviews they conduct, often running questions past him to see if they can accurately assess the knowledge of the trainers coming to challenge them. It is not easy to balance these two roles, and yet, he seems to do it with relative ease.
Third, and his least favorite, he is a son. A son to a man crueler than a father should be. A dragon tamer, heir to the throne of a king too abhorrent to keep his own kin from taking it, even when the offer is extended with the promise of no struggle at all. Hassel had no desire to take his place upon the throne, despite what it meant for his future, for his family – or lack thereof, as their love was conditional at best.
As a young man who had run away from home, all he could care about at that time was finding a way to make ends meet. When his mother passed and he came into a fortune that would leave him set for the rest of his life, he put it all towards his future. Now with the opportunity to attend university, he threw himself into his own work. Eight years later, he had finished with multiple degrees.
The first had been a Master of Fine Arts in painting, the second, a Master of Music with a focus on string instruments and piano. When he returned to school, he earned his PhD in classical literature and art history. He was an exemplary student, as was to be expected of someone with such passion. When he graduated, he had the highest honorific of valedictorian, with cords from Eta Sigma Phi and Pi Kappa Lambda, for his work in classics and music, respectively. At twenty-six years old, a fresh graduate, he traveled around the world with the Paldea Sinfonietta, a first chair violinist and backup pianist. A year later, he did an art residency in Kalos, resulting in his work being discovered and accepted into an international gallery of young artists. He could look back on the time fondly.
When he returned to Paldea, he took a job that he currently worked now. His love of education keeps him coming back, even though he has plenty of opportunity to continue traveling, to teach in other countries, even those around the world. His roles came naturally, and he continues to accept them with open arms.
There is another role, though, and he is not embarrassed to admit that it is his most favorite of all.
Muse.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
When Brassius came into his life, everything changed.
Meeting him had been a complete accident. It had occurred in Porto Marinada. Hassel had just visited Kofu, his dear friend, spending an afternoon eating lunch together. It was the evening by the time they finished, and he supposed that he should take a walk along the esplanade to watch the sunset before heading back to his apartment in Mesagoza. Perhaps he wasn’t paying attention to the path in front of him as much as he should have been, or perhaps the struggling artist from Artazon was in a rush, but they both seemed to knock into each other. Paint brushes and a canvas ended up on the ground, face down, effectively ruined. The other man seemed far too worried about Hassel to even notice. Hassel, on the other hand, burst into tears when he saw he had caused the destruction of a half-finished work.
He begged Brassius to come to his studio, through his weeping, to make up for it. He would replace the canvas and the brushes, giving the other man space to work and free reign of all his supplies.
Brassius obliged, if only to stop the onslaught of tears that seemed to be ever flowing from the professor in front of him. He had recognized Hassel as a member of the Elite Four. He was told he was going to meet him soon, as he had just become the gym leader of Artazon. On the walk back, he introduced himself as such.
When they arrived at Hassel’s studio and set up for the evening, there had been golden light pouring through the windows. They both worked in relative silence, with Brassius opting to work with oil pastels instead of painting. At the end of the night, they had exchanged phone numbers, with the offer extended to Brassius that he could come to the studio whenever he liked.
Their relationship had started slowly enough. The first few months of them sharing Hassel’s studio space were filled with the expected conversations of artists. Brassius would ask about the other man’s life, and he would listen to him reminisce for hours, going on about his education and teaching. Hassel would ask Brassius about his favorite artists and writers, with both sharing intelligent conversation.
Those hours were the only happiness Brassius had.
Lonely and depressed, the struggling artist had let himself sink further into the void in his head. It was an empty pit, and it left him with nothing but his duties as gym leader to distract him. Every evening, he tried to paint something, but could only find that there was nothing to inspire him at all. The evening he had met Hassel was the first time in two months that he was able to finish any works – and that was because of the beautiful man he had run into. Every day since then, he had at least sketched something, whether that be a Sunflora or a full portrait of Hassel himself. He soon found that the Sunflora and Hassel seemed to be the same.
As time went on, Hassel began to visit Brassius on his lunch breaks. He found out the other man rarely took the time to eat more than a few bites of frozen food before running off to finish another task, and that simply would not do. He had shown up to the Artazon gym on the first day of spring during the free hours he had between courses. With dramatic flair, he presented Brassius with a sandwich, in which he called a “Tasty Hassel Original”. It had been the first time he had heard Brassius snort while laughing.
Hassel was pretty sure that was when he fell in love. Every day from then on, he met with Brassius for lunch. Wednesday and Friday evenings were spent together in the studio, with Brassius now taking up sculpting. He had shyly come to Hassel asking for a small corner to set up his tools, stating that he would never take up too much space.
The professor didn’t mind. He wanted him to take up space. He would beg him to take up even more if he would be so willing.
It was on the eighth month of knowing him that Brassius realized the other man was much more than an acquaintance – he was now his muse. A year and a month later, he came to the realization that he was in love with Hassel.
He had spent another month working up the courage to confess his feelings to the other man, only to be met with a stuttering, shocked Hassel. There was a pregnant pause, with Brassius telling him to please, say something. Tell him to leave or tell him he loved him too. Don’t leave him hanging with the ambiguity of silence.
When he received no response, Brassius almost left Paldea completely.
Convinced he had ruined the only good thing in his life, he rejected all of Hassel’s calls and messages. When the man showed up on his doorstep, asking to be let in, he only pretended he wasn’t home.
How long had it been since he had felt such heartbreak? He felt himself slipping farther and farther away, after that. No more was he sharing his afternoon meals with Hassel, nor sharing a glass of wine on a Friday evening as they painted the view of Mesagoza. Instead, there was silence. Cold, lonely silence.
The coughing had started a month later. With no acknowledgement, he continued on.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
In Mesagoza, Hassel could barely keep himself together. Brassius had landed in his heart only four months into knowing him. Hassel had written tens of poems for him, stashed away in a box in the locked drawer of his desk, too embarrassed to give them to the man he so cared for. He vowed to keep his feelings secret – he didn’t want to lose such a wonderful friend. When Brassius had come to him over a year later, stating that he was in love with him, Hassel could scarcely believe it. He couldn’t even speak with the shock of the admission. It took him back to when he had left home. His father, slamming doors, screaming in his face. Himself, fighting back. Two dragons, out for blood.
His mind had gone blank, only to come back when Brassius had already walked out the door.
His lack of words had driven Brassius away, and now, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t seem to get him to come back.
It broke his heart.
Months went by with no contact between the two, aside from the occasional meeting of eyes during League events. Muted colors stormed over the canvases in Hassel’s studio, scaring away the typical vibrance of his usual creations. He placed a sheet over the sculpture in the corner, a ghost to haunt a space that had lost its warmth. A fine layer of dust settled across paintbrushes and sketchbooks; left exactly as they had been the last time Brassius touched them. Hassel couldn’t bring himself to go into the studio anymore – and so he locked up one night and never went back.
No one could compare to Brassius. Try as he might, there was no replacing the artist he had become so fond of. Many nights were spent crying, and he hated himself for it - Misty eyed and devastated, he dragged himself through the world. The change left many worried for him, trying to encourage him to just talk about his feelings. They meant well, but he couldn’t bear to tell them what was going on. There was no way that Brassius would be coming back, not now, not ever.
That was what he believed, at least, until he got a call from him nearly a year after his confession.
That call still sends chills down his spine. He remembers the conversation verbatim, not a word left behind. It was short, only a few sentences – and yet, it was the most frightening conversation he had ever had.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
He had been at a meeting with the other professors. Typically, he rarely attended these, as it was mostly business and finance-oriented statistics. Hassel had been trying not to fall asleep, bored out of his mind at all the numbers and charts on the papers in front of him. When his phone rang, he was grateful for the distraction – even though he was embarrassed when everyone looked at him.
When he saw it was Brassius, he nearly fainted.
“Hello? Brassius?”
“Hassel.” There was a long pause on the other line, and Hassel almost worried he had hung up. “Hassel, I need you.”
“Where are you, Brassius? What’s wrong?”
“Hospital. Please, Hassel. Please, I need you.” His voice was soft, nearly too quiet to hear. Desperate, frightened. A quiet sob punctuated the conversation, interrupted by a cough.
“I’ll be right there, Brassius. Hold on a moment for me, I’ll be right there.”
Hassel had gone without telling anyone – leaving the others to call after him, alarmed at his sudden departure. He couldn’t care less. At that point, he wouldn’t have cared if he got fired for leaving, as the only thing on his mind was Brassius.
The hospital had been cold, empty. Devoid of color, a sterile white.
Brassius didn’t belong here.
While he had expected to find him in the emergency room, Hassel was led far beyond that, past the offices and patient rooms, all the way to the Intensive Care Unit.
The nurse who led him there said something, though he could barely hear over the thumping of his heart in his ears - loud, thundering, and wildly quick. He had no idea what he was walking into, and every one of his muscles seemed to tense at the notion of opening the door; and yet, he did.
Another bright, white, sterile room. The incessant beeping of machinery, the soft sound of a ventilator. The even softer sound of Brassius’ breathing.
Then, crying.
Falling to his knees beside the bed, gripping the cold, pallid hands that had been resting on top of the blankets, pressing his lips to the knuckles, and weeping openly. Brassius had fallen asleep between their call and his arrival, as he had no response to give. Hassel couldn’t bear to look at his face, and yet he forced himself, if only to see the beloved man he had come to care for more than himself. A hand came to rest upon his cheek, stroking it with his thumb, careful of the cannula tube that encircled his face. It was painful, beyond painful, really, to see. The only color on his face were the dark purple and sickly yellow that carved out the area underneath his eyes. Had he been sleeping? Hassel couldn’t remember them being that dark before. How long had he even been there before he had called?
Days had been spent at his side, with no signs of him waking. When visiting hours ended, he was forced to leave, despite his pleading. He wanted to be there with him, wanted to stay the night, insisted that if Brassius woke up, he should be called immediately.
He tossed and turned in his bed, only granted a few hours of sleep before rushing back to the hospital. He waited in the park adjacent to the building every morning, stuck to the same bench and paralyzed with anxiety. Any calls from his colleagues were subsequently ignored – he only sent a brief email Clavell saying that he would be on sick leave until further notice. It didn’t matter what they said back, as he could only focus on Brassius.
A week later, he awakened with a soft hum in the back of his throat.
Hassel had been reading a book of sonnets to him when it happened. A love poem was interrupted by a whisper-quiet call of his name, and he subsequently tossed the book onto his bag, moving to kneel by the bed as he had that very first day.
“Hassel.” It was all he could say, at least in that moment. All he could understand was that Hassel had come to see him, as he tried to see through the fogginess of a week-long sleep.
Then, a minute later, “Im sorry.”
Hassel had been taken aback by the apology. He found himself stunned again, but this time, he wouldn’t let his dumbfounded reaction ruin his relationship with Brassius again.
“I forgive you, Brassius. I was never angry in the first place. Im sorry, too.”
Brassius smiled at him, gentle and small, taking his hand in his own. Tears fell from Hassel’s eyes, relieved to feel a bit of warmth back in the usually frigid fingers that interlocked with his own.
“I love you.”
A sob, joyful, bittersweet. A moment shared between them, the eye of a hurricane allowing them this second of reprieve, suspended in time. How easy it was to forget to treasure the life had between two souls.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
He never forgot. Not even now, twenty years later.
Brassius, though still afflicted with chronic flare ups and pain, has long since gained control of his ailment.
Hassel is grateful for the moments in which he can observe him before he wakes. To roll onto his side and see his sleeping face, pressed into the blankets, peaceful and serene. He has drawn it many times. He will draw it many more.
On their twentieth anniversary, Brassius approaches Hassel, a wrapped present in his arms. It is small, though the smile on his lovers’ face says that it must be something he is quite proud of.
“A gift? Darling, you should never feel the need to give me anything. Your presence is the greatest treasure I could ever ask for.” Hassel leans down, planting a kiss on his cheek.
“Ah, but I would feel strange if I didn’t give you something, considering you always seem to go over the top for our anniversaries.” Brassius chuckles as he leans into the kiss. “This is important, after all. I’ve been anticipating giving you this for twenty years.”
“My, what a tricky thing you are, hiding something this important from me.” Hassel clicks his tongue. “I suppose you win, then. Shall I open this straightaway?”
“By all means.”
Careful hands unwrap the gift, not wanting to damage such a precious object. It is a drawing – oil pastel, full of indigo and emerald, mixed beautifully with vivid auburn, marigold, and scarlet. A window frames the background, letting in a flood of golden light. An artist sits in the foreground, illuminated by the glow. A portrait of a man, delicately placed in a simple frame.
It is the most beautiful thing he has ever received.
Hassel weeps, again, as the portrait is removed from his hands and placed gently on the dining room table. Brassius brings him into his arms and speaks through his own tears, joyful.
“I made this the night we met in Porto Marinada.” He explains, as he wipes his husbands’ cheeks with a handkerchief. “I’ve been saving it to give to you all these years. I have seen many beautiful things, and yet, you have always been the true muse to my creations, and it began on that night, without me even realizing.” Brassius chuckles quietly and wipes his own tears with his sleeve. He is pleased when he meets Hassels eyes, as he melts at the lively smile upon his face.
It is then that Hassel kisses him, unable to contain his love one moment longer. It pours from him like a geyser erupting from the earth, powerful, strong, beautiful. When Hassel finally stops crying, they share a bottle of wine and watch the sunset from the balcony attached to their bedroom. Sweet nothings, whisper quiet, float back and forth between them. Reverent words carry on the wind, and Brassius swears that their poetry makes the stars shine twice as bright above their heads.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Hassel is a lot of things to a lot of people.
A professor. A mentor. A dragon tamer.
He allows Brassius to paint him with his brushes, and he wears the stains proudly.
To be loved by him, the greatest role of all.
His muse.