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It’s 2:38 A.M. You are sitting at the bar inside the club that the League has rented for the night, nursing your stout glass of rum and Coke while trying not to pass too many glances at your co-workers spread throughout the dance floor. Chili is attempting some weird Internet dance (and failing spectacularly while his siblings watch, mortified, in the corner), Elesa is making everyone else look like slobs in her outfit of the evening, and Shauntal is tipsily asking for your opinion on whether Brycen would top Drayden if they were ever to have a steamy night together.
You wish you were anywhere other than here.
The Pokemon League is full of characters—of that you are undoubtedly sure. However, you also like to think of yourself as a mysterious individual, and certainly one that doesn’t care much to mingle with others. Ever since you had received the fateful title of “Elite Four,” you’d hardly made an effort to share more than pleasantries with your fellow League members, which you were completely fine with. You have your little group you work with every day, which is as much as you are willing to handle. You spend the day battling prospective Champions, winning some fights and losing others, then go home at night to ready up for a round at the slots. It isn’t a life to be proud of, but it’s a life, and that’s fine with you.
You idly sip at your drink until only ice meets your lips, then you set your glass down and sigh. Skyla’s showing Chili up on the dance floor, Caitlin is asleep a few seats down from you, and Marshal is having a chat with Lenora about Normal-types and Fighting-types. This party is absolutely not your scene, and you lament showing up despite it instead of coming up with some kind of excuse not to attend. Clay got off scot-free because of “business stuff” that he refused to elaborate on, so why couldn’t you get off the same way? Life is so unfair to hot and clever guys like you.
You briefly wonder whether you need to use the bathroom before your phone pings. It’s a text from Alder, asking where the meetup is and if everyone is being responsible with their drinking. One look at the dance floor is enough to tell you the answer to the latter question, so you conveniently avoid it and simply give the club address to him. He thanks you, and you are about to set your phone down again when you get another ping. Still Alder; he wants to know how to enter the address into the GPS on his phone. You ask yourself, mentally, how this relic of a man was able to snag a job as the Champion of Unova before just sending him the location, telling him that if he taps it, his phone will do the rest. Alder thanks you again and doesn’t text anymore, so you assume it safe to finally turn your phone off for a bit.
It is now 2:53 A.M., and things still look the same as the last time you bothered to check your surroundings. Your co-workers are still idiots, your personal space remains unimpeded, and you don’t really feel like getting another drink. You’ve found a hangnail on your left thumb to be more interesting than what’s happening at the club, so you know it’s about time to leave. You just need to make sure your drinks got on the League’s tab, and then you’ll—
“Yoo-hoo! Would you mind if I took a seat here?”
Man oh man. If there’s one thing you hate, it’s this party. A slightly-less-hated-yet-still-hated second thing is extroverted types that don’t get how precious your personal space is to you, and they’ve now joined together in abhorrent matrimony. The oh-so-energetic Burgh plops down on the seat directly to your right and immediately launches into a conversation of some kind—you can’t tell what he’s saying because you’ve focused too much on what he’s wearing. It’s too busy. His jumpsuit swirls with all kinds of different shades (hard to tell what they are with the dim club lighting) right down to the bell bottom flares, which reveal the chunkiest looking boots you’ve ever seen. On top of all of that, he’s got more jewelry on than any of the aristocratic women you’ve met in your hell of a life, though you’re sure that he’s only half as rich as they were, if that. Why’s a guy this tacky deciding to talk to you?
“---Hello? Hello, Grimsley? Are you looking at my clothes? Oh, they’re spectacular, aren’t they?!”
You’re snapped back into reality by Burgh’s incessant chirping, and you heave a sigh that makes him pause. You’ve probably offended him with that, you note, but whether you care or not is a different beast. Burgh takes a second, probably to think about how to report your grouchiness to HR, when he speaks up again, a little more composed. “You’re not really a fan of these either, huh. I understand.”
Now it’s you that blinks. ‘Either?’ What does that mean, you ask him?
“Oh, I’m not the partying type,” Burgh responds, fidgeting with a beehive-shaped ring on his pinky. “I do enjoy a get-together now and then, but not quite like this. I deal with enough drunk people every night in Castelia, you know? Do I really want to deal with more for fun?”
That garners a snort from you. You can’t help it—the thought of this walking rainbow hauling drunkards twice his size around the back alleys of Castelia City is too much for you to remain poker-faced about. Burgh looks at you a little brighter, like he’s succeeded in doing something challenging, and you decide to file that back in the “interesting” category for later. Leaning back in your chair, you ask him why he’s decided to stay for so long if this place wasn’t to his tastes.
“Well, I was invited, and it was a mixer, so I thought it’d be nice to get to know everyone a little better. I haven’t been getting out as much as I should… but, um, I didn’t think it was going to be like this. Nobody’s left, though, and I don’t exactly want to be the first…” He trails off, picking at some of his jewelry with a troubled furrow in his brow. You can’t fault him for his logic—it’s for almost that exact same reason that you haven’t left, either. You’d rather not be the subject of conversation a la “Where’d you disappear off to, Grimsley?” with the others. Best to keep an eye on the flow of the night and leave when the others begin to.
Now it’s kind of awkward. Neither Burgh nor you know what to say next, since you two barely know each other. Honestly, you’d thought Burgh wasn’t at all going to mesh with you until just now, so you hadn’t expected anything much. It’s weird, and a hassle to think about conversation topics, so you default to whatever idea comes into your head (since you know you’re just a fount of good ideas). You call over the bartender and ask for a bottle of sake, then pull out your pocket knife that you keep in your back pocket. Burgh gives it a pointed stare and says nothing. You assume he’s used to seeing this kind of stuff, but you’d rather not have him think you’re about to stab him. You wave your other hand dismissively, telling him not to glower so hard, and that you only want to show him a bottle-opening trick.
Burgh quirks a brow. “Are you any good at it?” he asks, to which you reply that yes, you’ve done it a thousand times and then some. A guy like you enjoys spending big on expensive liquor, but he’s got to know how to open the damn things if he ever wants to enjoy them. Burgh seems to understand this and laughs, and you notice tension flowing out of his shoulders. Maybe you should have said something before pulling out the knife, but where was the fun in that?
The sake bottle slides over to you, but you stop the bartender from opening it and tell him you’ve got it covered. As the bartender slips off, probably to make Cress his fifth bloody mary of the night, you grip the bottle with one hand and the knife with the other. You flick the blade out from its nook inside the handle, relishing in the swift and sudden click. It’s a good sound. You look over at Burgh, who is staring at the knife again, but then changes to peer at the bottle of sake in your other hand. You can tell that he’s trying not to look shocked—the brand you’ve picked is a famous one, with the stunning price tag to match. Whether you actually like the taste of this sake doesn’t matter, because it’s just exciting to see how much of a hit this stupid bottle takes to your bank account. It’s a plus if anyone actually bothers to drink it.
After a beat, you ask Burgh to hold the bottle. Immediately, Burgh’s face turns sour, and you suppress a smirk at how expressive he is. “Oh, goodness. If you’re using a knife to open that thing, I’d rather not,” he sputters, receding. You goad him on—come on, he needs to have a little more faith in you. You’re not the kind of guy who makes mistakes, and if he wants proof, then he can look no further than your smooth and nick-less fingers. Burgh still looks unsure, characterized rather cutely by him running his fingers through his bushy hair. You push the bottle closer to him, which seems to break him—let it never be said that peer pressure doesn’t work!
“Alright, alright! I’ll hold it, but if you mess up…!” You’re not sure what kind of threats Burgh would ever make good on, if any, but the reassurance behind the lingering statement gets him to take the bottle in his slender fingers. You ready the knife as calmly as possible, trying not to spook Burgh like he’s some kind of wild animal, and you the patient hunter. Or would you be another wild animal, slightly more threatening but not with any intent to kill? It’s not like you desire him carnally or anything. That’s weird. What’s with this train of thought, anyways?
You blink once and steady your breathing. This is just like all of the other times you’ve done this. You’re supposed to point the tip at the ridge between the cap and the ring beneath it and slide it in just so, and like magic the whole thing will come undone—no need to worry about any pesky twisting. It’s showy, dangerous, and wholly unnecessary, which are fantastic words to describe yourself, so you like to think this is a very in-character way of opening a bottle. Burgh is holding fast to the thing, tensed up like you’re about to punch him. You figure he’s preparing for the worst, but you don’t really get all of the fear. You’re good at this! See, look, here you go. You’re doing it just like you always do, oh, well, except for that part, where your hand slips on the condensation of the bottle, that isn’t really supposed to
“Whoops!”
Whoops. Yeah, whoops. Okay. Well, is it really a “whoops”-able event when your pocket knife is now stuck inside Burgh’s hand? You think a little more would come out of that than just “whoops,” but Burgh was the one who said it, so really it must be appropriate. He is from Castelia City, and hell, who knows how many crimes happen down there, it must be natural for him to get stabbed every now and then. Yes, it’s just natural. Second nature, even, like he was born to get stabbed and you were just helping him out with it because that’s what co-workers do. Friends, even, if you want to push it, which is probably what you two are not because Burgh is looking at you like he’s three seconds away from killing you.
“What the fuck, Grimsley! What the fuck is wrong with you?!” Burgh hisses with vitriol you never knew an absolute pride-parade of a man could muster with his voice. You feel sweat on the back of your neck, which is totally unlike you. Like, what’s up with that? You always keep your cool even in the toughest situations. When you’re down on your luck, you find a way back to the top, because you’re Grimsley, for fuck’s sake, but all you can do is pale like you’re the one bleeding all over the lacquered wood bar counter and stare at your massive screw up. You try to say something, God, anything, just to fucking break this ridiculous silence you’ve stuck yourself in, but instead you end up making some weird grimace-smile at Burgh that seems to piss him off even more than he already is.
Burgh quickly stands and begins walking off, and you follow right after him. You really don’t want to—you just want to slink off into the darkness and pretend none of this happened, honestly—but you know that if you don’t, he’d probably send a plague after you or whatever it is that Bug-type specialists do when they’re furious at someone. The worst part is, Burgh isn’t the kind of person to get mad, especially not at people he doesn’t know well. You know this from watching him at meetings; he always made you question just how tolerant a person can be with how kind he was to the stupidest of people. You don’t normally feel shame, but seeing Burgh look at you with eyes sharper than your gelled-up hair makes you feel like a complete and utter asshole.
Hey, now both of you have solved the predicament of being the first one to leave the club. Both of you have left at the same time, hurriedly, yet quietly enough to where nobody seems to have noticed. If there was one good side to this situation, it would be that.
You and Burgh are speed walking down the sidewalk of Nimbasa at 4 in the morning towards an urgent care clinic, Burgh trying to stifle the bleeding with a handkerchief and you wanting to go back and slam that entire bottle of sake to take the edge off of whatever foreign feelings you’re experiencing about this situation. Holy shit, you are so getting fired for this if Alder finds out, you realize with yet another weight adding to your stomach. If Burgh tells Alder about this, there isn’t a Vanillite’s chance in Reversal Mountain he isn’t going to kick your sorry ass down Victory Road. You’ll lose your job, your income, and your credibility, and while the idea of gambling all three of these things on whether Burgh squeals is enough to make your heart pound and your skin itch and your fingernails bite into the flesh of your palms with adrenalized elation, you know that this kind of thing is also really, really bad for you if you lose, which, again, is wholly dependent on what Burgh decides to do.
Suddenly, just outside of the clinic’s entrance, Burgh stops, and you almost run into him. You are about to question why he’s stopped moving when he speaks.
“Look, Grimsley, I’m going to say this one time. This really fucking hurts, and I’m really fucking pissed at you,” he gruffs quickly, and you can’t help but notice that he’s already bled through his handkerchief around the knife that is still in his hand. How he’s managed to get here without so much as a scream or a cry is beyond you. “But I know that people do stupid stuff all the time, and even a cool-guy gambler like you is not exempt, so I’m just going to say that I screwed up playing with something I shouldn’t have. I won’t tell Alder, and nobody will know it was you unless you say something."
Well, isn't that just swell. You had no idea that this was how deep Burgh's kindness ran. You can stab him with little repercussion other than a few F-bombs and a real mean gaze? Hey, that's a good deal. Really, if that's all that's to come of this, then you feel perfectly okay with what's just transpired. You'll buy something as an apology, of course; money talks, so surely it can say "Sorry about your hand that I stabbed" real nice. Maybe a new set of brushes, or an easel, or whatever else artists like to own but never can afford to—
"In return," pipes Burgh, loud and stern enough to rattle you from your thoughts, "don’t be stupid again, or I’ll have to play the messenger to a few people I know you don’t want me speaking to.”
...Remember when you were sure there were no threats Burgh could possibly act on with surety? Well, scratch that. Now you know not only that he’ll act on whatever the hell he wants, but he’s damn good at making threats that chill you to your rotten, spoiled core, too. You can’t hold back the gnarling of your lips into a twisted smile—the kind that only comes out when you ride the high of betting your life, which you’ve only ever done once or twice. Never before has someone else caught you between such a rock and a hard place, and evidently, Burgh knows it, too. He sighs and turns, shaking his head as he pushes his way into the clinic and disappears from sight.
You feel dizzy, like you were taken for a spin you hadn’t prepared yourself for. You learned so much about Burgh in merely an hour and a half, and all it took was a little alcohol and a stupid mistake. The bubbly, bug-happy extrovert now holds a big, big secret over your addled gambler head, and every moment you breathe could be the moment that he leaks everything to whoever he wants, and you’re out of a job, a home, and that stupid, lifeless life you have. Hell, you might even end up in jail for it if Burgh phrases it right, which he could totally do.
It’s the biggest risk of your life. It’s a thrill like no other when you think about it, and God, you feel like throwing up and howling with laughter at the same damn time. You choose good old laughter, and you’re shrieking like a Mightyena down the street, unable to stop. Your face is hot, your chest is tight, and you can’t tell if your fractures are nervous or exhilarated anymore. Burgh! The silly, frolicking, larger than life artist who loves and sings and paints and does everything that is antithetical to your cool, indecipherable, life-on-the-line risk-taking die-tomorrow self, has a hold on your God damned life that he can snap at any time! One flick of the kill switch and you’re done in every sense of the word, and no matter what you say or do to him, there’s ultimately jack shit you can do to stop it!
Is this what love is? This horrible, blooming emotion that makes you want to swallow fire so it burns to all hell and never comes back? This beautiful singe like acid in your throat that you can’t help but pitch up your laughter about?! You’re not sure what to call this, but at the same time, the mere idea! How can you love someone like this so easily?! Is it the thrill you love? The chase? The desire to control an outcome that cannot be controlled, and cannot be predicted?! Surely it’s not the person himself—it has to be what he’s attached to! What he means for you and your future!
You decide that you’re going to go home, drink until you’re stupid, and then sleep this wretched feeling off. This can’t be right—none of this can be right—but you’re not sure what else to do about this. Perhaps some sleep will right your mind and give you some clarity, but until then, all you can do is laugh into the freezing night, wondering when it’ll be the last time it’s Grimsley walking down the early morning sidewalk and not a deboned, declawed lookalike hobbling in his place.