Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Toren likes to think he’s made some progress, that he isn’t the same weak-willed man he was before (and before that, and before that‒) but he’d be lying if he didn’t admit to himself that the thought of presenting his research again this year twists his stomach into knots. He offered to do it himself this time, completing forgoing a different presenter entirely, in the hopes that he can begin to move past some of his severe stage fright. After that fiasco with the SD card mix-up there’s truly nowhere to go but up, nothing could possibly be as mortifying save for outright showing up on stage naked, but the creeping dread won’t completely go away even with that reassurance. A small point of pressure on his back jolts him back into reality, not needing to look behind him to know it’s his chansey, ushering him forwards through the crowd of tourists before he gets too lost in his head and holds up the foot traffic.
This time he volunteered to help with the preliminaries for the festival because of how much money the city lost after his concentrated effect spore solution created a domino effect that: a.) knocked out the city’s power reserves, b.) almost decimated sections of wildlife on the mountain, and c.) contaminated the oxygen and nearly killed Kellie along with other people and pokémon living in the city with compromised immune systems (which he personally finds the most egregious of what he incidentally caused, and it’s a tough competition). Mayor Oliver is truly a very nice man, he thinks, for choosing to pardon him entirely on account of it being “an unfortunate accident.” Regardless, the guilt nags at him enough that he feels responsible in ensuring the festival goes without incident this time, and each one succeeding this one—it really is the least he can do to make amends.
Though he can’t and won’t complain about his own choice to assist, everything is still always horribly overwhelming this time of the year; the four days of the festival, as well as the weeks leading in and out, are hectic even without the added stress of forest fires and needing on-the-spot solutions for a massive wave of airborne toxins. Work is busier than normal for the preparations to showcase their research, the whole city buzzes with activity long after dark, and in Toren’s opinion the worst of them all: far too many tourists who attempt to ask him for directions. He wishes he knew what it was about his face that allows every single stranger to single him out as a long-time citizen of Fula City, so that he could change it as soon as possible. Despite all the changes he’s made with himself, the one thing that seems to remain frustratingly constant is his utter inability to clearly enunciate even the simplest directions to an unfamiliar face, reduced to mumbling and unclear noises.

Toren really wishes they would stop asking him, of all people.

Rereading the documents held in his hands as he walks, a screech of “OH YEAH! ” and the shrill audio feedback of a microphone over the crowd nearly sends him careening forwards onto the gravel out of shock, before locating the source as a very red-coloured man shredding a guitar from atop a platform in one of the park areas. He can’t look for long for very long, the singer’s outfit is shiny and revealing, and underneath the sun’s rays he’s left with a thin sheen of sweat across his exposed skin that looks almost obscene. Toren averts his eyes before even a minute passes, secondhand embarrassment stinging his cheeks and leaving him stumbling on his way back towards the main street, wondering how anyone could ever be so unapologetically bold (even Callahan, he reasons, isn't quite that shameless) and if they’d ever be able to instill even a fraction of it in him. He tries to imagine himself on that stage, in those clothes, and has to fight the awkward laugh that bubbles up inside him at the thought.

It’s nice to entertain the thought sometimes, that he could be anyone other than the person he is.

But in the end, that’s all it is.

A thought.

By the time he’s on his way back home from work it’s well into the night, but there’s still a fair number of people wandering underneath the streetlamps walking and talking as they go. This is one of the results of the Wind Festival that he prefers over the rest of the year. Without the low chatter of vacationers in the streets to keep him alert in time for his stop (he keeps his pokémon in their balls after he’s off work to let them rest), the rhythm of the trolley on the tracks lulls him into a light doze almost half the time, leaving him scurrying to get off when a light bump in the road jostles him awake and he realizes they’ve already passed his apartment complex. The indistinct conversations from the passerby and the night breeze serve to keep him attentive, walking off the streetcar at exactly the right moment, meekly offering a nearly inaudible “thank you” to the driver as he steps out into the dwindling flock of pedestrians.
Toren heads to his destination on auto-pilot, practically able to find the building with his eye closed just by the feeling of walking over the familiar pavement, the soles of his shoes having memorized every divet in the path (the slightly uneven texture of a filled pothole, the change in the avenue where the cement switches to cobblestone, the slight chip in the sidewalk at the crossing that’s been there as long as he has). Hardly anyone ever walks this route, so when his eyes close for a moment in response to a jaw-cracking yawn, he feels confident that when he opens his eyes and wipes away a sleepy tear, nobody will be in front of him. He’ll get home hungry and exhausted like always, and he’ll be too tired to cook so he’ll eat a pre-ready meal wishing it was home cooked and freshly made, and then he’ll collapse in bed still partially dressed and wake up with his drool stuck to the pillow. Just like always.

It’s so very like him to be proven wrong on the one thing he was certain of.

He opens his eye to see a blur of orange-tinted white and red in front of him, unable to even react before they collide and Toren solidly hits the ground with a pained wheeze, sending his monocle flying right off his face with a sound like cracking glass and the pokéballs in his lab coat rolling (one of which is teetering dangerously close towards the sewer grate of the sidewalk). Words to apologize, to inquire if the other person’s okay, don’t immediately come to him; a distressed whine is all that comes out as he desperately rushes to stop the slow descent of one of his pokémon into the underbelly of the city below, vision blurry while he’s still too scrambled to restore his sight by blindly seeking out the orange-smudge of his monocle against the sea of indistinct gray. Just when it’s about to fall, and his anxiety reaches a fever pitch as he reaches his hand out to catch it, he finds his palm overlapping another one, and immediately retracts his hand with a nervous, “I-I'm so sorry!”

“Nah, it’s all right. My bad for knocking you over, man. I wasn’t looking where I was going,” a voice deeper than his own answers him, holding out the pokéball he has yet to retrieve.

Still skittishly avoiding casting his gaze upwards, Toren takes it and hastily shoves it back in his pocket with one hand while casting out his other to find the source of the cracked-glass sound earlier—finding his eyeglass which he quickly returns to his face, wincing at the new fracture down the middle (but somehow miraculously otherwise intact). Tripping over his tongue, he tries to say he wasn’t paying attention either so the apology is necessary. But as soon as his eye starts to wander over the other’s outstretched hand covered in glossy red material, he recognizes the shine as awfully familiar even in the more dim lighting of the moon and the streetlamps, yet he still can’t place why, so he finally looks up as curiosity wins out over his timid nature.
Only to be face-to-face with the performer he saw earlier in the day, who flashes him a canine-sharp grin as soon as he sees Toren looking. And before he can stop himself (and he really wishes he could stop himself) he looks down to see the man’s exposed chest, accentuated by golden spikes on his jacket in the gaudiest outfit Toren’s ever seen. It’s only a few seconds later that he registers he’s staring, and it’s very obvious where he’s staring, instantly scrambling backwards as he looks anywhere but right in front of him. Cheeks burning, he grabs the rest of his things hurriedly and clumsily stumbles to his feet, barely able to squeak out, “t-thank you f-for the help!” before breaking out into a terrified sprint. He thinks that maybe the man had started to say something, but Toren wasn’t about to stick around to hear it, and he adamantly refuses to turn around, or even stop running, until his lungs burn terribly from overexertion. Even though his legs feel like flimsy wet noodles, he forces himself to stand once he notices he ended up running completely past his apartment complex, wheezing as if he were a long-time chain-smoker the whole trip back. And even though he’s beyond exhausted, the same anxiety that twists his stomach into knots and leaves him unable to eat for hours, replays the awkward encounter in his mind’s eye like a mortifying movie he can’t stop watching, only granting him rest when the sun peeks over the horizon.

When he wakes up it’s already mid-day, and his air conditioning isn’t on, so his clothes stick to his skin uncomfortably as the sun bears down on him from the window. He fell asleep without bothering to take off his monocle, too exhausted to even reach a hand up and nudge it from digging into his nose, let alone from slipping down the slope of his face as he moves his head. It takes a considerable amount of effort simply to turn his head the other way to read the alarm clock, blinking sleepy bleariness away to try and refocus his vision. Blankly staring at the blinking red numbers until they start to make sense, struggling to keep his eyes open as the whole entirety of him aches, he blinks‒and shoots upwards in a panic as reality hits him full force. He needs a shower but he’s already late enough as it is so he splashes his face with water, and he’s still wearing yesterday’s clothes so he hops out out of one of the legs and frantically shakes it off as he’s shoving a granola bar in his mouth because he never ate—
He’s still adjusting his belt and shoving his other arm into the sleeve of his lab coat as he’s fiddling with the keys to his door, almost brought to tears by the torture to his legs when he opts to run down the stairs rather than waste any more time waiting for the elevator. Toren wants nothing more than to release his chansey from her ball to feel even a fraction of comfort, because with every pair of eyes that turns to look at him rushing he feels more like he’s drowning, but he doesn’t want to force her to try and keep pace with him because he knows she can’t. So he looks down and lets his hair shield him from the rest of the world as he often does, staring at his shoes hitting the gravel, and that’s when he runs head-first into the owner of some spiky red boots before he can manage to slow himself down. There’s a clatter of something hitting the ground (thankfully, he finds himself still able to see), and no sooner than his balance starts to teeter sideways, does a hand grip his arm and pull him firmly to his feet.

Face-to-face with the same man he already ran straight into last night—and really what kind of terrible odds are those—Toren tries to apologize at the same time the other asks, “you okay, man?”

Nodding vigorously, he attempts to break free of the hold on his arm as he abruptly notices how uncomfortably close together they are, mumbling something inaudible about being late for work—but then he spots what fell to the pavement earlier, a blocky cell phone decorated with cute charms and a fancy case depicting the likeness of the Indigo League Champion Lance and one of his dragonite partners. No sooner than he sees it, does the man follow his line of sight to pick it up and turn it over, while muttering a quiet “damn” because the screen is cracked and it looks expensive and he’s responsible for that. Too preoccupied surveying the damage to his device, Toren is the only one who perceives the growing onlookers whispering and staring at the spectacle he’s made of himself again, and as much as he wants to flee because he’s already late for work, his legs decide now of all times to lock in place. He can't leave even if he wanted to, anyway, not after being the one that caused this yet-another-unfortunate accident to happen. It’s a bit too much to handle especially without the comfort of his pokémon beside him, trembling like a baby deerling with his hands balled in the fabric of his coat as he screws his eyes shut in shame, but he’s willing himself not to be so pathetic in front of this poor stranger who has to deal with him (after he broke his phone and collided with him twice, no less) and embarrass himself further.
When the other man finally looks up and realizes their audience, Toren is pointedly staring at the ground, wishing it would swallow him whole. “Ah, man...getting a crowd now?” He can feel it when the other is looking at him (still refusing to meet his eyes), jumping a bit at the touch when a hand lands on his shoulder. “You all right?” The question is spoken in a low tone only meant for him to hear, and it takes a significant amount of effort to jerkily shake his head in a ‘no’ motion. “Stage fright? Can’t move?” He doesn't offer a response beyond tensing up, and the arm of the hand resting on his shoulder moves to snake itself around the both of them. The other man draws him closer as if to guide him, ignoring Toren’s flinch in response to the touch to bark, “nothing to see here!” at the gawking passerby. Even as he tries to fight it, his eyes well up from equal parts humiliation and gratitude. They move together, Toren following the other’s casual pace, knowing he’s talking but unable to parse it as anything other than white noise. As they come to a stop, he registers he’s being led to take a seat on a park bench, gratefully sagging down onto it as the stranger mutters something about getting him a drink from the vending machine.

Only a minute later he’s back entirely drink-less, rubbing his neck awkwardly as he stands in front of him, “this...uh, this is really lame ‘cause I meant to make it my treat, but d’you have a few spare dollars?”

As the other preoccupies himself with buying drinks after Toren hands him some pocket-wrinkled cash, he lets out his chansey and immediately half collapses on her with a relieved sigh, only sitting up when he sees an outstretched hand offering bottled water in his peripheral. “My bad if you wanted something else, didn’t think you were chilled out enough for me to ask,” he steps around Toren’s pokémon to flop on the other side of the bench, poking a straw into the top of a strawberry milk carton.

“No, i-it’s...thank you.”

The red-clad performer laughs, something sudden but friendly in its unrestrained volume. “No need to thank me, man, it’s your money. I, uh, lost my wallet after knocking into you last night. Kinda forgot,” Toren opens his mouth to apologize again profusely (somewhat surprised the musician remembered his face even as recent as the encounter was, with how utterly unmemorable he considers himself, especially in comparison), startling when the man turns slightly towards him with his free hand held out to shake. “The name’s Ryuki.”

“T-Toren,” he squeaks on the latter half of his name, wincing as he slowly inches out his own hand to return the gesture, only for Ryuki to change his hand into a closed fist when he gets close. Confused that he’s done something he wasn’t supposed to do, he starts to retract his hand when the other thrusts his fist forwards just slightly, looking at Toren expectantly. Forming his own loose fist, he gently bumps his knuckles against Ryuki’s, retracting when the other does in apparent satisfaction from the exchange.

Grinning widely around the straw clenched between his teeth, Ryuki throws his arm up against the back of the bench. “Toren, huh? I dig you.”

“Th...Thank you?”

For a few moments they sit in silence as Toren uncaps his water, letting his free hand wander back to pet his chansey. In the corner of his eye he sees Ryuki pull his phone back out and test the power button, letting out a relieved puff of air as he sinks back against the seating. “I-I’m so sorry about your phone.” It takes a moment for the other man to notice the apology’s even directed at him, before waving a hand nonchalantly to dismiss it. “Nah, s’all good. I’ve done worse by myself. At least it still works, y’know?”
Looking at it guiltily, Toren swallows past the lump growing in his throat to ask, “what about your wallet...?” The expression that crosses Ryuki’s face is undoubtedly troubled, though he masks it with a casual smile and a vague, “everyone’s got their own problems, man,” that makes something uncomfortable settle in Toren’s gut. “Do you have somewhere to stay?” Sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck, Ryuki lets out an awkward chuckle as he chews on the end of his straw. “Well, I might have to ditch that joint now‒”

“You can stay with me.”

The confidence and volume (spoken at least more audibly than usual) of the statement seems to startle Ryuki as his straw slips from his lips in open-mouthed surprise, and it startles Toren himself as well, waving his hands frantically as he meekly stammers “b-because this is all my fault,” and “I s-should fix it, somehow,” with his arms raised protectively in front of him. Something in the back of his mind tells him he’s forgetting something, and as a small pink hand comes to rest on his leg, he remembers and stands up so fast he nearly blacks out and knocks over his chansey. “I-I’m...I have‒w-work, I’m late! ” Tripping over himself to empty his water bottle, he completely ignores the pleas of “wait” and “hold up” in his panic, nearly walking right into his pokémon when a hand grabbing his arm stops his hasty retreat.

“You work on weekends?” Presented in front of him is the lock screen of Ryuki’s phone, a picture of him smiling widely alongside a similarly flashy-haired but less colourful man, and the date and time—April 6th, a saturday.

“...Oh.”

Somehow when Ryuki laughs at him it doesn’t suffocate him like it normally does, flushing his face red with self-consciousness, but leaving a weightless feeling in his chest that lets him breathe again. “Man,” he sighs something like amusement, letting himself fall back into a relaxed slouch. “You really got me there. Are you for real?”
It’s a good question, and when he asks it of himself he almost expects the answer to have changed like it usually does, but all he finds is resolute conviction. “Y-Yes.”

“All right! Looks like I’ve got no choice!” He steps backwards as Ryuki rises to his feet, and it’s only then that Toren realizes he’s a few inches taller than the other, standing face-to-face without one of them sprawled on the ground (or at least almost there) as the shorter of the two winks with a two finger salute. “The great star Ryuki leaves himself in your hands!”

Chapter Text

In the days that follow, there’s a couple things he learns about his new house guest.

1.) Being a musician (in his words, “a superstar of the rock and rolling world!”), he goes where the people are, and where there’s money to be made. Naturally, he came to Fula during its busiest time of the year. This isn’t the first time he’s been either, explaining the waltz at night through the hardly-walked street leading to the apartment complex, so Toren feels just a little better knowing that the back alley shortcut is still undiscovered by total tourists.
2.) He does have more normal clothing that he wears on a day-to-day basis, the full leather outfit serving as his “performance getup” that he commissioned himself. He has two of them. Technically, not counting a costume he had custom-made for the trick-or-treating holidays. And he wants another one, custom in black.
3.) In addendum to the matter of having identical flashy concert suits, he’s not exactly savvy with his investment decisions. When he said the full ensemble set him back 165,000 apiece, Toren spit out his coffee and started coughing at the thought of spending anything close to that on clothes, only able to sputter incredulously in response. He justified the purchase by saying “a rockstar’s gotta have a look to ‘em, man!” and with that kind of funding the material should last at least two decades, but then Toren found out about his other purchases.
4.) As a traveling entertainer, there isn’t much Ryuki deems essential enough to keep on his person from region to region. Wallet, phone, guitar, his performance ensemble, pokémon, small notepads for songwriting, and clothes. All contained within his guitar case and a wheeled duffel bag. And that’s all well and good, except when Ryuki shows him his luggage, at least half of it is self-advertising merchandise worth at least half of what his suit costs (if not the full price, altogether). Badges with Ryuki’s stylized cartoon face winking at the viewer, t-shirts with his name stylized in bold font over his distinct silhouette, physical CD copies with a swooping signature in sharpie on the covers of over half of them—he very enthusiastically showcases with wild gesticulations (“this one’s my favourite; it really captures my red-hot spirit, y’know?”), and Toren nods with a thin smile on his face trying not to look too nauseous knowing he bought all this without steady income.

And, lastly—

5.) He talks a lot. It isn’t unexpected for him to be somewhat of a people person, given his career relies halfway on musical prowess and personability, Toren just figured he’d eventually stop looking to him as a conversation partner given how quiet he is and how long it takes him to properly formulate his thoughts. Yet this somehow isn’t the case, because each time Ryuki still looks at him expectantly for answers instead of moving on, never once asking him to speak up louder.

Toren’s housing him for the next two weeks (right through the Wind Festival and a little bit afterward) while he waits for his replacement card to get shipped out. As it turns out, he was on the phone with his bank cancelling his card and arguing with the representative on the other line about where to send the new one, when Toren ran into him and knocked the phone straight out of his hand—accidentally producing a solution in the form of himself. “Sounds like fate to me,” Ryuki says casually, kicked back on Toren’s couch in the very picture of relaxation. He fights back the urge to refute it’s more like karma for the situation he caused, unthinkingly slamming into him twice, causing him to not only lose his wallet but also smash his phone; because if this is karma, he feels remarkably alright with the consequences.
Another thing he discovers, as the week rolls back around to Monday and he’s scrambling to get ready in the late morning, is that Ryuki sleeps later and stays out longer. It’s sheer luck on his part that Toren is a homebody because he never bothered with a spare key, so the door is always unlocked when Ryuki stumbles in at 3 AM and collapses on the couch as Toren is drifting in and out of consciousness. Under normal circumstances, he supposes it’d make sense for a singer to be out late performing at after hours establishments, but without his wallet he wonders if he isn’t doing something else entirely.

The closer the date gets to his presentation, the busier he gets (going earlier, leaving later), and the more nervous he feels. It must be showing on his face or in his actions—not that he’s ever been very good at hiding how he feels—because when Ryuki gets back in the early morning and finds Toren surrounded by scattered papers and muttering to himself, the first thing he does is ask why it looks like he doesn’t want to have eyes. His mouth twitches at the irony of the statement, like he’s trying to smile or laugh but can’t quite manage it through the stress, pushing away from his desk with a sigh.

“I, a-actually...I’ve only got one eye,” pulling back his bangs, he points at the blind spot underneath. “This one’s, um, a prosthetic. It’s fake.”

Ryuki looks stunned at first, “wait, for real?”, before lunging forward and slapping his hand on the desk in such genuine excitement that Toren nearly jumps out of his chair. “That’s super cool, man!”

“R-Really?”

“You’re gonna doubt me, the great Ryuki?” He sounds almost put upon, pressing a hand to his chest in a dramatic show of mock offense, and even if he’s joking, Toren starts to instinctively apologize before the other launches himself forwards again with an animated smile. “Can you close it? Y'know, the one that works? I wanna try something.”

Cautiously cupping a hand over one side of his face, Toren mumbles, “um...okay.”

“Can you see me?”

Hearing but not seeing the shuffle of movement in front of him, he shakes his head in the negative, but curiously peeks through his hand and the fractured monocle when he doesn’t hear anything further. Without the knowledge he’s being watched, Ryuki makes a series of exaggerated expressions as if testing for a reaction, looking at his glass eye with a kind of child-like wonder and amazement—and Toren fights not to out himself with the smile that creeps across his twitching cheeks, unable to reel it back in time for Ryuki to spot him and flush with an indignant “HEY! You ain’t supposed to be looking!” as he pouts, and for just a moment—Toren thinks to himself, that’s cute, before immediately throwing his hands up defensively as his face turns similarly crimson. “I’m s-sorry! You, it was just, you were quiet, I was c-confused, I’m sorry.” After an uncomfortable pause of them staring each other down (Ryuki with a petulant sulk on his face, and Toren with a flinching sort-of-embarrassed-fear), he lowers his arms and awkwardly attempts to stumble back into the original inquiry, saying, “I’m, um, just stressed. I have a presentation, but...I’m...n-not very good at speaking in front of people.”

Leaning back into a self-assured shrug after his brief outburst, Ryuki grins while making hand motions as if to wave away his worries. “No big deal! You got this!”

“You r-really think so?”

“Weren't you listening?” Cracking open one eye, he brings up a pointer finger to swirl menacingly in front of him, centered directly on Toren. “A star like me knows what he's talking about!”

“I’m s-so s‒”

“Of course I think so! And I don’t think,” his wavering finger stops to point resolutely at the man in front of him as he leans forward with dramatic emphasis with a toothy grin. “I know.” Just as he’s canting backwards into his own personal space and Toren opens his mouth to respond, Ryuki snaps his fingers in a sudden epiphany, startling an undignified squeak out of him. “I got it! Y’ever been to a karaoke joint?”

“Um...no, I haven’t.”

Rolling his shoulders in a blasé shrug, he gets a conclusive and pleased look on his face as if to express the sentiment ‘well there you have it’, before proclaiming, “There’s your problem! You gotta belt out everything inside you, you dig?” It’s all‒” he pauses to jab his pointer finger at Toren’s chest, making a sound with his mouth vaguely reminiscent of a cartoon explosion sound effect. “‒up in there, y’know? Nothing to do but let it out in a fiery fit of passion! And it’s good practice using a mic, even if it’s just an audience of yours truly.”

Cringing at the other’s wording, he rather meekly retorts, “uh, I don’t know if, um, I can d-do th‒”

“ I said you can do it, and that means you can do it!” In spite of the words obviously meant to be encouraging, Ryuki blows up with clear impatience when he says it, hand gesturing emphatically in front of him. “Listen when a superstar is talking to you!”

“I-I’m s‒”

Before he can make an attempt at pathetically groveling for forgiveness, a hand suddenly slaps down on his shoulder, once again inducing a startled peep and subsequent flinch out of him as Ryuki suddenly presses himself forward mere inches away from his face. Utterly frozen by the close proximity, his guest continues obliviously while Toren struggles to breathe. “I, the great star Ryuki of the rock and rolling world, solemnly swear baring your soul as you scream yourself hoarse in a bone-rattling solo song will make you feel better. And if I’m wrong‒I won’t be‒but if I am, I won’t get in your way again. Deal?”

He extends a pinky finger in front of him expectantly, and it takes just a few seconds too long for Toren to realize he’s meant to respond, raising his own trembling hand and gingerly wrapping his pinky around the others. With a satisfied expression, Ryuki tugs their fingers down once in an imitation of a handshake before de-tangling them and stepping back, leaving Toren to clutch his shirt and gasp in gulps of much needed air with the returned distance. Placing his hands on his hips, his company gestures back and forth between the two of them with the jut of his thumb, and a prideful smirk on his face. “Saturday! You! The great Ryuki! A burning clash of our flaming fierce spirits through melody! Look forward to it!”

“Y-Y, hhh...I, th-thank y‒” still feeling suffocated, he stumbles over his tongue trying to reply, standing up to agonizingly inch his way around Ryuki to get to the other side of the apartment, awkwardly mumbling “um, e-ex...cuse, excuse me,” as he shuffles past with mortification burning the back of his neck.

He can’t get into the bathroom fast enough, sinking against the door as soon as it’s locked shut behind him.

Once he wills his legs to work again, he splashes his face with water and scrubs it until his skin’s a raw pink, willing his heart to slow back down to a normal pace as he stares blankly at his reflection in the mirror. When he finally cracks the door open Ryuki is already passed out on the couch, limbs sprawled every which way and snoring lightly with the dim light of the table lamp casting shadows across his face. Trying to avoid bumping into him with the arm dangling off the couch and brushing against the floor, Toren makes his way over to turn off the lamp with a gentle tug and a click (freezing instinctively when the unconscious man huffs a snort, sleepily grumbling with a smack of his lips as his head lolls in the other direction), before delicately peeling the sheets back and climbing into bed. The staccato rhythm of panic in his chest picks right back up again the second he’s alone with his thoughts, leaving a cold sweat breaking out across his palms as he balls up the sheets in his fists.

It takes a long time for the disquiet to finally give way to slumber.

The rest of the week seems to crawl by at a shelmet’s pace, almost as if to spite him; whereas before it seemed as if there was never enough time, the deadline approaching so rapidly he felt as if it’d catch him entirely off-guard and unprepared, now he feels as if he has too much time than he knows what to do with. It isn’t that he doesn’t believe Ryuki (albeit he still has doubts), maybe it will help—he can’t say for sure without at least giving it a try, but the thought of it leaves him dreading the weekend. And of course since he’d rather get it over with as soon as possible, the rest of the week slows to a simmering boil, leaving him with an awful sort of anticipation.

Before he realizes it, the day in discussion is already here.

This time he isn’t surprised, in fact he’s tense the entire day, as if in preparation for going to war rather than a night out in the city. Sleep is elusive the night before, unable to quell the fretful overreaction thrumming through his veins, keeping him locked in a state of nervous suspense all through the morning and into the afternoon. Yet nothing happens. Ryuki wakes up around noon, they exchange greetings, and he heads out the door without even a single comment about their arranged plans. As much as he’d like to work on his presentation with the other’s absence, the expectation of his eventual return (and more so not knowing when) leaves him paralyzed to his chair, quietly grateful for the small show of support from his chansey when she rests an arm on his knee with a soft chitter.
He remains there stricken by foreboding and an obligation to wait for the rest of the daylight hours, being brought meals at the appropriate times by his companion (a long time ago he began storing pre-made snacks and food variety in one of the bottom cabinets his pokémon could reach for situations such as this, after an event where he was frozen for over twenty four hours and blacked out from hunger as soon as he had the will to stand again), and yet—the door continues to remain shut. It’s far from unusual for Ryuki to be out past ten in the evening (he still doesn’t know what it is he does but he’s not going to ask), in fact it’s the norm for him from what Toren’s observed in the short time span they’ve been co-residing, but he’d assumed they would’ve left together earlier in the night—so the more time that passes, the more Toren thinks, maybe he forgot? Relief courses through him purely from the consideration, leaving him shuddering with a sigh as his body finally untenses enough to let him stretch his stress-stiff joints. It isn’t an unreasonable assumption to make, he doesn’t want to get ahead of himself, but Ryuki definitely doesn’t seem like the most plan-conscious of people—in fact, it doesn’t sound out of character for him to forget he made any in the first place with how much he talks.
With every minute that passes, the more likely it seems the promise simply slipped his mind, and the more guilty Toren feels for being reassured when he knows he’d only meant to help. The more convinced he becomes that the outing won’t happen after all, the more his rigid posture relaxes—he nearly cries from sheer relief as his body limply sags into the comfort of his desk chair. Another stretch of time passes as he catches his breath before attempting to move, thankful for the fresh burst of rose and lavender-scented aromatherapy-air as his chansey waddles over with a supportive pat. So much time was lost to his anxiety-fueled haze that he could’ve used to work on his exhibition, precious time, but he tries not to dwell on it as he wills his fingers to work again—better late than never.

The door opens a quarter to one in the morning.

He’s almost too engrossed in his work to notice, but Ryuki makes his presence immediately known with a dramatic sigh and the thump of his guitar case against the floor, causing Toren to instantly tense up again despite himself. Pressing the back of his hand to his forehead with another exaggerated exhale as he flops onto the couch (rumbling the floor slightly from the impact and startling Toren), he speaks up in a somewhat hoarser-than-average voice, absentmindedly tugging at the collar of his leather jacket. “Dunno if I can still do a clash of our rocking souls through melody without straining my awesome voice, but I gave you my word, and I could use a pick-me-up performance.” Lifting himself back up with what looks like a monumental amount of effort, Ryuki slings one arm over the back of the cushion, regarding him with an expectant look as his eyes trail over the pile of papers accumulated on the desk. “You ready to go?”

“...What?”

“You haven’t forgotten, have you?”

“N-No! I just, um, I thought...I thought you had.”

“What?!” A stupefied expression crosses the (presumed, as he’s yet to see him without his monocle) redhead’s face, once again pressing a splayed hand theatrically against his chest in—what Toren hopes, because he honestly can’t tell anymore, is—mock offense. “No way! I’m a man of my word, I’ll have you know! I don’t take my pinky promises lightly! What, you think I’m the kinda guy that would leave you hangin’?! So uncool, man! I would never go back on my word, got it?!”

“I-I’m s‒I just, I m‒” his chansey gets in between them as he struggles to explain himself, putting up her hands fretfully to try and cue the other man to step back, Toren holding his arms in front of him once again like a guard as the words finally manage to spill out of him. “I only, y-you were just gone for a long time! I’m sorry!”

Ryuki blinks with a neutral expression as he leans backwards into a less riled up position, petting the chansey as he does without any indication to have noticed her prior distress, scratching his cheek unthinkingly with a dull nail. “Oh, yeah,” he says, at a normal volume this time, “that’s ‘cause I needed to make some cash first. It was my idea, which means it’s gotta be on me, y’know? It’d be super lame to make you pay for your own pick-me-up, too. And I wouldn't be very great if I did that, y’dig? Just took me a while to get the money since my music isn’t...for everybody. But it’s all right‒the world just ain’t ready for me yet‒and a star doesn’t let something like that get him down, it just makes him burn brighter!” With an impassioned shout, he clenches his fist in a pose reminiscent of comic book heroes, before abruptly dropping it with a confounded tilt to his mouth. “Forgot what we were talking about. Anyways, what are we dillydallin’ for? Let’s go!”

“Um...isn’t it too late now?”

“Nah, those places are open ‘till sunrise! Besides, I said Saturday ‘cause you work on Mondays. Gotta have all day tomorrow to chillax and get some rest after screaming to your heart’s content, y’know?”

Shame colours his face a deep red as all of Ryuki’s implications sink in, all this time spent cowering with dread for going out together, when he’d put so much sincere consideration into the activity only to bolster Toren’s confidence. Timidly pressing his fingers together as his ears burn, he offers a weak “um, I...I don’t know if I can scream, but...I-I’ll try,” while pointedly staring at the contrast of Ryuki’s stark red shoes against the dark carpet, offering a small smile to his chansey when she beams up at him while lightly tapping his knee.

“That’s the spirit!” The clap of a hand on his shoulder startles his gaze upwards, startled even more so by the blindingly bright grin directed right at him. “Once you get into the groove of the song it’ll come to you, just don’t fight it and let the music move you.”

Ryuki looks at him like it’s a matter of life or death.

He doesn’t know what to do other than nod.

It’s good enough for Ryuki.

Fula City’s downtown at night is almost entirely foreign to him, the colour of the neon signs so prominent and piercing he nearly has to avoid looking at them, even with the tinted-dark protective glass separating his eye from their unfiltered glow. The only time he’s ever been anywhere near here after dark is for the closing ceremony, and most establishments close so they can release lanterns themselves, opening back up as they’re drifting to the sky and the crowd still lingers—but by then he’s already gone home. He feels like a small child, staring at everything new with open-mouthed awe and fascination; he’s lived here for years but Ryuki navigates the area with a keen familiarity, bobbing in between the other people walking almost rhythmically. They’d probably already have gotten separated if it wasn’t for the hand wrapped around his wrist in a firm grip, lightly tugging him forwards without pulling too hard, but that doesn’t stop Toren from walking right into him because he wasn’t paying attention when they stopped. Ryuki doesn’t even react to the collision, letting go of the hold tethering them together to throw open the door with a flourish, the bell hanging off of it smacking loudly against the frame mid-ring from the force. The reverberation makes him cringe, croaking out a quiet “c-careful” the other ignores, striding into the building with a confident swagger.
There’s some conversation between Ryuki and the receptionist that he filters out, too distracted with admiring the dim purple lighting and the thump of bass playing somewhere pulsating in the floor, only broken out of his reverie by his name being called and a ‘c’mere’ gesture. “Forgot I don’t have my ID,” Ryuki bashfully chuckles, holding out his hand for Toren to place his own identification into to let them into the establishment, offering quiet apologies for being the cause of the problem in the first place. Ryuki simply brushes him off with a hand wave as the person behind the corner nods decisively and moves to lead them elsewhere (he makes an offhand comment as they do that losing his ID seems like it’d be more of a problem than the loss of his credit card given identity theft, but Ryuki only replies “who could possibly pretend to be this” while gesturing to all of himself, and he can’t find anything to refute that with). The room they’re led into is clearly meant more for a party of four or more rather than two people, but he doesn’t mind the excess space, sliding comfortably into the booth opposite his company. “Most of the time places like these are packed on Friday and Saturday nights. Not this one though, ‘cause it’s kinda outta the way,” he pipes up as he’s scooching into his side of the booth, picking up the remote on the table in response to what must be evident uncertainty on Toren’s face, pressing a finger to his grinning lips with an almost conspiratorial wink. “It’s like my own little secret I’m letting you in on, so don’t tell anyone, got it?”

Though he nods in agreement, Ryuki doesn’t seem to expect any answer, preoccupied with scrolling through the song list. “I’ll go first. Show you how it’s done, yeah?” Flashing a confident smile, he finally settles on a choice, planting one foot on the table as he stands. The song begins almost right away, loud and borderline discordant, the screech of an electric guitar over the loudspeakers causing the room to vibrate so intensely he can feel it through the floor. With every second of instrumental that passes, Ryuki leans forwards like a tensely coiled spring ready to launch, the excitement practically rolling off of him in waves tuned to the beat of the music. Toren watches the screen in expectancy himself too, waiting for the scroll of lyrics to slide across the display. Unable to view the other man through his peripheral because of his bangs, he turns his head to observe as Ryuki suddenly takes a large inhale, wondering if he’s worked up because this song is a favourite of his—before looking back to the TV just as the words begin to cue the start by lighting up yellow.

And Ryuki begins to sing.

He nearly jumps out of his skin in response to the high-pitched screech, completely stunned by the force of his voice reverberating through his chest, mouth slightly agape as his splintered eyeglass begins to slip down the slope of his nose—jostled askew from his startled recoil. Toren slowly blinks, and it’s ended. There’s a hand waving in front of his face and an accompanying voice going, “show’s over, y’know” when he comes back to himself with a gasp, pushing his monocle back into place.

“Did my spirit shake your core too hard?” Ryuki laughs while passing over the remote control, pressing it firmly in the other’s hand when his grasp is too limp from remnants of shock. “A superstar never waits when it’s his turn on the stage.”

It takes a few long seconds for the implications to click to him, stuttering out a taken aback “h-huh?” in response. The man in front of him places a hand over his own on the controller reacting to perceived confusion, directing him on how to browse the song selections, change the tempo, preview the music, and so on. Toren struggles to listen through the sweat-inducing anxiety from the casual physical contact (he’s only recently gotten somewhat used to the occasional touch from his friends and colleagues without reflexively jumping back, let alone a relative stranger), absolutely dumbfounded as the singer continues obliviously instructing him hands-on. When he lets go, Ryuki makes a motion of thumping a fist into an open palm; an ‘aha!’ sort of expression takes over his face, like a light-bulb going off over his head as his companion continues scrolling. None of the songs register as familiar to him, he’s never kept up-to-date on music (or TV shows, or movies, or any sort of contemporary art), so eventually he simply settles on one that sounds slower from the brief sneak peek. To his side is some shuffling—only allowed a short glimpse of the redhead migrating towards the phone on the wall before the lyrics begin to sprawl across the screen, and he nervously keeps his eyes glued to the display for fear of missing any prompt as he begins to sing.

Behind him Ryuki is on the phone with the receptionist ordering drinks and appetizers he can only half hear, too distracted to offer input or rebuttal (he’s only drunk once before and tragically made an embarrassment of himself). The other man gives him a somewhat reassuring thumbs-up when he turns to look during a break in the song, snapping back to face the front when he points to it while conversing over the landline. Most of the words trip over his tongue on the way out, unacquainted with the lines or the melody, and making it abundantly clear with every mistake he makes. As it comes to a close with one last strum, he sighs and slumps back against the padded cushioning of the seat, caught like a deerling in headlights when he notices Ryuki sitting across the table resting his cheek in his palm with an unreadable expression. His breath catches in sudden insecurity—afraid somehow the untrained cadence of his voice bothered him, that maybe this was one of his favourite songs and here along Toren comes, absolutely butchering it, and really, this was a bad idea, after all—but Ryuki cuts off his train of thought as he speaks up. “Have you ever sung before?”

“Wh‒huh...? N-No?”

“Woah. For real?” A look akin to disbelief or pleasant surprise crosses his face as he makes a low whistle, waving a pointer finger in a circular motion as he speaks. “Your voice is really good, I dig it. Yeah, you messed up the lyrics a lot and missed some notes, but, with some training and more...feeling, you could really shine.” The contemplative expression falls from his face as he moves his finger resting against his chin to snap against his thumb, confident grin back in place as he leans back to rest his arms against the backing of the booth. “Of course, you can never take the spotlight from me, but that’s nothing anyone can blame you for. I’m a rocker down to my very soul and bones, after all. Your boy’s great for a reason!”

Despite the fact the compliment comes across more insincere following his ego-fueled monologue, Toren’s ears burn as he looks down at the table, twisting his hair idly between his fingers to obscure the view of his face. “Th-Thank you...”

Ryuki waves a hand dismissively in response to the gratitude, scratching his cheek in some semblance of modesty. “It’s nothing, man. Just being real.” Coughing lightly with an ‘ahem’ as he clears his throat into his fist (despite his voice sounding fine), he reaches across the table with a hand outstretched expectantly for the controller and microphone. Only somewhat fumbling in his attempt to gather himself, Toren passes the device over, instinctively cowering backwards when his hands brush the others. If Ryuki notices he doesn’t indicate it, resting his legs improperly on top of the table, flipping the remote idly in his hand. “Get some liquid courage in you and we’ll make a star outta you yet, yeah? With me as your coach, how could you not twinkle, after all?”

“Um...I, but...I’m a scientist?”

“What? Don’t scientists have hobbies? Now, being a star is different from being a rockstar, understand? Anybody can be a star, but being a rockstar...you gotta live for the lifestyle, man. Be really into it, y’know?”

“Anybody...? I thought it had to do with singing...”

A puzzled expression crosses the other’s face, halting in his fiddling with the device he’s holding to stare blankly at Toren. “Nah, I mean it doesn’t have to.” Puffing up his cheeks, he lets out a breath of air, spreading his arms in a wide span. “There’s as many stars here as there are in the sky! Anybody can be a star if they burn like one! Like, every Champion is a star, understand? ‘Cause they’re at the top. Or another battling superstar! Like...y’know, the people who take challengers, like the Battle Tree.” When the other man looks back at him with a mildly puzzled expression, Ryuki puts a hand up to his chin in contemplation before snapping his fingers. “Or a model, like the one from Galar! Or that one ‘round here, in Nimbasa, the Gym Leader, right?”

“Elesa?”

“Yeah, her! Or that actor who’s in those badass movies with the explosions, and the awesome cape!”

“Um, Brycen, I think.”

“Right, right. Or Nancy, that idol from around here, y'know her?” Toren nods. He doesn't think to question why Ryuki would know her name but not the others. He supposes she is a musician, among other things. “And of course, the biggest star of them all, who outshines them all, even me‒Lance, the champion of the Indigo League and the greatest dragon trainer ever, and from the Blackthorn clan. Even his cousin is super cool...” An awestruck look takes his face for a moment, distracted by the rant about his apparent hero, before coughing awkwardly again into his closed fist. “Anyway, the point is that there’s all kinds of stars out there, man. Singers, models, performers, actors, writers, athletes, trainers, Champions...even scientists, like you. And that’s not all the kinds you can be, either. To be a star all you gotta do is shine and keep going when the going’s hard. Once you’ve got that star-studded power that makes people wanna turn their heads to look at you, you're golden. You,” he says and points explicitly at Toren with a clawed finger. “just gotta believe in yourself, man. Coming out of the fire stronger than before is what makes or breaks it, stars never give up.”

“The...um...then why the interest in my singing?”

“Oh, that? That's all me, baby! Can’t help myself but find it interesting. I am a rockstar after all,” Ryuki gives him a crooked grin and a wink, but he barely has any time to flush before they’re interrupted by a knock at the door delivering their drinks and food (that he’d in all honesty forgotten about). “Here.”

In between the shuffle of things getting organized on the table and the staff leaving with a generalized statement about calling the desk if there’s any issues, Ryuki slides an ombré drink towards him that smells like fruit, cracking open his own beer can with a claw. “Dunno if you like stuff like this, but you don’t look like the kinda guy who drinks a lot, so I got you one that tastes sweet. It’s not bitter at all.”

Slowly bringing the drink towards him with both hands, Toren pinches the straw between his fingers and leans down to take a sip, pleasantly surprised by the flavour of pineapple and orange when it hits his tongue. “Um...thank you. It’s very good.”

“Of course it is, I dig it, too. And your boy has only the best taste, after all,” he says, right before taking a swig of his beverage, and immediately spewing it out to the side with a shudder of disgust. Wiping his mouth with one arm, he starts scrolling with the other one, leaving alcohol-sticky residue all over the buttons. “Anyway! It’s your boy’s turn, give you some time to rest and relax, yeah?”

“Um...”

“Hm?”

“Do you...not like yours?”

“What?” he stops his rapid clicking through the menu to face Toren entirely, making the more shy of the two shrink a bit back into his seat. “Whaddaya mean? ‘Course I dig it, I just said I’ve got only the best taste, didn’t I?”

Sinking further into the booth, his reply comes out as little more than a squeak. “B-But‒I’m sorry‒um, you just spit it out?”

Ryuki makes a dismissive noise of “pssh,” and he prepares to apologize again, before the other man turns entirely towards him with one hand placed on his beer and the other on the table. “Y’wanna know how much I like it? Y’wanna know? I’ll show you how much I like it.” He brings the opened tab of the can to his lips, and starts chugging. Even as he’s drinking it to prove how much he supposedly enjoys it, his face remains contorted in disdain at what is obviously a reaction to the flavour, stubbornly continuing to swallow regardless. As Ryuki empties the last of it and slams the can directly in front of him, there’s a pause before he gulps with his cheeks full of the liquid, and Toren has a brief fear he’s going to spit it out all over him. He swallows.

And then Ryuki rears his head back—and slams the can into it full force.

Toren’s whole body jolts so violently in shock that he nearly spills his drink all over himself, outright splashing a section of his pants when his companion just as suddenly lurches back and screeches “OHHH YEEEAAAAH!!! ” point-blank, before stomping a foot on the table and immediately launching into the song he stopped on. “Let’s get this show on the road!”

He doesn’t remember much after that.

Snippets of laughter, a warm arm, stumbling home—but when he wakes up with a raging headache, and Ryuki holding out pain medication and a glass of water—he feels a bit better.

Chapter Text

“Maaaan...it’s so lame I can’t go on any of the rides without my ID. And the Catch Race! I wish I could’ve joined,” Ryuki whines with a long sigh the night following the aforementioned event, draping himself all over the couch like an out-stretched persian. “With my babies, there’s no way I’d lose.”

Toren winces at the memory of last year’s disaster and halts momentarily in his frenzied typing as a result, briefly wondering if Callahan would have participated this year now that he has a pokémon (if he was allowed to; after last year he was permanently banned from entering, something Toren still feels absolutely awful about, even if the older man insists he doesn’t care), before responding as he gets back into the rhythm of his fingers on the keys. “Y-Your babies?”

“Yeah, don’t you got any? Wait, of course you do. D’you have more than one baby, though?”

“WHAT?!” His voice skids high on incredulous, practically screeching in shock, snapping his head to the other as his face quickly colours at the implications. Ryuki startles backwards from his outburst, more wide-eyed than he’s seen so far as he flinches away. “I-I DON’T HAVE ANY BABIES, I-I’M 27!”

“HUH?” Ryuki’s own voice raises to match his, suddenly waving his hands rapidly in front of him in an assertion of denial, quickly shaking his head side-to-side. “By babies, I mean pokémon, man! What, didya think I’ve got actual, human-people kids?! No way! I’m even younger than you, I’m 25!”

“I-I’m very sorry, I‒! ...oh,” his shouting quickly dies down to a soft exhale of a noise as the realization hits, unable to resist the urge to put his face in his hands in mortification as he swivels back to face his computer, incapable of meeting the other’s eyes. “I-I do. Have others, I mean,” his voice comes out as a mutter when he responds through his palms obscuring his mouth, unwilling to elaborate any further as he makes an attempt to change the topic and get back into his work. “I, um, I didn’t know you b-battled that much. You’ve never really t-talked about them?”

“Really? ” in his peripheral he sees his house guest suddenly lurch in surprise with an incredulous expression, shaking off the shock of their previous misunderstanding as his train of thought goes elsewhere. “Well, I can’t leave out my bandmates! I’m only as great as I am ‘cause of my teammates, after all. I’ve goooot,” Ryuki pauses on a long, drawn out word mid-sentence to count on his fingers, murmuring the numbers under his breath as he goes. “Seven pokémon! They’re all dragons, ‘cause dragons are the best type, y’know? Powerful, cool, they don’t take anything they don't wanna; they’re just the epitome of badass. All rrrright, lemme see,” he starts listing off his pokémon while staring off somewhere into space, a growing grin sneaking on his lips as he goes. “So there’s Gabugabu, my garchomp. Dokudoku, my dragonite. Bakubaku, my turtonator. Mukumuku, my drampa. Furufuru, my druddigon. Hamuhamu, my hydreigon. And finally, Destroyer Of The World, my Kommo-o‒Destroyer for short.”

Humming absentmindedly as he continues typing (having managed to get back into it whilst the other got distracted on a ranting tangent), Toren thoughtlessly mumbles “those are cute names” while only halfway paying attention, briefly stopping as the entirety of what Ryuki said catches up to him, “well, except for that last one.”

When the silence prolongs for longer than expected, he finally pulls his attention away from his computer screen with a herculean amount of effort to drag his gaze towards the man slumped against his couch. Ryuki’s own stare remains pointedly fixed towards the floor, an odd almost-smile, almost-grimace twitching on his face. His cheeks, a bit tinted; Toren can hardly see through the shadow underneath his bangs to spot his eyebrows pinched together, almost as if he were angry or conflicted about something, like he’s flustered over a compliment—

“Oh,” Toren says, stupidly.

In the short quiet that follows, he feels his own cheeks heat to the same hue lingering on the louder of the two (suddenly stunned into uncharacteristic silence), averting his eyes to stare at that same fascinating section of carpet. After an awkward pause, Ryuki clears his throat with an “ahem,” before speaking up as Toren reluctantly turns to look at him once more in response to the sound. “Do...do you have,” cough. “Do you name your babies?”

Despite the mild blush still occupying his guest’s face, Toren abruptly finds himself caught in his own embarrassment of remembrance, grimacing as he feels the comforting presence of his chansey beside him. “I, uh, y-yes? But I, um, I don’t...I try not to say them in p-public?”

“Why’s that?” The colour in Ryuki’s face fades back to normal in his confusion, tilting his head inquisitively like a curious poochyena, causing Toren to withdraw into himself all the more.

“B-Because they, uh...I just‒I have a professional job and they’re just, uh, they’re not very...prof‒it’s just, they’re silly,” he finally manages to get his point across with a great amount of struggling against himself, only for Ryuki to completely dismiss his reservations with a handwave and a blunt “fuck that,” stunning Toren into silence with the curt vulgarity. “None of that matters, man. What reaaaaally matters is your babies’ happiness, y’know? If they like their names, then nobody else oughta have anythin' to say about it, y’dig?”

“...You’re, um, a lot more confident than I am...”

With a grand gesture, the man in front of him holds out his arms as if he were supporting the world on his shoulders, and it’s as feather-light as he makes everything seem. “Well, yeah! That’s why I’m your coach to stardom, after all! Stars shine brightly no matter what’s going on around ‘em‒some stars have it come naturally, and some stars gotta watch and learn from the biggest and brightest glowing around ‘em. So! It’s up to me to show y’how it’s done!” He intends to point out he never really requested a coach but Ryuki’s lips split on a wide grin, sharp teeth twinkling under the soft glow of his table lamp, and Toren finds his words dying on their way up his throat instead. “So, c’mon and lemme hear ‘em! The names you poured your heart and soul into!”

“There wasn’t that much thought put into them,” turning the same pink hue of his chansey, with a steeling breath as he rubs his face, he begins to list them off. “My, uh...I have five pokémon. Chansey, staryu, lurantis, smeargle, and vile...vileplume. Um, my lurantis is named E-Elly, my smeargle is Dopple, Candy...is my staryu‒”

“Oh! Like star candy!”

“A-Actually it’s short for incandescent,” he stumbles slightly on his explanation, clearing his throat as he prepares to elaborate on the reasoning behind the choice, twiddling his fingers together. “Um...its ability is illuminate so...it glows to signify when pokémon are nearby, or it can light up surroundings, like a nightlight. It’s actually exactly w-what you talk about with the ‘glowing bright star’ thing but literally, a...ha. Uh, E-Elly’s name also means light because lurantis’s signature move is solar blade and her ability means she can’t get status effects in sunlight. Leaf blade, th-that is, her ability. B-But on top of not getting status effects in sunlight, she, or rather all lurantis, don’t have to take extra time to charge up solar blade if there’s already harsh sunlight! And then Dopple is a combination of doodle and doppel, from dopplegänger like a copycat, b-because of Smeargle’s signature move! They use the ends of their tails like paintbrushes to ‘sketch’ and copy their opponents’ moves, and so they can use almost every move possible, even if they shouldn’t be able to! Utilized right, they can be useful in nearly any setting or occupation, since sketch copies permanently!”

He comes back to himself with a gasp, retreating backwards from the excited forward lean he hadn’t noticed himself doing, timidly clacking his teeth closed together at the open surprise on Ryuki’s face. “I-I’m SO sorry, I g-got too carried away.”

With a now-familiar sway of his wrist, Ryuki brushes off his nervous apology with an easy grin, resting his chin against the back of his hand with an intrigued tilt to his head. “It’s no biggie, man, for real. I’m the one who asked. Y’just caught me by surprise, s’all. Ain’t a bad thing at all, though,” his teeth twinkle on a wholesome smile, resting his cheek against the palm of his other hand, placing his elbow on the arm of the couch. “Heh, ‘not that much thought’, huh? Sounds to me at least like you really did put all your heart into naming 'em.” He flushes in response to his dismissal being called out. “It’s good to see you get all excited, y’know? Makes the star inside you really shine through.” Toren abruptly finds himself to be completely mute, suddenly finding his jaw in a tense clench as his face reddens, throat closing up in response to the praise. “Just gotta get you to stop saying you’re sorry all the time,” continuing to speak, oblivious to the near-purple red on Toren’s face that makes him look close to outright fainting, Ryuki waggles a pointer finger in tune to his words. “Nobody oughta feel sorry for being happy. You gotta let yourself glow, man! Show ‘em what you’re made of!” After an impassioned shout accompanied with a clenched fist, Ryuki laughs lightheartedly—and for a brief moment, Toren thinks he really will faint—before dropping the flashy pose to resume his previous relaxed posture. “Anyways, what about the rest of your babies?”
Opening his mouth in the motion of talking, no sound comes out of his closed off throat (he thinks maybe if you were to squeeze him, he’d make a sound akin to one of those rubber combusken toys sold at the kids' sections in department stores), so he snaps his mouth shut again. Even as he’s unable to respond, Ryuki doesn’t seem like he’ll simply move on without a reply, gazing at him with patience that only serves to make his mouth feel all the more dry. His lips continue flapping uselessly like a magikarp out of water, horribly dizzy from the embarrassment overtaking him, desperate to get his words out before he humiliates himself any further. A flash of pink crops up in his peripheral as his chansey waddles up to his side, placing a comforting hand on his leg with a sympathetic smile. “S-Stumble,” his voice comes out in a mumble when he speaks, his lips twitching somewhat bitterly at the irony. “That’s her n-name,” he elaborates before the question is even posed, expression softening as she moves her arm up and down to pat him. “M-My...vileplume is named R-Raffles, b-because of the flower the s-species...m-mutated from. R-Rafflesia.” Toren sighs in relief as he finally manages to say all their names, sagging against his desk chair as he frantically attempts to school his face into something more composed—and preferably less red.

“I dig ‘em,” with a finger to his chin in an exaggerated expression of being lost in thought, Ryuki nods decisively in approval of the nicknames before slumping again with a sigh. “What about you? Y’ever do the Catch Race?”

“Uhm...n-no, I don’t battle.”

Ryuki tilts his head curiously with a furrowed brow to the statement, regarding him with obvious confusion. “Y’dont? How’d your babies all end up different levels and evolutions, then?”

“U-Um, well, my chansey,” she looks up at him as he speaks, and with a glance at the encouraging plea written across the other man’s face, he pauses and corrects himself. “S-Stumble, I mean‒” he tries not to blush at the proud grin on Ryuki’s face. “S-She, um...I got her as an egg when I was very young. She’s been with me ever since.” Reaching a hand out, he pets the top of her head, lips quirking slightly when she preens from the attention. “My, uh...the others were all gifts or given to me for research o-or abandoned, s-so I...took them in. I do know a lot about battling, though! B-But that’s because I research it...”

“I see, I see,” echoing that same contemplative pose from before, Ryuki hums in understanding while nodding idly as if to prove he’s listening. Moving the finger resting against his chin, he starts drawing invisible shapes in the air, swaying to some tune Toren can’t hear. “That’s real cool of you, man. I dig it. People who leave their babies behind are the worst,” for a split second blink-and-you-miss-it moment, the ordinarily overly-upbeat rockstar’s face darkens, and Toren comes to the conclusion that must be what his true anger looks like. It’s gone just as quickly as it came, replaced by his easygoing smile, but Toren shudders nonetheless—even though the sentiment was never directed at him. “What about your b‒pokém‒b-babies?” He manages to choke out the inquiry before the lull in the conversation persists long enough to invoke his anxiety, sighing a shaky exhale through his nose as his hand draws idle circles on Stumble’s back. “What about ‘em? Y’mean how’d they end up on my team?”

Toren just nods.

“I dunno if he was left behind or not, I think he was just a wild pokémon, but I scouted Gabutan out of a back-alley dumpster in Castelia a while back. Heard some real off noises while I was walkin’ so I checked it out, reached in, and found this gible making just...the funniest face at me. Y’ever seen one in person? Their head is almost all mouth, so they look like this,” pausing his story to demonstrate, Ryuki starts to push his bangs back before suddenly dropping his hand with an “oh, wait” to shuffle through his bag before pulling out his phone. “Should have a pic in here somewhere...ah! Here,” after some initial scrolling, he leans over the arm of the couch with the screen displaying a still image.

The longer he stares at the picture the harder it becomes to suppress the laugh bubbling up inside him, making his lips wobble against the effort, but Ryuki keeps it facing him almost expectantly until he loses the battle with an undignified snort. After the dam is breached, he can’t control the mirth that shakes his frame, hiding his mouth with his palm as he giggles, and his companion finally pulls the phone back with what looks like a proud glee to his face. Toren’s laughter ceases soon afterward, self-conscious with the sudden exposure as the device separating them moves away, leaving him to skittishly avoid the others eyes as he puts his phone back away. “Fucchan, that’s my druddigon Furufuru, I caught some time later at that real old tower around here, the one with the dragons, yeah?”

“...Dragonspiral?”

Snapping his fingers, Ryuki shouts “that’s the one!” with a distant look of nostalgia on his face. “Oh, man...I went ‘cause your boy wanted to see one of those wicked cool legendary dragons, but I got Fucchan instead, so it was still worth it after all. Ahhh, memories,” he trails off with a wistful smile before sighing melodramatically and swaying his hand as if to dispel a physical fog of recollection clouding his thoughts. “Actually, now that I’m thinkin’ about it, pretty sure I caught Hamutan around then, too. Y’know how zweilous has two heads? They were only nice to each other when they were riding the rhythm of my music, always fighting, but then he evolved‒and now he fights with my other babies! But what can ya do, y’know? I love my babies for their fiery personalities, untamable soul and all. Their stubbornness just makes ‘em all the more adorable, after all!” Ryuki takes a break from his somehow not-out-of-character gushing following the declaration with an amused grin on his face, throwing his hands up in a suggestion of comfortable surrender.
“I caught Dokudoku a looooong time ago in Kanto, my very first baby!” As he drags out the vowel in his sentence, his arm straightens out towards the wall of the apartment, facing north—where the sea awaits beyond this building and all the skyscrapers towering through Fula City, where beyond that sea lies something even further—spreading his fingers as if to grasp at something intangible far past the horizon. “I wanted to be a star just like Lance, a dragon-type specialist with my very own dragonite. So I caught one, and just like that,” the fingers of his outstretched hand snap together suddenly, breaking the illusion of something beyond these four walls. “A star was born! The origins of the great Ryuki!” In one final motion, his hand closes into a resolute fist, as if having found something else to grab hold of instead before rubbing the back of his neck with a bashful laugh. “Eheheheh...well, kind of, anyway. Your boy didn’t decide on pursuing music until a bit after. That’s a story for another time.” Toren doesn’t miss the way his tone falls slightly, into something more vulnerable and delicate, but doesn’t press it when the other moves on.
“The others I all caught in Alola. Not at the same time, though. Mukumuku was first. Mucchan’s pretty chill, but he’s got a real soulful voice! He was the first dragon I saw in Alola. Then Bacchan, then Destroyer. If you’ve ever seen a turtonator, their shells are somethin’ else! If you apply a bit of pressure to it, it explodes, just like that! And the pattern on their shell looks like a star! I needed him for playing shows, and I loved his look, so I scouted him for my band the second I saw him. Kommo-o on the other hand, their whole body makes sound! Their scales can make music. How cool is that?! So I caught Docchan first, then Gabutan, then Mucchan, then Fucchan and Hamutan, then Bacchan, and then Destroyer,” he finishes the timeline confidently enough, but then scratches his cheek sheepishly with an addendum of, “I think.” Proudly crossing his arms, he grins once again. “And that's the story of me and my pokémon!”

“Um...” the sound of his own voice speaking up startles him after the prolonged period without input, squirming in slight discomfort as the other man looks at him with his full attention again. “I just, uh, w-why did you name him Destroyer?”

“Oh, that?” Lightly chuckling, Ryuki rolls back the sleeve of his right arm while straightening out his posture, before holding it out as his other hand traces the light teeth-gagged scar around the bottom of his hand and wrist. “He gave me this when I scouted him. I had already caught him, and he didn’t even shake the ball once. I was gonna name him like all my other babies, but then he showed me how he felt about being in my band and got me real good, so I had a change of plans.”

Wincing at the long-healed wound, Toren hisses through his teeth, “y-your babies seem‒they, um...that’s b‒i-it’s just, the...v-violent.”

Shrugging as he rolls his cuff back up, Ryuki says “they’re rowdy sometimes, yeah, but every great rock band oughta be” as he rests his head between his palms on the arm of the couch. Pointing a lone finger up like a teacher directing a lesson, he opens his mouth to quickly protest with an addendum, which goes on longer the more in-depth he gets. “And they ain’t all like Destroyer, understand?! Each one of my babies has their own refined personality! For example, Docchan is real calm and collected-like, real chill. He’s my rock, y’know? Always been there for me, helping me out through thick and thin. Mucchan doesn’t act much different from him, calm and relaxed–but he loves going beddy-bye with me, and he’s super soft to the touch unlike my other babies! He’s more kind and friendly, digs playing with kids like the ones I know back in Alola, but he’s still a dragon, got it? Got a real passionate spirit in ‘em, he’ll burn anything to the ground if you get on his bad side. Hamutan...well, I already told you about him a little, but he ain’t that sharp, if ya get what I mean. He only really fights over meal-time, ‘cause he’s always down to chow, anything and everything, a real fiery and overzealous kinda pokémon. Bacchan isn’t that bright, either, but he’s real chill most of the time! He gets super fired up when we play a set, the deep bass of his explosions are a perfect match for my singing, reverberating all the way through to the heart of everyone watching! Fucchan ain’t quite broken out of his shell yet–kind of like you, y’know–he shakes a lot, gotta keep things red-hot for him so he doesn’t freeze up! Gabutan’s a cool type...likes keeping secrets, acting collected, but he’s pretty competitive and always wants attention even if he won’t act like it. He and Destroyer don’t get along sometimes ‘cause of that–’cause even though Destroyer did that to me, he’s even more overprotective than Mucchan! He’s really competitive over me, really a big baby, begging for more. I brought him up since he was just a little thing, get it? Sure he puts up a strong front, but he loves me just as much as my other teammates!”
Smiling fondly, he starts slowly kicking his feet in the air behind him, lost in his affectionate and doting musing. “You understand now? I mean, with partners like them, how could I not be a star? I actually use dragon pokémon’s cries as an inspiration for my singing style, you know. They’re my muses, and I’ve gotta encourage them to keep on rockin’! We’re united under our passion for rock ‘n roll–my dream is theirs, too! Whenever we’re playing a set together, nothing else matters but belting out everything we got. No fighting, no problems, only hardcore jamming! All pokémon are slaves to the sound of my music–you’ll see, too, someday. Anyway, if it wasn’t for them, I wouldn’t be the great Ryuki. I’d just be Ryuki. They’re good pokémon. And they're great bandmates! I'd know, I scouted 'em myself. I've got an eye for talent.” With a self-assured huff after going through great lengths to dispel any negative stereotypes regarding his partners, he lazily waves his hand to definitively brush off the other man's reservations before tucking it back under his chin. “So maybe I'm the type to fall in love at first sight, and think they couldn't ever do nothing wrong, but just 'cause they're dragons and they're a little hard-to-handle doesn't mean you gotta be scared. A little love-bite's nothing in the grand scheme of things. And I really owe it to all of them for getting me through tough times, so I never looked back.” Toren feels a little ashamed by his previous thoughtlessly judgemental comment as the dragon-type trainer defends his pokémon (a researcher like him should know better not to judge from first impressions, and especially after everything that happened with Zeraora that he came to learn about), but more than that, finds himself admiring the other's dedication to having their backs. “You really love them, don’t you?”

Beaming ear-to-ear with dragon-sharp teeth, Ryuki cheerfully proclaims, “of course!” He can’t help but smile back a bit himself. “What about you?”

“...H-Huh?”

“I know you really dig yours and all that, but what I mean is y’never finished explaining your babies’ names,” he gestures to the pink, blob-esque creature smiling beside Toren as he continues to speak, “like...why’s her name Stumble? And what’re they like? What are their personalities?”

Frantically, his head starts searching for an excuse to escape the conversation, rapid-fire shooting potential solutions to avoid an explanation‒then his eye catches on the numbers displayed on his computer screen. “Ah,” his voice comes out as a soft sound of recognition before the panic sets in, and he quickly slams his laptop shut (a bit too forcefully) while tripping around his desk chair to the bathroom. “I-It’s really late, I need to‒p-presentation tomorrow!” It’s as he’s passing by the couch that a grip on his wrist snags him backwards, impeding his movement from going forwards, and he tries (futilely) to wrench his arm free before realizing what—or rather who—is holding it. “When are you going on stage?” With his other hand, Ryuki holds his phone while awaiting a response, thumb poised near the bottom of the screen as if he’s about to press a trigger.
“Um...one in the evening.” He watches as his house guest clicks and scrolls something on his screen that Toren can’t see, still holding his wrist in a limp clutch almost like an afterthought, until he drops the device in his lap and looks up with a bright grin. “All right! I set up an alarm, so I’ll be there when you’re up. In the crowd, for once!” He guffaws, releasing the grasp to give a thumbs-up and stick his tongue out the side of his mouth in a playful expression. “And if you really do need somebody to steal the spotlight from you after all, your boy’s nothing if not attention-grabbing! Everybody’ll have their eyes on yours truly in a flash! Nobody will even remember what happened, once they see they’re in the presence of a superstar!” He points very assertively towards himself with his thumbs as an emphasis, his cheeks twitching oddly out of rhythm as the hair framing his face rises and falls, and Toren realizes he must be wiggling his eyebrows despite (presumably) recognizing they’re hidden behind his bangs. “P-Please don’t do that.”

Ryuki just laughs.

The sound follows him long after the rockstar’s voice has gone silent, echoing off the tile walls as he washes his face and brushes his teeth, and as he turns off the faucet and sees himself in the mirror he wonders—why am I so flustered?

Miraculously, he doesn’t lose or scatter his papers on his way to or at work, still clutched firmly against his chest alongside the SD card (correct, this time; he triple-checked) resting in his breast pocket. He spends a good portion of the morning muttering his lines under his breath, until the event’s within the hour and he stares at the ticking of the wall clock like a countdown to his doom. His co-workers exit towards the front of the pavilion with a parting “good luck” when it reaches the five minute mark after giving him odd unease-inducing looks all day, leaving Toren in the darkness of the laboratory, watching through the glass pane door as the swarm of spectators gather below the platform. Anxiety starts building exponentially in his gut the longer he looks, making his mouth go as dry as the desert between Nimbasa and Castelia, before a firm pressure on the small of his back shakes him out of his reverie. Behind him, Stumble smiles with cinched eyebrows, and he nods. The sound cue for his entrance begins to play; Toren scrunches his eyes shut, squares his shoulders straight, and takes a deep breath in. And he repeats a confidence-boosting mantra to himself just like he had to when he confronted his colleagues, but this time with Ryuki’s advice resonating in his mind—

I’m a star. I’m a star. I’m a star. I’m a star. I’m a star. I’m a star. I’m a star. I’m a star. I’m a star.

He thinks he manages to walk out this time without, in his co-workers’ words, moving like a duraludon (which was a criticism he received from the board as well, after the crisis had passed and they could discuss mundane work-related things again). This was far from their only complaint, but he’s just grateful he wasn’t simply fired after accidentally exposing his actions during the Catch Race; his cheating, which while technically had no connection to his work, was definitely unsportsmanlike (and most importantly to the board, would have been a publicity disaster if not for the genuine disaster that followed shortly thereafter, collectively overshadowing everything else).
When he comes to a stop in front of the computer his throat nearly closes up on instinct, but then he spots a pair of arms covered in an unforgettable fire truck red waving enthusiastically at him and drawing the looks of the other people nearby, and he has to bite his lip to stop from snickering as the crown of Ryuki’s head appears briefly above the crowd before vanishing again—jumping up to see the stage because he’s too short to see it past the taller people standing in front of him. And as he looks across the rest of the onlookers, another familiar pair of arms wave at him with zippy and pure childlike excitement, an even more familiar beret atop the head of the person boosting her up. He smiles secretly at her without waving back and disrupting the professional air to the dome, breaking eye contact after a beat to clear his throat and begin to speak. “Th-Thank you all for coming. Let’s begin.”

After the showing is over and his colleagues praise him on a job well done until he’s nearly purple in the face, he throws himself into the throng of people to find his (tentatively phrased, because he doesn’t want to presumptuous) friends and acquaintances, mentally preparing himself to have to introduce them as he makes his way towards where they were standing. As it turns out, they’ve already found one another. By the time he arrives, Ryuki and Callahan are already embroiled in an extremely theatrical conversation, the latter spinning some fabrication about having met Zekrom “over yonder at the ancient tower, like the twin heroes of yore” and chasing off the remnants of Team Rocket away from Fula City together, while the former looks utterly enraptured by the fictitious tale. In all consideration, it isn’t all too far from the truth of what happened (though it was Lugia instead, and Callahan was far from the only person involved), but Mia’s expression gets increasingly exasperated as the story continues—so he approaches to intervene with a quiet, “th-that can’t be the truth, you shouldn’t joke like that.”
They all turn to face him when he speaks up, tempting him to shrink back into himself, but he stands his ground as Stumble waddles up beside him. The older man rubs at the back of his head with a sheepish, but absolutely not apologetic look to his face, chuckling “ya got me” while Ryuki seems to stare off into space and process the implications of the statement. An affronted squawk comes from the redhead mere seconds later, but he ignores it to look down as a high-pitched voice calls out “Toren!” and runs towards him, kneeling down to meet her as the other men start squabbling in the background. “Uncle let me on his shoulders, so I saw the whole thing! I don’t know what it was about, but it looked really cool! You looked dashing!”

“Oh, really? Thank you!” His lips part on an uncharacteristically wide smile at the compliment, tilting his head in an exaggerated display of curiosity at Kellie’s vocabulary. “Where’d you learn that word?”

“Oh! Uncle Callahan uses it all the time when he talks about himself!”

Awkwardly laughing, Toren only mumbles, “I see,” while looking past her at the man in question.

“Do you wanna hear something I did?”

“Of course I do!”

“Yay!” Kellie throws up her arms in an expression of wholesome glee, before putting one finger to her lips and the other to her hip, tapping her foot like she’s contemplating. “Well, we-we had a...science thingy at my preschool! I made a tower with soda and stuff that made lava, and dust, but it’s okay because it wasn’t real dust, so it didn’t hurt! And when the teachers asked me what it was, I made it go KABOOM!” Her hands flex out to represent the sound effect, taking a wide stance as she shouts—he opens his mouth wide on a gasp, pretending to be surprised. “And everybody thought it was the best! Now I can be a scientist, just like you!”

“Amazing! That’s incredible, Kellie. I’m very proud of you! You’re a genius! I could use you as an assistant researcher. Or you might be teaching me one day!”

She suddenly gets a mischievous look to her face as she rocks on her heels with her hands behind her back, saying “it was a lie” before erupting into giggles and twirling. “I saw that in a movie I watched with Mommy! I gooooot you!”

When he looks up with a mildly miffed expression and catches dark blue eyes, Callahan at least has the decency to look embarrassed at having taught his niece one of his bad habits, avoiding returning Toren’s gaze with a whistle as Ryuki continues his one-sided tirade at being duped—while the sudowoodo hops up between them to try and join the conversation. He returns his attention to Kellie before she thinks she made him mad, grinning at her following a short forced-giggle. “You got me! I’m going to go talk to your uncle now, okay?” The lavender-haired little girl chirps “okay!” back, laughing joyously at the gentle head pat he gives her on his way to standing up fully.
As he does, a delicate touch on his shoulder startles him, long fingers that lightly squeeze before pulling away. “I’m so sorry if I startled you,” Mia’s hands retract and linger close to her chest as if afraid to reach out, looking somewhere between troubled and concerned at his reaction, while he frantically shakes his head and flails his arms in an attempt to assuage her worries. “N-No, I’m sorry! I’m j-just easily startled.” Her head tilts in consideration, humming “is that so” before dropping her hands to interlace in front of her stomach, smiling warmly at him with a twinkle in her eyes. “I only wanted to say your presentation was very good. It was very engaging! You did well.” Toren bows politely in response to the compliment before he shuffles to the other men, embarrassed; her praise feels like that of a proud mother, even with only a few years difference between them, he feels significantly younger. He wonders if Callahan often feels like that, too.

When he waltzes up to them, Callahan is the only one speaking, the argument seemingly having petered out into civil conversation again. But as he sees the (ironically) starstruck expression on Ryuki’s open-mouthed face, and actually hears what the eldest of the three is saying—“Back in the day, I used to be an undefeated tower tycoon in Johto, you know. Good ol’ Palmer actually learned from me as my pupil! ‘Course, after they moved locations to Sinnoh, I retired and he took my place. Had to stay where my family was, see!”—and he registers what’s happened, he thinks—Really? Again?
He would reprimand Callahan for lying again, if not for the fact it astounds him more that Ryuki fell for it twice, and with hardly any refractory period. “Hey, doc!” The stouter of the two greets him as he’s approaching with a casual wave and grin, while the other suddenly looks utterly confounded, oddly silent as he blankly stares off into space again. “Good job out there!” A large and firm hand claps against his back once he’s in range, startling him into nearly tripping into Ryuki for the third time, who appears to be so taken out of the present currently that the capability of catching him this time seems rather slim. “Doc...like doctor?” He speaks up just as Toren is regaining his footing, frowning with his face scrunched in bewilderment.

“Y-Yes? I’m a doctor.”

“I thought you were a scientist.”

“Well...yes?”

“Wait, you two know each other?” Callahan pipes up and breaks the spell between them; Ryuki staring at him with utter befuddlement, and Toren gazing back with similar confusion.

“Oh, yeah!” The interruption seems to snap the redhead out of his self-induced brain fog, presenting a worn leather wallet clutched in one of his hands, opening it and idly flipping through the cards and other miscellaneous knick-knacks within. “Guess who had it?”

Toren watches the idle motion to see the contents within: crumpled up receipts, more of his face badges, money, discount coupons, cards, his license and ID, condoms—OH GOD, Toren thinks in utter red-faced mortification, right as Ryuki slaps his wallet shut suddenly with a faux-innocent smile, evidently hoping nobody saw. Without comment, he finds himself looking at Callahan, both desperate to take his mind off of what he just witnessed and seeking answers. Shrugging at Toren’s show of mild surprise (and looking mildly amused, if not confused, at his clearly distressed expression), the man stuffs his hands in his pockets as he explains the gist of the situation. “I found it about a week and a half ago, just lying there in the middle of the street,” his sudowoodo interrupts the explanation with what sounds like an indignant protest, hopping side-to-side in a huff behind him, and Callahan rubs at the back of his head with a resigned sigh while shaking his head with a fond smile. “We found it, or more like Rocky here did. Kept it instead of turning it in on a whim, but I guess it all worked out, eh? Rocky saw him in the crowd earlier and pointed him out, so I handed it over. Hard to forget a face like that. Happy?” He looks at Rocky when he finishes, who beams with pride while resting his twigs (branches? arms?) on his torso in a power stance, while Ryuki seems to be internally deciding whether Callahan’s comment was a compliment or an insult. “Anyhow, how do the two of you know each other? Also, doctor, what happened to your...uh, monocle?”
He opens his mouth to exclaim something along the lines of ‘oh no, that’s why my co-workers were all looking at me weird’ and clarify but the louder of the two suddenly surges forward and interrupts (which he doesn’t really mind) to do it instead, throwing an arm around Toren's shoulders without warning as he does, nearly startling him out of his skin. “I only lost it in the first place ‘cause we ran into each other in the dark and it fell outta my pocket. Couldn’t see a thing so I didn’t know ‘till the next day.” Facing Callahan, he follows his line of sight drifting towards Ryuki’s heavily obscuring bangs, without a doubt wordlessly drawing his own conclusions as to why he ‘couldn’t see’. “And then he ran into me again the day after, and offered to let me crash at his place ‘cause all my cash was gone. And when he fell before, his little...monocle or whatever, came off and cracked when it hit the ground,” Ryuki barks a laugh as he wraps up the summary of events, hanging and swaying off the taller man’s shoulders as he points at Callahan, grinning smugly ear-to-ear as he wiggles his extended finger. “Little did I know, a former tower tycoon had it the whooole time! Y’know, there’s a good‒nah, great‒reason the saying goes ‘count your lucky stars’, don’tcha think?”

Toren watches as Callahan’s lips twitch against the urge to crack up.

He sighs. “T-That wasn't true, Ryuki.”

“WHAT?!”

Another offended outburst follows the (what should not be surprising) revelation, lending the cycle to repeat itself again until Mia can’t stand to watch anymore and they all go their separate ways, with waves and promises to talk again soon. For the next two days of the festival, Ryuki accompanies him with volunteering, setting up short and spicy (he isn’t sure what to refer to it as, because sweet doesn’t really fit) makeshift mini-concerts in between tasks that don’t seem to garner much attention. In spite of this, it doesn’t seem to bother him. Much to Toren’s surprise, his own pokémon seem rather into the rockstar’s music in spite of their more gentle dispositions, seemingly proving his earlier claims about the effect of his sound on pokémon. He still can’t attend them for very long without getting overwhelmed, but finds himself distracted by the other’s silhouette whenever he does watch—for some reason his hair always looks like it’s billowing in the wind when he’s outside, even with no breeze blowing. His credit card is predicted to arrive on Tuesday afternoon when Toren’s already at work, the day after the festival ends, because all the nearby delivery services are closed down for the extended holiday. Toren gives his sympathies (“y-you must be disappointed being stuck here with me”), but Ryuki shrugs off his self-deprecating by saying he wanted to stick around through the end of the Wind Festival anyway, hoping to catch a glimpse of Lugia this year. “It's no dragon, but y'know, it looks like one and it's still pretty cool! I was so bummed I missed it before, man. But you’re a pretty cool consolation prize!”
It’s true that Lugia doesn’t come every year for the final day, or at least it doesn’t physically show itself for long enough to get a glimpse, during that incident was the first time he’d ever personally witnessed it after living here all this time. He hopes Ryuki gets to see it too. They release lanterns together on the last night (the light illuminates the bottom half of Ryuki’s face more so than he’s ever seen in clear detail, and for some reason he can’t look at him straight-on when it reflects on his eyes), and with the excess space outside he at last gets the opportunity to meet one of Ryuki’s self-described babies. Following a long deliberation, he releases his turtonator Bakubaku, saying “out of my more chilled out babies, he’s the smallest.” As it turns out, for a pokémon on his team that runs on the smaller side, he’s still huge. He easily overshadows the both of them, Stumble, and everyone else standing in their immediate vicinity at the plaza square. Size aside, though, he is just as well-behaved and laid-back as Ryuki assured. Until Mayor Oliver announces the official end to the Wind Festival, and the cheering that erupts after everyone releases their lanterns gets him excited. Bakubaku gets on all fours to the sound of celebration, and all he hears is an oddly non-theatrical “wait, no” from Ryuki, before the rocks on Bakubaku’s shell start exploding and flying—and the cheering rather quickly turns into screaming.

After some profuse apologizing and making sure nobody got hurt, Ryuki explains that his on-stage cue to set off explosion effects is rallying cries from the audience, and he mistook the celebration as a signal to let loose. “Like I said, Bacchan’s not very bright,” he concludes. Lugia didn’t end up appearing like he’d hoped it would’ve, but Ryuki shakes off the apology as they’re entering the apartment, insisting he isn’t disappointed. “It’s no biggie, really. I’m sure a pokémon like that’s gotta have a lot going on, yeah? I guess it’d only for sure show up for a real problem. That’s what happened before, right?” Unwilling to elaborate any further on the incident in question, Toren only nods.
With an exhausted groan, his soon-to-be-former guest collapses on top of the couch, bouncing lightly with a creak of the springs as he flips over. “Man...I’m gonna miss this place. I’ve never stuck around here this long before. It’s got a lotta spirit to it, real lively, y’dig?” In the wake of a whimsical sigh, Ryuki abruptly shouts “OH YEAH!” and darts upwards to grab hold of Toren’s wrist as he’s walking by, spooking him so badly he nearly knocks the lamp over. “D’you have a phone?! What’s your number?” His company remains utterly undeterred by his flailing (if he even noticed), maintaining a vice grip on his arm while looking up at him with such genuine, child-like enthusiasm Toren finds himself unable to deny the request.

“Um...y-yes, but it’s a work phone so promise me you won’t message or call me during work hours.”

Ryuki holds out his pinky finger.

Toren sighs, extends his own, and shakes on it.

“All right! Now, gimme!”

He unlocks the cell and simply hands it to Ryuki rather than inputting anything himself, taking it back to see he entered himself in the contacts as ‘THE GREAT RYUKI’ surrounded by star emojis in some font he didn’t know he had in his phone. “There! Now a star will be immediately at your fingertips, even if I’m far away, yeah? Hit me up whenever, for whatever. Especially if you hear about a good gig, I’m always down to come around for a killer show.” His teeth gleam on an earnest grin, hand still resting over Toren’s where he pressed the object in his hand. With a sharp inhale, he manages to squeak out “o-okay,” before fleeing from the other man’s overwhelming friendliness.
For some reason, he finds it harder to sleep this night, unidentifiable nerves twisting and winding across his heart and up his throat like ivy. No matter what he thinks to try and quell it, the seemingly origin-less anxiety persists until he succumbs to restless tossing and turning all through the night. By the time his alarm goes off, Ryuki is already awake and sorting through his belongings, up and about atypically early for him. This strikes Toren as unusual, and in his sleep-addled brain he thinks why?—but then he remembers, and his chest constricts on prickly pain. Oh, he realizes, I’m going to miss him. He goes about his daily morning routine like he always does, so lost in the motions of it that he nearly leaves automatically, but he catches just a glimpse of Ryuki’s eyes on his way towards the door and stops in his tracks.

They stand motionless and stare at one another in a stand-still; Toren, who doesn’t know what constitutes a proper farewell for this strange and abnormal scenario, and Ryuki, who gazes at him with an unreadable expression. That is, until his mouth goes wide on a sunny smile, and he begins approaching faster than Toren can involuntarily retreat. Expecting another fist bump as the other gets close, all the air in his lungs escapes through a startled wheeze when Ryuki doesn’t stop in front of him, wrapping two arms around his back and pulling him into a friendly hug.
It hardly lasts more than three seconds when he pulls away after giving Toren a soft pat on the back in parting, but it feels like the longest three seconds of his entire life. “I’ll be sure to lock up when I leave town, yeah? See ya around!” He says, in the most cheerful, casual tone—when the older of the two feels like he’s drowning, and suddenly so much younger and inexperienced than the performer standing in front of him. “B-Bye,” he manages to choke out, for once unable to look away from Ryuki’s face, stumbling backwards and fumbling with the doorknob without turning around. Unlocking the latch without facing it soon proves to be impossible, and once he finally manages to wrench his gaze away it’s like he can’t turn around fast enough, bumbling with the lock so badly that Stumble has to steady his hand and practically do it herself. Ryuki waving at him is the last thing he sees before the door shuts. Once he gets to work, the incident is all but forgotten to him as the monotony of his day-to-day regimen takes over, all the way until the day is over and he’s unlocking the door to his apartment.

A small burst of shock hits him when he expects somebody on the other side—and there’s nobody there.

Even though he’s always thought his apartment was fairly cramped with just him and Stumble, he finds it oddly empty without the extra clutter, now.

Oh, well, he thinks. Back to the usual schedule.

And he sits at his desk—just like always.

Chapter Text

It doesn’t matter how many times he’s been to Alola, or how many times he’s been on this exact same ferry—he still gets curious whispers and stares. Every. Single. Time.

The attention isn’t what bothers him, far from it, all too eager to ham it up with winks and waves to any eyes that land on him. Rather, he had hoped that by now the local people would recognize him more readily, that his reputation would precede him. That the whispers and stares he gets would come with his name on their lips, a certain prestige and awe, and not obvious unfamiliarity each time. He’s never been the type to stay in one place for long (you can’t ‘spread your fame’ without taking chances in other locations), but he’s found himself in Alola more often than not, taking up more prominent gigs every now and again. If anywhere in the world was going to know his face, it would be here. Yet he continues to find himself as disappointingly unknown as any other tourist. A frustrating conundrum, but one he tries not to dwell on for long, as he steps off the ship with a breezy salute to the attendants and the rest of the passengers, and takes out his phone to text his waiting company  [OMW ☆⌒(ゝ。∂)].
Despite never having stayed in Malie City with all the times he’s visited (he would if there was a cheap enough place to stay, but unfortunately the only available motel on Ula’ula is on Route 13), it remains the most familiar location to him, having spent a majority of his time each trip at the Kantonian Gym or downing drinks at Sushi High Roller; it reminds him of home distantly, too, though the places he grew up in never looked quite as traditional and archaic. The biggest downside he’s discovered after having given up his Gym Leader position is having to pay the full 5,000 fee to enter now—he’s desperately begged them to give him a discount, “c’mon, your boy was great, wasn’t he? please please please charge me less, man, c’moooon,” but they refuse to budge—he swears they don’t lower the price purely to spite him. He can’t have been that bad, he didn’t even cause any property damage.

Clearly, at least some people appreciated him there, given he’s on his way to meet his former underlings for lunch.

The worker at the till recognizes him when he walks in (it’s hard to forget a silhouette like his), hardly even looking up from the register to point towards a mostly occupied table at the back, where he approaches with his arms spread wide like a celebrity to his adoring fans. “Hey, hey superstars! Miss me?” The four of them whip around to face him as his voice carries towards the back of the restaurant, immediately erupting in a cacophony of greetings and calls of his name. He carelessly pulls out the only unoccupied chair next to Charlie, throwing himself down onto the seat while it’s still teetering dangerously on two legs, crossing his shin over the opposite knee and tilting the chair back recklessly as he leers at the food already on the table. “Didya get my favourite?” He inquires to none of them in particular, unsure which of his current company ordered his own meal, but Shirataki is the one who answers with a curious finger tapping against her lips. “Hm, hm? Your usual...?” she hums in thought, before opening her mouth in an o-shape and exclaiming, “oh! I remember now!” Pouting as she presses the same finger against her cheek instead, eyebrows pressing together in some show of concern, she clarifies. “Well, it’s been quite awhile since we last saw you, so I’m afraid we quite forgot and ordered you the ninja set, too. Whoopsie!” Shirataki sticks her tongue out of the side of her mouth in a playful non-apology, rubbing the back of her head sheepishly while the other three mimic the action.
“For real!?” tipping backwards with his foot hooked onto a bar underneath the table, Ryuki’s shout and subsequent lurch forwards sends him so off-balance he nearly topples to the floor, quickly grabbing hold of the table with both hands to avoid falling as the others break out into hysterics. “Juuu~ust kidding! We got you the geisha set, not to worry!” She only giggles harder at his obviously ruffled expression, while Charlie sighs in fond exasperation beside him, and Farley pipes up with his mouth full mid-chew. “But...it has indeed been a long time since we last saw you.” To Ryuki his words sound nearly unintelligible through his eating, but Darley and Shirataki nod sagely from across the table in complete understanding, all murmuring their assent of the observation. After swallowing, he follows up with “what have you been doing since?” while directing his gaze towards his former boss, though it’s not like Ryuki can really tell through the pair of opaque sunglasses (that he deigned to wear inside, no less, although he can’t deny it does make him look cool). Clearing his throat with a faux-magnanimous smile, he places a spread-fingered palm emphatically against his chest, asserting “only the greatest things, of course, y’see‒” before recounting the events of the past month or so in a significantly abridged (if dramatized) summarization.

“Very noble of you to offer to coach him, that it is! This...um, wh...what was his name again?” Darley’s eyebrows furrow together in thought as the gears in his head seem to be working overtime to recall the details of Ryuki’s story, humming low under his breath like a combee buzzing as his face continues scrunching tighter in concentration. “Sir...To...T-Toby?”

“Toird-heal-b-hach!” Shirataki interjects.

“Toren,” Ryuki immediately corrects, before what she suggested sinks in, and he stares at her in blatant disbelief as to how she got so incredibly far off the mark and where she even heard a name like that.

“Right, right, that he is!” Darley continues on oblivious to the ongoing staring match, broken as Shirataki giggles and shrugs off his incredulous look, like she didn’t just spew the most strange combination of letters Ryuki’s heard in his entire life (and most likely with a horribly butchered pronunciation, given he'd only seen names that appear like that one sounded during his time in Galar) without so much as batting an eye. “Sir Dr. Toren! Are you going to continue instructing him into stardom?”

Puffing up his chest proudly, he proclaims “you got it!” with a stiff lip, snorting in mild derision while flipping his hair behind him. “For letting me stay that long when I was down on my luck, offering some of my time is the least a star like me can do!” He rolls his shoulders in a casually confident shrug as the waiter swings by their table with his food and a casual “enjoy your meal,” before turning heel back towards the bar area. “What about while you’re here, chi–I mean, Leader?” Charlie speaks up for the first time since he’s arrived while Ryuki’s balancing a strip of meat between his chopsticks, dangling it over his mouth like a person being hoisted over a sharpedo tank before releasing the hold and catching the slice between his clenched teeth, chewing while Charlie elaborates further on his question. “That is, that’s what you were doing, but what will you be doing while you’re in Alola?”
Ryuki chuckles like he’s letting them in on some secret, saying “heh, well...” before taking a swig of his water following a too-large swallow, gasping a sigh as he places the cup back down a bit too hard. “Promoter Faba might have somethin’ for me...gonna challenge the champ for her spot again, search for gigs, perform some open concerts...y’know,” the other makes a low hum in response, and Ryuki suddenly slams the table (nearly splashing his soup out of the bowl and startling Darley into choking on his pickled turnip) as he remembers an additional aim. “OH YEAH! And I thought some of those ‘Ultra Beasts’–or whatever Promoter Faba called ‘em–could still be roamin’ free, and since I didn’t find any the last time he gave me that gig, I’m hoping to get the chance to battle one this time!” He punctuates his last goal by jabbing his chopsticks in the direction of the three across from him, grinning at their open-mouthed astonishment from his mysteriously dangerous-sounding ambitious aspiration.

“I don’t think I’ve ever quite heard about such ‘Ultra Beasts’. Are they pokémon?”

Looking surprised for a moment, Ryuki furrows his eyebrows and then makes a dismissive sound with his mouth, confidently replying “of course!” He pauses for a second afterward, his face falling flat as the gears turn in his head. Pressing his thumb and finger against his chin in an expression of contemplation, he seems to think on it for only a moment longer, before smiling nonchalantly and waving his hand dismissively. “Yeah, gotta be! I mean, what else could they be?”

“Last time? You sought them once before, that you did?”

“That’s right!” He nods firmly, waving a solitary finger around in the air. “Do you guys remember that whole big deal when the sun went out in the middle of the day? I had to stop my show!” 

Charlie’s eyes widen a bit as he turns to face him. “I do! There were things coming out of the sky, believe it!”

“Huh? Dunno what you’re talkin’ about.” The other’s face falls with a resigned exasperation, deflating in his seat. “Anyway, I went beddy-bye ‘cause there wasn’t anything else to do, and when I woke up the sun was out peeking through the clouds and everythin’ was fine. But I was going around looking for somewhere to play a set and heard about this gig–this man at the Aether Foundation, Promoter Faba–needed a battle superstar to fight and catch these reaaaaal powerful pokémon. Sounded like my kind of gig! A guy like me has to have the coolest, hottest, and best stage available! And what better way to get that than with a blazing, rocking battle against the strongest opponents around?! He had me sign some stuff before I could go beat ‘em–guess he wanted my autograph, and who could blame him, hahahaha –and then the great Ryuki was off to steal the spotlight!”
Finishing with a wide grin on his face, he then sticks his lips out in a pout, scuffing his boot against the floor as he twirls the straw in his drink. “Never found one, though. Called them ‘Ultra Beasts’ under his breath when I was rolling out, but you know your boy’s got great hearing! Of course I heard him. Sounds pretty metal, don’t ya think?”

“Sounds like it could be quuu~uite the feat, if you can beat one!”

Farley nods in agreement with Shirataki, crossing his arms in front of his chest (paired with his sunglasses, Ryuki notes that with this pose he looks uncannily like a bouncer). “Indeed! They sound like they make a rather formidable foe if the ‘ultra’ is any indication!”

“More impressive if he succeeds, then, that it is!”

After Darley chimes in, the three of them explode into animated chattering amongst one another, discussing potential scenarios and battle tactics one could use against such mysterious lifeforms (without any knowledge of what they look like or how they behave, for that matter)—heatedly arguing “no, no, no, that is far too reckless, that it is” and “while that could work, the consequences far outnumber the benefits, indeed” and “boo~ooo! you two are so boring! if the plan worked, it’d be quite the breathtaking sight” and “if  the plan worked, that it did” as they soundboard ideas off of one another, lost in their own shared world. “Believe it or not, we all miss having you around, chief,” Charlie speaks quietly enough that his words only reach the intended recipient, too soft to be heard by anyone else over the racket of interjecting voices across the table. Huffing indignantly as he takes another bite of his food, Ryuki grumbles “don’t call me chief,” even as he feels himself warmed from the sentimentality.
Lightly shaking his head, the younger of the two chuckles, mumbling “because it’s uncool, got it, sorry Leader” under his breath. Ryuki doesn’t point out there’s no reason to address him by that title anymore, either. “I’m glad you’re here. It isn’t the same without you around, if you can believe it.” Slurping loudly at his soup, he sighs happily as the flavourful liquid slides down his throat, before grinning with a guffaw as he throws an arm around Charlie’s shoulder and pulls him in. “Why wouldn’t I?! ‘Course it ain’t the same without a star face like mine brightening up your day!” Jostling the other around some more to some quiet protests, he lets him go to lean back in his chair with his arms crossed, closing his eyes with a serious expression on his face. “But...I told you, man, I gotta go my own way. Y’all got your style, I got mine. And you guys are doing fine, yeah? You can keep shinin’ with or without me. I’m a star of the rock and rolling world, not the rock and rolling Alola, understand? I gave the Champ my word I’d be a Gym Leader once real gyms started showin’ up in Alola, not an unofficial knock-off brand one, and it ain’t lookin’ like that’s gonna happen. I’m a man of my word, so if they do, you can bet I’ll be there! But probably not for long. It’s just not the kinda long-term gig that’d fit a rockstar like me.”

Charlie looks away from him to stare down at the table instead, twirling his thumbs together in his lap with an unreadable expression. “...But can you really keep going like this, chief?”

“Leader,” he loudly corrects him, before addressing the question. “Whaddaya mean?”

“It’s just...you’ve said yourself that nobody’s buying your music, right? Are you okay with just...getting ‘promoted’ for your work, and not paid? Especially when you make all your concerts ‘pay what you want’, so anyone can go for free–which is cool, Leader. But without anyone buying your music, are you okay with just...looking for gigs all the time, ones you might not even get?”

“I mean, the critics–”

“Look,” Charlie interrupts him, still meekly avoiding looking Ryuki in the eyes as he stares at his lap, where his hands have gone to fidgeting idly. “All I’m saying is there’s a stage here for you, with us at the Kantonian Gym, believe it. I support you, Leader, believe me. But I’m worried. I, we, know you’re going through tough times. We already decided to cover the bill without you, especially after you lost your wallet. You get carried away a lot. We all do, believe me! It happens. You’ve done well so far. But what if you run out? I don’t want that to happen to you, Leader. So I’m just trying to help, believe it or not. Maybe it isn’t your dream, but it’s a job, too. And you can still be a star, with the stage there, and when we aren’t there, believe it.”

With a long sigh, he closes his eyes and lets a sideways smile grace his face, resting his arms back on top of the head of the chair and bouncing his wrists to the beat of the ambient music playing in the restaurant. “You really dig Kanto, don’t you? You’re obsessed with it. This whole ninja thing. That gym is like your home, yeah? It ain’t where you’re from, but it’s where you wanna be.”

“Wh–I, yes. It is.” Startled by the abrupt topic change, it takes him a moment to compose an answer.

“You wanna talk about getting carried away? You wanna hear the story of me, who rushes headlong into everything? I’ll tell you.” Without any response, he continues. “I became obsessed with being a musician. And I left my home, where I was from, swearing I’d make my dream come true, that I’d end up where I wanna be. And I’m not there yet.” Opening his eyes, he points at Charlie with one of his fingers, a soft and nostalgic smile on his face. “You are, yeah? And that’s awesome, man! You know who you are, right down to your bones. And I would never tell you to give that dream up. So don’t try and tell me I should give up mine, got it?”

Shriveling a little bit as a reaction to his harsh voice, the other boy plasters a weary smile on his face. “Yes, chief, but–”

“LEAD-ER! Chief is so lame, it’s Leader, OR it’s Ryuki, got it?!”

Grimacing from his voice gone shrill in irritation, Charlie puts his hands up in a gesture of surrender murmuring assurances, obviously accustomed to having to deal with the other’s occasional outbursts. “I got it, Leader, sorry...I didn’t mean that you should give up, Leader, believe me. But what if things go wrong? Who will save you? It’s a ninja’s duty to protect their land! Their chie–” He glares from underneath his bangs. “...Leader. But we can’t help you when you’re somewhere else, believe it. And you’re good at entertaining the guests, too! We’re just guides, believe it or not. We aren’t fit to be a ch–Leader, like you. We have had a different one since you left, but it isn’t the same. Even if you’ll still refuse to go along with our ninja style, believe it.”

“Hahahahaha!” He laughs boisterously from the compliment, a pleased and cheeky grin on his face.

“I mean it, believe me!”

“Yeah, yeah, I got ya! But you ain’t changing my mind.” He hums, crossing one leg over his knee. “Listen–everyone I left at home was cheering me on. They’re still cheering for me, even now. And I ain’t gonna let ‘em down. A star never gives up! Even if you say that ain’t what you’re tellin’ me to do, that’s what it sounds like, man! Stars don’t settle. Not ever! You’re fine. Not everybody can live up to the great Ryuki, I get it, but he’s trying, ain’t he?”
Waving one of his hands about in front of him as he continues to tilt his chair back, he scoffs, clearly not bothered by the other’s concerns. “And anyway, passing through the fire makes me stronger! I don’t need you guys gettin’ me through tough times, that’s what I got my babies with me for. Even if I have to scrape by on whatever money I make with pokémon battles or doing gigs, I’ll keep rocking. Don’t worry about your boy. I got it covered. You’re always going ‘believe it, believe it,’ believe in me, man!”

With a long-suffering sigh, Charlie seems to drop the topic, still with a look of hope as he asks, “do me a favour and at least think about it, Leader?”

“Didn’t I just tell you?! No way! Dahahaha!”

The topic is dropped there, with them swifty rejoining the other three (who were lost in their own, unrelated topic during the duration) in conversation. For the remainder of the meal, the debate of the semantics of different pretend circumstances continues, alongside more catching up with each person at the table. Though he brushed it off well enough, Ryuki does feel a mild sort of betrayal at even being suggested what the other offered, a tad quieter than usual as he ruminates in the spaces between speaking. Charlie doesn’t speak to him again directly for the rest of the meal, only offering a wave when he leaves, a carefree smile on his face—which he returns, giving them all a two-finger salute on his way out.

Though they’ve all been acquainted for quite some time now, there’s a lot about himself Ryuki has never divulged. That he’s from Kanto (and Johto), for one, having purposefully avoided the topic for some time now so he doesn’t inevitably have to disappoint them by revealing how much of their perception of the region is based on false stereotypes. And that the worse case scenario Charlie seems to be afraid of has already happened before. When he first left his hometown nearly a decade ago, he was young. Not quite as young as the Champion of Alola, but still very inexperienced. With only an old acoustic guitar strapped on his back, and not a single dollar to his name. And for a longer time than he’d like to admit, he spent his nights sleeping on benches, and his days performing at risk of total exhaustion or camping out in pokémon centers to avoid the heat. What little money he gained from battles or live shows was usually spent immediately on necessities, leaving little in the way of spending. He truly meant it when he said if not for his pokémon, he might not have made it through. If it weren’t for them, he might have given up before he ever began. Their support is what kept him going, and in turn, his honest dedication is what encouraged them to keep trying with him.
It was an uphill battle, but eventually, he made it to a point where he could afford to be more reckless with his finances. Invest in his appearance, in merchandise, in his music—a bit too careless, too fast, going almost flat broke again. He’s never been the type to think things through. But it was worth it, standing out from the crowd got him more attention, more money. More recognition. Critical acclaim. But not enough. Never enough to keep him above the water, barely managing to stay afloat all this time. And he never did learn how to swim. He’d be lying to himself if he didn’t acknowledge that there was some validity to what Charlie said. He’s not the same bumbling teenager as he was before; he knows what he’s gotten himself into, he understands the risks. But if there was an emergency, if something called for him to spend all his savings, if there was really no other option, he wouldn’t have much of a choice. There is nothing to lean back on. Ryuki meant every word he said—he’ll never give up and he won’t let down the people believing in him, no matter how hard it gets, because he already knows exactly how hard it can get—but that doesn’t mean he’s keen on going through it all over again. Not if he can help it.

The day is still young when they all part ways, young enough that he feels it would truly be a shame not to take advantage of the sublime weather and the bustling atmosphere of the afternoon, while people from all walks of life are still out and about through the streets. Most of the time he’ll perform wherever the urge strikes him, pull out his guitar without thinking about it and start to play (which sometimes harms him more than anything else, if he failed to look into whether or not he needed a permit for the area, and ends up receiving a fine)—but he isn’t feeling it right now, so he decides to relocate for today. A couple of the locations in Alola are densely populated enough that his music will reach the ears of plenty passerby, but in all his previous trips, he’s found Royal Avenue to be the most receptive to his particular brand of pandemonium; it must have something to do with the people being used to the constant commotion from the battle royal dome, he thinks.
He starts setting up in front of the circular garden, arranging the amp and microphone stand as people shuffle to and fro, unexpectedly seized by an urge to be more meticulous than he usually is. Contrary to his current demeanor, when he was younger he had quite a case of stage fright. He was a bit more reserved and insecure back then, not as self-assured without the carefully-built image he relies a great deal on to help guide him, using his pokémon more heavily as crutches for his confidence. He didn’t know how to handle switching on and off, or how to switch on at all, unsure what being a star meant to him at first. It was something he moved past eventually, for the most part, far more courageous ever since he started to look the part of a real rockstar and learned how to channel his energy into his routines. But there’s a reason he’s always talking and thinking about the future (about his ideal future, no what-if scenarios, no distractions), because thinking about the past gives him those same old nervous jitters he used to get before every performance, an uncertainty of what’s to come that gives him pause. On either side of him, his pokémon roar a rallying cry meant to jostle him out of his thoughts, and he grins and pushes those doubts to the back of his mind. He won’t let any brief misgivings make him go back on his word and change his resolve. Not now. Not ever. The worst has already happened once before, and even if it was rough, he managed to bounce back somehow. He can do it again. The future is never guaranteed. Stars never give up, you just have to believe in yourself. So he grabs a firm hold of mic, squares out his stance, and lets the hesitation roll right off of him.

Opening his mouth, he takes a deep breath in, and he begins to sing.

Closing his eyes, he screams out every inkling of doubt, dispels any lack of faith from shaking his resolve. He’s taught himself over the years to become oblivious to the world around him when he performs, to just lose himself in the feeling of music, but he wasn’t always. When he first started out, every small reaction from the people around him would make him wince—the startled recoils people would make when he raised his volume, the uncomfortable cringe passerby would make in response to his music or gestures, the pity-money spectators would offer him after looking at him with sympathy. It’s difficult when you’re an apprehensive and unsteady adolescent, trying to get your footing and figure out your place in life, not to let every setback get under your skin. Trying to make it on your own is nerve-wracking. Especially when life had been so simple before. But you can’t become a star by doing nothing. The harder you work, the brighter you become, the more you shine. Running into that fire head-first and not allowing yourself to burn, letting the flames lift you to higher heights, that’s how you reach the sky.
When he opens his eyes, it doesn’t matter what he sees, because he’s seen it all before. He’s had insults hurled his way, he’s had hecklers, he’s had sheer indifference—none of it matters, in the end. Even the best and greatest didn’t have their talent recognized at the start. It takes time. And he may be impatient in almost every other facet of this life, but he isn’t when it comes to this. However long it takes for the world to catch up with him. Whenever they’re ready. He’ll be here. The pokémon that pass by, trotting behind their trainers, all dance and sway to his music, and that’s enough to put a smile on his face. Throwing his head back, he screams, uncaring who hears, because he’s a star for as long as he believes—and nothing will ever change that. In the end he only makes a couple dollars before he heads back to his motel room in Melemele, disappointingly low but not the worst he’s ever had, so he doesn’t let it get him down. It’s nothing he hasn’t faced before. His dreams get closer every day.

Today was an average day, he decides, but tomorrow will be better.

That’s what he decides, so Ryuki unlocks the door to his motel room, dumps all of his baggage at the door, and takes a deep breath in. And begins his preparations for tomorrow. He releases his druddigon to settle in for the night (each one of his pokémon are scheduled to sleep beside him on a weekly rotation if they’re well-behaved, given all of them at once would never fit inside), and heads into the bathroom for a much-needed hot shower, basking in the heat doubled by the arid desert air outside. He calls up his trainee-in-stardom after he’s wrapped up in two towels, one around his body and the other delicately swaddling his excess amount of hair, waiting for the mirror to defog while the fan works overtime in a deep buzz above him. Toren picks up before it even rings twice, answering with a timid and slightly squeaky “R-Ryuki?” as if he didn’t already see the caller ID. Putting the receiver on speaker, he starts delicately applying a face mask as the steam begins to clear, smearing a dollop of cream across his cheek. “That’s the name, don’t wear it out!” Stress wrinkles and pimples are to be avoided at any costs, and he couldn’t bring himself to look ridiculous enough to wear them while he was living with the scientist, so he’s long overdue on some skin self-care by now. It’s not very punk rock or metal, in his opinion, to obsess about your personal hygiene and appearance nearly as much as he does.

“W-Why did you call–did something h–what is it?” He goes through three trial-run questions before settling on the final one with an obvious note of confusion that Ryuki raises an eyebrow to, even with nobody around to see the gesture except for him.

“Whaddaya mean? I’m your coach, weren’t you listening? I can’t coach you without hearing your voice, man!”

Toren seems to fumble on the other line, softly stammering out “c-couldn’t it...I mean you said that not every star sings, so–” but Ryuki cuts him off with “I told you I’m interested” and his protests die with a resigned sigh. “I can’t...just s-sing without music, it’s um, it’s embarrassing. I c-can’t do it over the phone, like this.”

Barking an abrupt belly laugh, he nearly slips on the condensation-wet ceramic from the light jostle his body makes, letting out a startled high-pitched shrief as he steadies his footing—a noise that Toren thankfully doesn’t comment on. “I-I wasn’t asking you to right now,” he clarifies in a sort of disgruntled, breathless tone as he very cautiously releases his death grip on the sink basin.

“...Oh,” comes the reply, a brief pause before there’s an intake of air, and a crackle from the receiver. “Wait...huh?”

“How do you think untrained singers practice? You can’t just go right into singing songs, and skip straight to stardom expecting to rock people’s worlds. Our voices are just like any other muscle. They need a good warm-up! Exercise and training! Your boy might be great now, but I didn’t come into the world screaming my soul out like I can now! Everybody’s got to start somewhere, you know?”

There’s a long stretch of silence on the other end as his words sink in, occupied only by the droning of the motor above him, before another audible breath into the other man’s microphone gives away his intent to speak. “Then...how do I practice?”

Ignoring the fact he set him up to ask that exact question, Ryuki replies “glad you asked” cheerfully as he throws the bathroom door open to sit on the bed while his face mask sets. “Always start with warming up your voice. Y’know do re mi la fa so? That’s the one everybody knows ‘cause it’s the easiest warm-up for beginners. Y’gotta start out quiet and get louder as you go. Try humming to it, yeah? No worries, just do your best. All right, repeat after me...”

They continue the drill for approximately ten minutes, at the end of which Toren sounds remarkably winded for simply humming—he’s got his work cut out for him, Ryuki thinks. “Nice, nice, I can hear the spirit you’re pouring in,” he says and means it literally. “But that was just build-up! We gotta work on your breath control, man! You all right? Need a break?”

His reply comes just as strained as previously described, excruciatingly painful in how long it takes for him to articulate back. “I’m...not used t...t-to talking much. Out...out loud. A lot,” he seems to let that statement hang in the air for a bit before attempting to elaborate. “I mean...w-without br‒” Ryuki cuts him off with the instruction to “breathe,” preferring to switch topics than listen to his laboured breathing any longer. "Let's start simple, yeah? What kinda music d'you like?"

Toren responds after another stretch of time gathering his breath, saying "um...I...I d-don't really...listen to any," once he manages to come across passably coherent.

"For real? Do you do anything but work, man?"

"W-Well, I...I garden?"

"Garden? What are you, an old granny?!"

For the first time since they've met, he actually sounds defensive, refuting "wh‒no, I‒Harriet doesn't even garden‒” before Ryuki cuts him off again.

“Y’know what, are you at your computer? Look up Koffing and the Toxics, and give ‘em a listen. And turn it up so I can hear, too.”

“Um...okay,” the next few seconds are quiet with only the sound of a mouse clicking and the clacking of fingers against a keyboard, when suddenly the lights in his motel room flicker precariously in threat of giving out, and the only reaction he can muster is an exasperated and mumbled, “seriously?”

“W-What?”

“Nothing. You found ‘em yet?”

“Yes, let me just...turn up the sound...”

He barely needs to wait even a brief moment before the familiar discordant uproar carries through, accompanied by Toren’s surprised squeak at the suddenness of it. Humming along to the familiar tune, he leaves the phone on the surface of the bed to dig through his bag for his pajamas (a dragonite onesie he’s too embarrassed to ever put on in front of company, let alone a complete stranger), pulling up the zipper as the lights blink again. He sighs at the prospect of the power going out—most importantly the air conditioning—while uncoiling his hair from the wrap, snapping a headband on to keep his bangs from ruining his face mask as the song comes to an end and he flops back on the bed, leaving the towels in a disorganized heap on the floor. “Well? What do you think? Did ya get all fired up?” There’s a delay of an answer where he can tell Toren’s holding back to try not to offend him, sighing in relief when he follows up with “let’s try somethin’ else.”
The quickly recognizable sound of the Go-Rock Quads reverberates through the room after suggesting them and Ryuki sighs dreamily at the intimate cadence of Billy’s voice, so lost in his imagination of a collab ending in his being wooed by the eldest quadruplet (thinking back to the poster of them still hanging on the wall of his childhood bedroom), that he fails to notice when the song ends until the man on the other line calls his name. “Huh!?” His own surprised yelp at being thrust back into reality pulls a similar reply out of Toren in the form of an “EEP!” before he collects himself. “Y-You...was that all?” Still drunk on a fanboy-fueled daydream, he falters out “huh...n-nah,” before clearing his throat and composing himself. “Nah, I mean, those bands are my favourites, but...anyway! That more your dig?” Another delay follows, but not as prolonged as the last one when Toren speaks up, instead. “Um...I...I don’t know.” Huffing dramatically as he rolls onto his back, Ryuki complains “there must be someone you know...like, hmmmmh...that idol I talked to you about before!”

“Nancy?”

Snapping his fingers as he turns upright again, Ryuki exclaims “so you do know‒”

until he’s the one who gets interrupted, this time.

A loud boom rattles the entire building, followed shortly thereafter by similar, smaller explosions behind the motel and in a short distance away—what sounds like electric circuits sparking, leading up to the power going out altogether. “THE HELL!?!? ” His druddigon immediately shoots up trembling and shaking, alerted and prepared to duck and hide, placated only by Ryuki's free hand instructing it to stay. On the other end of the line he can hear panicked inquiries as the noises undoubtedly could be heard even through the receiver, questions which Ryuki ignores as he marches over to the door in a huff to a different commotion happening outside (what sounds like someone yelling “come at me” and running in circles), throwing it open ready to give the manager a tongue-lashing for doing who-knows-what to the generator—but all his gripes are wiped clean out of his mind by what’s developing outside. In the edge of his vision someone is running towards Route 12, yelling all manners of taunts, but that isn’t what makes him lose his train of thought—it’s the twisted cable wires and plugs forming legs to some gigantic creature, illuminating the night sky with some mace-like structure for a head that is the thing being taunted—giving pursuit way faster than it seems like it has any right to be capable of moving.

He closes the door.

“R-Ryuki? Are you okay...?”

With the door shut and the rumbling movement of that monumental life form passing by, he registers Toren’s voice again, separated from the unreality of what he just witnessed by the now closed entrance. He takes a deep breath in, letting it out in a surprised puff of air. “Man, that was a crazy big pokémon.”

“W-What?”

“Ren?”

“Wh‒I-Is that? Who, R‒”

“I’m gonna have to call you back.”

“Who’s Re‒oh, um...okay‒”

He hangs up.

It still hasn’t precisely sunken in exactly what he saw when he gets up that morning to head for Aether Paradise, getting ready to style his hair and finding dark circles under his eyes when he sees his reflection, from a night spent restlessly tossing and turning without any power to cool him through the night. Effectively making his best skincare efforts useless, much to his chagrin. When he leaves his room and locks up he notices something square-shaped and black lying in the middle of the makeshift dirt road, close to where that thing was standing, honestly miraculous it wasn’t crushed. Especially when he gets closer and realizes it’s a phone, already so horrendously scratched and banged up he has to wonder whether a colossal plug-foot stepping on it would actually make any difference. Turning it on doesn’t give him any indications as to who it belongs to—the screensaver is a really blurry photo of some sort of golisopod (he thinks, it’s really blurry), and the phone itself is password protected. Ultimately, he decides it’s better to pocket it himself than risk letting it get stolen or trampled on by anything else, dropping the clunky electronic inside his backpack. The cool wind feels bracing when he opts to fly overhead to his destination, bringing not unwelcome goosebumps to the surface of his skin and cooling his skin. Charlie’s words echo in his skull again, especially regarding the topic of promotion—he couldn’t claim to know very much about Faba, or even about Aether as a whole. But he does know one thing. Faba isn’t very well-liked. It isn’t something anyone told him directly, but he has rather exceptional hearing, having heard the grumblings of disgruntled employees whenever he was being led around before. The man’s never been anything but distantly polite towards him personally, calling him “Mr. Ryuki” in such a sophisticated way that it causes him to puff his chest up, pleased at receiving a modicum of the respect and acknowledgement he deserves.
The last time he visited was for some ‘experimental drug trials’ he was told by the man in question he’d been compensated for. Before that, catching some pokémon for him, and other one-off favours whenever he was in town ever since he first signed up to help catch the Ultra Beasts. All in exchange for some promise of exposure, promotion, or a lucky chance at some rare experience. “It is a golden opportunity, Mr. Ryuki! Once-in-a-lifetime!” Hook, line, and sinker. Though he’s never been paid in the form of money or anything else for any jobs he did for the man, his nice lady assistant would always give him a freshly warm malasada for his hard work (thinking about one makes his stomach growl, realizing he forgot to eat breakfast)—and that was good enough for him. At least it meant he wouldn’t have to waste any money on ordering take-out. A warm meal and free shout-outs to the Branch Chief’s friends and colleagues seemed like a fine payment to him, an investment in having more fans in the future, when word-of-mouth started to spread. At least, it was, but after yesterday’s conversation he’s not sure. Charlie was right about one thing, he really isn’t making any cash, and it’s starting to become a problem. Having this in mind, he prepares to march towards the grandiose mansion Faba is usually lingering near with the intention to get his proper due this time, only to stop dead in his tracks as he sees him and his friendly presumed-assistant conversing with a quartet of blue people.

“Last night there were sightings of a UB-03 Lightning towards the southern end of Ula’ula island,” says the blue one with the fancy mustache.

“We ought to remain vigilant for any future property damage or power outages,” says the blue one with wide hips. “What do you think, Captain Phyco?”

“Hm, hm...” responds Phyco, the captain of the blue people.

“Aww, come onnnn, I’m sure Shock Magnum didn’t mean to do anything bad!” whines the small, spunky blue one with a pout.

“You...what‒what did you just call UB-03?” says the tallest blue one, with a bit of a distracting physique.

“Shock Magnum! Y’know, the tall, noodle-y guy made of wires and stuff‒”

“Yes, Zossie, I know what UB-03 looks like‒”

“HEY!”

They all collectively whip to look at him following the shout he made reflexively, finding himself to have subconsciously moved closer to the group than he was when he arrived, with four pairs of inhumanly un-pigmented eyes staring at him. “That thing was outside my motel room last night, I think. UB...that stands for Ultra Beast, yeah? How much cash will ya give me if I catch that Shock-Lighting-pokémon for you?” The four of them all turn to look at each other (Faba seeming more put out than anything, and his helpful second-in-command smiling at Ryuki warmly); Phyco and the one with the hips exchanging a glance, while Zossie and the tired looking one gaze at one another, as if they’re conveying messages through their eyes alone.

The leader of their group is the one who speaks up after they all break eye contact, leering at Ryuki scrutinizingly while idly twirling his mustache. “How many of your people’s...pokédollars do you require?”

Today is going to be better, after all, he decides.

Chapter Text

After suggesting a jaw-dropping fee of 1,000,000 for his assistance which he eagerly accepts, the blue people group pull him aside from any potentially prying eyes to deliver more detailed instructions, led to the lower levels of Aether with Faba’s reluctant assistance unlocking the ID restrictions. For the various times he’s been here, and with Faba, no less, it’s his first time in memory coming to the basement. The labs smell just as sterile as Aether looks (the upper levels smell like vanilla though, so he surmises they don’t care enough to mask the chemical scent when the area isn’t open to the public), eerily quiet save for the sound of all their individual footsteps on the pristine floors—so pristine, in fact, that it casts back his reflection with more clarity than the mirror he looked into this morning did as he looks down and sees underneath his bangs. The bags under his eyes look even worse, somehow.
Some other noise fills the air as they’re walking in the form of his stomach growling, and under normal circumstances this wouldn’t even be audible, but given the otherwise silence of the laboratories he might as well have outright screamed for how loud it is. Nobody comments aloud, but Faba glances behind him with what he can only assume is a scolding look—so, really, nobody has to. As soon as they turn to enter a room on the left of the hallway, however, he feels a touch on his shoulder and turns to see Faba’s absolute saint of an assistant offering him a malasada with a benevolent smile. He stuffs the whole thing in his mouth without further delay, hiding his hands behind his back and channeling as much innocence as he can when Faba glances back at him, furrowing his brows in vexed bewilderment to see the rockstar’s cheeks puffed up like a patrat’s. Swallowing the second he looks away, Ryuki licks the remnants of jelly off his fingers and wipes the sticky residue off on the nearest stack of papers when none of them are watching—a successful heist. That is, until they stop mumbling amongst one another as Faba turns to grab a heap of documents, and happens to pick up the pile bearing the evidence of his crime in the form of a wet streak with a sparse smattering of smeared gelatin straight down the middle. He very pointedly seems to be completely preoccupied with staring at his claws when the branch chief leers at him with suspicion.

Ryuki fights the urge to do a (subtle) fist pump when Faba drops the scrutiny with a resigned sigh to hand him a paper from the bottom of the bundle.

“What’s this?” he asks, while taking it anyways.

“A consent form. Like the one you signed before. Such as in the event something...misfortunate befalls you, the Aether Foundation cannot be held accountable,” he explains, pointing at the cross and line at the bottom of the sheet indicating where to write. “Sign here.”

He signs there.

The tall-blue-one-with-plum-coloured-hair-who-looks-like-he-hasn’t-gotten-decent-sleep-in-a-few-years approaches him with what appears to be six bizarre looking pokéballs gathered in his arms, pressing one held in his grasp into Ryuki’s hand, their gloved hands brushing together as the tall blue man moves his arm back. He blushes a little‒maybe this is a blue-skinned guy who doesn't get enough sun and could really use a long nap, but he has a handsome face and a practically skin-tight suit on, and Ryuki isn’t blind. “These are beast balls,” nodding inattentively, he adds nice voice, too to his mental checklist. “Standard pokéballs are ineffective at capturing any UB, therefore these were engineered to contain them securely. Functionally, they operate the same. Should you require any additional beast balls during your task, you may collect additional ones from Ms. Wicke.” Piling them in Ryuki’s arms instead, the blue man gestures towards the malasada-gifting angel, who crinkles her eyes kindly behind her spectacles. “Do you have any further inquiries?”

“Yeah, uh, what’s your name?”

The taller of the two (and really of everyone in the room) blinks once slowly in response, clearly not having anticipated the question before answering. “Dulse.”

“Dulse, huh? I dig y‒it. I dig it,” he coughs awkwardly into his closed fist, his reddening face hidden under his bangs as he clears his throat and thumps his chest, hoping that introducing himself will jump-start enough interest in the other man to spur further conversation. “The name’s Ryuki, star of the rock and rolling world!” He winks, too, for some extra flair.

“...Ah.”

It doesn’t work.

“Dulse!” the small girl shouts with an annoyed pout, elbowing the aforementioned man in the hip (the easiest place for her to reach). “You have to do the thing now! Y’know,” she murmurs almost conspiratorially, making some stiff half-aborted motion with her arms while giving him a stern eye.

“Ah, yes, you are correct,” he redirects his gaze to Ryuki, who finds himself squirming a bit restlessly under the intensity of his colourless irises. “My apologies, forgive me for the delayed response. Ah-lo-la.” He sounds out the greeting like a robot, making similarly inorganic-like gesticulations with his hands meant to imitate the normally fluid movement; he thinks it’s kind of endearing, and it must be to everyone else, too—enough so that nobody has bothered to correct any of them after all this time. “If you’ll excuse us, we must be going now. Let us depart, Zossie.” She nods enthusiastically, offering the same janky motion before skipping after him happily, leaving Ryuki breathing a heavy sigh through his nose as he watches him go.

A throat clearing draws his awareness back to the four left in the room with him, seeing Phyco perusing him while twirling his mustache again, and Ryuki straightens up and pretends like he wasn’t just checking out the captain’s subordinate. Much to his bewilderment, when he turns around the Branch Chief is staring at him intently with an expression somewhere between silent disapproval and distant horror, unlike the usual cordial smile. Ryuki gives him a silent wink and thumbs up to reassure him he can handle this. The other man’s eyebrows shoot up his forehead.
“Soliera,” the commander speaks up without warning, still keeping his gaze trained on the performer as he does. The blue one with broad hips—who he now knows to be Soliera—instantly snaps to attention with a prompt, “yes, captain?” Still regarding him with unwavering concentration, Phyco orders, “describe UB-03 Lightning in further detail for this trainer here, erm...Ryuki, was it?” He looks to the other for brief confirmation, continuing when the other man offers a quick “that's right” in reply. “Ryuki, indeed! Clarify UB-03 Lightning’s abilities for this Ryuki fellow, will you?” She nods with a brief “yes, sir” before immediately delving into the specifics. Otherwise known as xurkitrees, they are organisms composed entirely of electric wiring‒each one possessing an organ inside its body with the capability to produce up to 1,000,000 volts of electricity, and they appear to sustain themselves through the same energy source‒being particularly drawn towards power plants and similar areas. “Despite its size, UB-03 is experienced with camouflage, so it would be wise to remain keen of your surroundings and maintain caution.” Soliera concludes the elaboration by wrapping her arms across her chest, tilting her head inquisitively with an otherwise blank expression. “Knowing all of this, do you now possess any reservations?”

“No way!” Ryuki grins smugly, haughtily flipping the long portion of his hair over his shoulder before placing the knuckles of his opposite hand on his cocked out hip, gesturing to himself with his thumb again. “I’m the great Ryuki, I’m a superstar, a daredevil‒stars don’t quit, and if I quit, then I wouldn’t be great! This’ll be nothin’, you can count on me!”

This’ll be fantastic, he thinks.
It’s gonna be super easy, he thinks.
This’ll help get me my big break, he thinks.
Everyone will know my name after I capture an Ultra Beast, he thinks.
How hard can it possibly be to find something that big on a few islands?

He was soon to change his mind, however.

For something so impossibly huge, it’s astoundingly elusive. You would think it’d be easy to spot a towering (and glowing) monstrosity, even from a significant distance away, but that’s just it—you would think, and apparently UB-03 doesn’t care what he thinks. Camping out and interviewing the scientists at Blush Mountain’s geothermal power plant hasn’t proved fruitful, and neither has lingering near the Hokulani Observatory and asking the blonde bean-pole in charge if he’s seen anything “not from this world” lately (“I see something out of this world everyday!” he cheerfully replied)—so his two best guesses are a bust. Somewhere in the back of his mind he acknowledges that it makes sense locating it wouldn’t be that simple, Soliera told him as much, but he refuses to accept being bamboozled by an enormous twizzler. Toren’s voice crackles over the receiver as he’s reclining in his room watching a cheesy romantic comedy following his fourth day of searching with no luck, stuffing his face with ready-to-go slices of especially greasy Alolan-style pizza. “What about it a different angle...? Like, um, it’s b-big, right? Try searching somewhere with less people?”
Sighing dramatically, Ryuki thoughtlessly agrees “yeah” in a mumble, going back for another slice staining the cardboard delivery box with seeping oil. “But, uh,” the other man breaks through the pause in conversation awkwardly, hesitancy clear in his voice. “A-Are you sure you should be telling me this...? Isn’t this, um, I don’t know...” his voice goes impossibly quiet for a moment, nervous. “confidential? You told me you signed a form? I-I’ve never even heard of an Ultra Beast. Or a xurkitree, until right now. A-And I’m a pokémon researcher.” That hadn’t occurred to him, that he might’ve been supposed to keep all of this secret—he stops temporarily in his motion to eat, before murmuring “nah, it’s cool,” and resuming the ascension of his food to his mouth. Another brief stop. “I mean, I heard Promoter Faba talk about 'em before I ever signed anything, so...yeah, don't worry about it, man. They're just pokémon.” Taking a large bite out of his pizza, Ryuki redirects the topic, chewing audibly and mouth agape with no one to witness his complete lack of dignity first-hand. “Anyway, what about you? Whaddaya up to?”

“Um, just work.”

“What kinda work d’you do, anyway? I mean, I know you’re a scientist or a doctor, and you know a lot about battles, but what else?”

A prolonged silence follows his pitifully frazzled attempt at diversion, in which no sound is made on the other end—not even the sigh of a breath—leaving a nervous sweat pooling in his palms, until Toren’s voice comes through the phone again and he sighs in relief. “Um...well, our research is utilizing pokémon moves and abilities to make cures or treat for human illnesses. A-At least, that’s my work. My field of study was pokémon research, w-which is where I researched a lot about battling and evolution and so on. I always wanted to work in the same circle Daisy Oak does, um, she's a doctor‒well, she’s a scientist t-too and does other things, but that’s how I know her, I mean‒who studies cures to heal pokémon from diseases or illnesses like pokérus, which is a virus that’s contagious only to pokémon. It affects all of them, regardless of species, which is amazing, really‒u-um, but the research pavilion in Fula was hiring...so I came to work here. There wasn’t anything available for my first choice, anyway.”

“That shouldn’t stop you from going after your passion, man! No wonder you aren’t shining if you aren’t happy with what you’re doin’!”

“No, no, i-it isn’t like that!” Toren is quick to correct him through frantic stuttering, he can almost hear the man knocking over things on his desk in his rush to explain. “I find my work really rewarding, i-it’s just different from what I thought. It’s...it’s good, I’m not unhappy.”

“All right...if you’re sure, man.”

“I am,” he’s quick to assure, and just as resolute as he sounded when he first suggested letting Ryuki stay at his house after they met. Times like these are when the star in him really shines through, he thinks. And a tiny voice he doesn't want to acknowledge feels a little jealous that he could be happy with settling for his second best.

“Didya listen to the song I sent you? What’d you think?” Changing the subject of their discussion again, he asks for the other’s opinions between mouthfuls of his meal. The response he gets is lukewarm at best, a wishy-washy reaction that’s neither a confirmation or denial of liking the music, nothing more than a non-committal “um, it was okay” from Toren. “For real? Don’t dig Piers either, huh? I gotta find somethin’ more your style. You’re a real challenge, man, y’know th‒” he cuts himself off at the sound of something in his bag going off, only halfway listening to the other man’s profuse apologizing as he digs through his backpack to find the source of the noise; the phone he picked up the other day signifying an incoming call with bright, flashing colours on the screen, and the caller ID simply displaying: PLUM. “Yeah, hold up. That phone I told you about is ringing.”

“Oh. D-Do you want me to go...?”

Ryuki hums a dismissal, positioning his thumb over the answer button. “Nah. Why don’t you start off with those vocal warm-ups I taught you? I’ll be listening. You don’t need me to set an example for you anymore, yeah?”

“W-Wait, wh‒”

He doesn’t wait for an answer before pressing to accept the call and putting it up to his ear, opening his mouth to speak but finding himself unable to get a word in as the person on the other end immediately lapses into a tirade. “Where the fuck have you been?  We’ve all been worried sick about you! First you up and vanish in the middle of the night, then you don’t answer any of our texts‒it’s been nearly a whole week! You can’t just do stuff like this after what happened with the president, you know how worried I get, you big dummy! The numskulls won’t stop going on and on about you, swearing that you’re fine because you’re ‘the big bad Guzma’ and nothing can get you down. It’s cute how hard they’re trying to make themselves feel better. Hmph...I won’t forgive you for making my little idiot brothers and sisters cry if it was over something stupid, you know. What do you have to say for yourself?”

After a long pause, Ryuki replies, “what happened with the president?”

“...Who the hell are you?”

“Who the hell are you? ”

“I asked you first.”

“I asked you second!”

“What‒listen, I don't have time for this. Where is Guzma, and why do you have his phone?”

Distantly, he can hear his self-appointed pupil singing, stumbling over the syllables when the sound of Ryuki responding to a conversation he can only hear one side of distracts him. “You’re doin’ great, Ren, keep it up,” he reassures the beginner vocalist, even as the ornery individual pressed up against his ear says “what” as a reaction to the encouragement that doesn’t fit the questions asked of him. “Let's start over. I’ll tell you! The name’s Ryuki, star of the rock and rolling world! Former Kantonian Gym Leader, dragon-type specialist, and soulful musician! They call me the great Ryuki, ‘cause that’s just how much of a star I am!” He gesticulates wildly with his free hand, knowing neither of the people on either line can see him, but going through the grand gestures by habit regardless.

“Really?” starts the uppity stranger, in a smug sort of tone he absolutely does not enjoy. “If you’re so great, how come I’ve never heard of you, then?” He can practically hear the bait oozing off the other’s words, deliberately taunting him into losing his cool. “That doesn’t sound very ‘great’ to me.”

He knows it’s a trap—and takes the bait anyways.

“Well, just ‘cause nobody buys my music doesn’t mean I’m not great or a star, y’know! Even if you can’t see stars when the sun’s out, that doesn’t mean they aren’t there! The world just isn’t ready for my lyrical genius and awesome voice yet, and who can blame ‘em? I’m a rocker down to my bones, after all! There’s a lot of me to work with,” he ends his miniature speech with a mildly distressed huff, impatiently barking “why’d you stop?!” to Toren when he’s faced with uncomfortable silence from both ends, who very quickly and nervously gets back to practicing. “Listen, I dunno where your ‘big bad’ Gooz-muh is, I found this phone on the ground outside a few days ago. Now, a star like me has got a lot goin’ on and I’m in the middle of somethin’ right now, so d’you mind calling again later?” His breathing comes a bit shallow and fast in the receiver after his rant, feeling a tad humiliated and vulnerable, red-faced and alone in his motel room.

“Wait a second‒”

He hangs up.

The phone rings again.

He puts it on silent.

When he decisively puts the beat-up phone back in his bag where he can’t feel it vibrate from notifications, Toren’s still anxiously repeating the simple melody, too intimidated to stop after Ryuki’s short stress-induced outburst. “Sorry, man,” he sighs heavily with some bone-deep exhaustion, rubbing his face on impulse even as a small part of his brain warns him not to, even more prone to getting a pimple now after the grease that already dribbled down his chin earlier. “You can stop now. Didn’t mean to get on you like that, got a bit too fired up.” As soon as he gives the go ahead, the scientist’s voice abruptly cuts out with a thankful puff of air, descending them into a brief quiet while he takes gasping intakes of air. They remain in this uneasy, hushed state for some time, filled only by the noise of Toren’s heavy breathing.
Part of him isn’t even positive that the other man picked up on anything out of the ordinary, over-examining everything he said for any indication he could be struggling, that there’s any deeper problem than what he outwardly presents. It makes his fingers twitch. Tutoring someone, setting an example for them, telling them everything they can do to bolster their confidence; while great in theory, he wonders if it would discredit everything he’s said to imply he’s not quite as unflappable as he presents himself. The longer it persists, the more a sense of unquiet discomfort nags at Ryuki, unsettled by the uncharacteristic show of insecurity on his part and the lack of commentary. Not that he wants his sudden fragility exposed—but he’s not really sure what he wants, to have his spirits lifted with rallying support, or to sweep the display under the rug entirely. He’s never found it easy to confide in other people, keeping aspects of himself off-stage as a secret held close to his chest, intent to keep up appearances with his persona until no one can discern the difference. And maybe someday he won’t be able to either.

After a long period spent steadying his breathing, the older of the two cautiously pipes up with a somewhat worried inquiry of, “um...are you okay?”

Unwittingly, he thinks back to where he first began, a lanky and impressionable teenager being given an acoustic guitar from one of his co-workers at his then part-time job as a parting gift. Fighting in a tense building, always on edge with the possibility of an outburst, a brutal defeat.

Standing with frozen limbs, looking down at his injured companion as the man in front of him barked and guffawed.

“A little word of advice, kid. You got guts to challenge me, but a puny baby like you doesn't have the nerves to take me on like this. You should know when to surrender."

He decides he’d rather sweep it under the rug, after all.

“...Yeah, I think that’s enough for tonight. ‘Nother big day tomorrow,” he lets out a small forced laugh in an effort to throw off any concern, but with how obviously fake it comes out, he decides to resort to aversion instead. “I’m gonna go beddy-bye. With a star face like mine, y’gotta take good care of it, y’know? Night-night, Ren.”

“Um...g-goodnigh‒”

He hangs up.

Sleep isn’t going to come easy tonight, he can tell that much—the discouraging words echo in his skull on and on, like a melody played on loop that he can’t get out of his head. When he ordered food he was ravenously hungry, but now his appetite has disappeared completely, staring at the two leftover slices in the box with a total disinterest. He puts it in the mini-fridge, beside some different take-out from earlier in the week, and a pack of cheap beer he doesn’t particularly like, but purchases anyway because it doesn’t him as much as his preferred drinks of choice (and nobody can get the opportunity to comment on him liking sweet and sugary ones if he never buys them where anyone can see). Despite knowing he really ought to wash his face and brush his teeth before sleeping, Ryuki finds himself curling into a protective ball in the middle of the bed regardless, his drampa creeping closer for emotional support (who just barely manages to fit without busting through the ceiling by slouching). Mukumuku’s too big to fit on the bed without collapsing the frame, but his neck is long enough for his head to rest right beside Ryuki’s body, grumbling comforting purrs in contentment that vibrate the whole surface—lulling him into a dreamless sleep with his hands buried in soft fur.

He wakes up with a pimple smack dab in the middle of his chin.

Seeing his reflection in the mirror nearly makes him scream just to belt all the frustration out, of all the places to develop a zit, it had to be the one place he can’t hide with his hair. He knows it isn’t anyone’s fault but his own for skipping his nightly skincare routine, but that doesn’t stop him from petulantly stomping out of the bathroom and startling Mukumuku out of his light snoozing with a snort, nearly bonking his head into the ceiling so hard he’d make a dent. When Ryuki heads out for the day it’s with the intention to find the next biggest source of power, but Toren’s suggestion comes to mind, and he decides to switch tactics instead. There’s no doubt that Poni is the most sparsely populated of all the islands, but it’s also the most flat; if an entity even taller than the few trees to be found there popped up, he’s sure there’d be something about it. Which really only leaves him with one option: the northwest section of Ula’ula he’s never been to.
It’s the only possible lead he’s got so far, and it’s the best one he can follow, so he does. If only he’d known this route requires traversing over water. Left standing on the small shore, though, it’s a bit too late for takesies-backsies. None of his pokémon can swim, and neither can he—and even if he could, that would require him to not wear his usual leather get-up, and he's already gotten this far wearing exactly that. While the local surfing scene has always interested him (he still can’t figure out whoever Big G is on the leaderboards), without being able to tread any water without sinking himself, he's been more or less relegated to the crowd of fans watching all the other surfers instead. And while he's got a ride pager, he doubts a lapras can smash through the rocks in the water. It’s as he’s contemplating his dilemma that a small breeze tickles the back of his neck following movement behind him, accompanied by a hoarse and monotonous voice asking “now, what’s a showy guy like you doing loitering in a lonely little place like this, huh?” right beside his ear, startling him so bad he goes careening directly into the shallow pool bottom-first. The second he hits the water, the abrupt temperature change and subsequent panic of what the saline solution might do to his leather suit has him jolting up faster than he ever has before, shrieking “my best outfit!” with a keen of despair and panicked breathing as he scrambles. Staring up at the kimono-clad man in front of him, he protectively clamps the sensitive extremity (always has been particularly affected by sound) with a mildly flustered face, evidently discomposed and put off.

The monochromatic stranger presses the back of a long-fingered hand to his lips and chuckles lowly at Ryuki’s misfortune, an act that he’d normally find mortifying given the circumstances (if not insulting), but he finds himself regrettably flustered by the man’s haughty attitude and uncanny resemblance to his ex-boyfriend. So he settles for crossing his arms across his chest, feeling somewhere between attracted and annoyed. “Not cool, man. Ever heard of personal space?”

“Man, oh man...I was going to ask you to call a coin flip, but now I feel kind of bad for spooking you. Need a ride, hotshot?” The wry smile on his company’s face never wavers even once, maintaining a constantly smug disposition that only further deepens the conflict he feels, already left reeling from the prospect of having to get one of his outfits repaired again (like the last time wasn’t harrowing enough) and the flattering nickname.

Clearing his throat in an attempt to save face, he shakes off the initial bout of minor hyperventilating and frowns for a moment, puffing his chest out in a show of faux confidence, before plastering a wide grin on his face and taking up a power stance. “The name’s Ryuki! I’m what you might call a star.”

“Ryuki, huh...?” Another breathy laugh sounds out from the other, likely at his expense—he decides to ignore that possibility for his own sense of mind. “Well, since you were so kind as to offer your own name, allow me to return the favour,” the kimono wearing stranger brings one arm to his torso in a sweeping motion with the other pinned against his back, bowing gracefully like some member of nobility with a respectable pedigree, keeping his sharp eyes trained on Ryuki even as his head dips with the smooth line his body makes. “I am Grimsley, well met, indeed.” The taller man straightens out back to his full height with his hands falling back to their casual positions by his side, and maybe Ryuki is a bit too hyper-alert, but he swears Grimsley just purred at him. “Now that greetings are out of the way, allow me to ask again‒need a ride? Maybe you already know this, and don’t need to hear it from someone like me, but the only thing of note lying at the other end of Route 16 here is Po Town and that old man. I suppose it doesn’t matter anymore since Team Skull disbanded, though, and I’m sure someone like you can handle yourself,” if the other comment didn’t come out in a purr, this one definitely does, and he feels his face flush hotly. “I’d give you sharpedo’s info for your ride pager and let you be on your merry way, but,” he pauses as his eyes drag over the rockstar’s visage with a growing smirk, and Ryuki can’t tell if he’s being mocked or flirted with anymore. “You don’t seem all too prepared at the possibility of going for a surprise swim.” Grimsley’s keen eyes narrow as the playful smile on his lips goes lopsided, cocking his head to the side as he idly flips a coin between his fingers. “Well? Is that an acceptable arrangement for you?”

Shaking off whatever strange impression the other man gives him, he immediately brushes off any reservations with a proud, “you’re on, man!”

As it turns out, riding a sharpedo is a lot more tumultuous than he expected.

He spends the brief ride screaming and hollering, clinging to his pilot for dear life, knowing if he gets knocked off he’ll be screwed in more than one way. Ordinarily he’d find something like this exciting, and it is, but a bit less so when his expensive clothes and life are at stake. With how fast and erratically the sharpedo swims, he’s not confident that if he fell off Grimsley would have enough time to go and get him before he sunk beneath the waves, or got knocked under by a stray shrapnel of rock. When they reach the other shore, he stands there for a long moment breathing heavily and willing his legs not to shake, leaning with one hand on the nearest vertical surface for support. Grimsley remains seated high above on his water-mount like some sort of regal king, snickering in mildly sadistic amusement at the other’s obvious land-legs.
“I’ll leave you to it, then. Check your ride pager on your way back if needed, you ought to find sharpedo there. Your willfulness has grabbed my attention, I’ll admit. Should you ever find yourself with the urge to battle a former member of Unova’s Elite Four...you know where to find me. Well, then...farewell for now!” Atop his tall perch, the formerly elite trainer waves goodbye in a grandiose fashion, before grabbing hold of the bars and speeding off—weaving elegantly through the waves almost as if he’s performing a dance, while Ryuki’s pager gives off a notification jingle he can’t muster the energy to properly address at the moment. It’s only when the intial shock is fading and he’s regaining his breath, does the statements made by his latest acquaintance sink in—did he say Elite Four?  There isn’t much time for him to ponder this when a distant rumble comes from farther north, far enough away that his equilibrium remains perfectly intact, but close enough he recognizes the sensation immediately.

A grin creeps onto his face. “Found you.”

Outside of the pokécenter and beside the water it’s bright and sunny, the sun reflecting off the water he’s still wringing out of his hair (both from his earlier spill and the splashes kicked up by the sharpedo, unfortunately also coating his lower half in a wet sheen; he’s never been the type to beg to a higher power, but he pleads to Arceus, to the tapus, to whoever will listen, that the salt doesn’t corrode his outfit—he really can’t afford another accident like the meltan-mishap). Even though it’s cooling to the touch, it’s warm enough that he doesn’t even feel the compulsion to shiver with the liquid droplets rolling down his skin, he doesn’t even have goosebumps—which is why he’s taken completely off guard when he walks not even a mile north and finds himself amidst a chilly fog. The abrupt change in temperature, and even general atmosphere is so jarring he briefly wonders if he just unknowingly trapezed through another world. Though the cloudy gloom leaves his vision obscured, at least more than his bangs already do, the breeze carries the sweet smell of nectar wafting off the swaying flowers. The formerly absent goosebumps rise with the drop in warmth, leading him to release his turtonator instead of rubbing uselessly at his arms, using the heat of his pokémon’s shell to rid his hair and clothes of any remaining moisture and regain some heat. The path splits at the end of the brief wooden boardwalk to the north and slightly to the east, but he keeps straight on the instinctive hunch that the tremble is still further up ahead.
And as soon as he manages to feel comfortable again, it starts raining. With the abrupt change in climate, he quickly recalls his turtonator with an affectionately murmured “you did good, baby,” not wanting to keep his bandmate out in inclement weather. It’s only a light drizzle so far, but it’s enough that if he doesn’t seek shelter soon he’ll have the same texture as a slip-and-slide, slipping and sliding himself right through the damp soil like a mudbray that hasn’t quite learned to walk yet. This obviously doesn’t appeal to him, but as he surveys his options it seems he’s fresh out of luck, because the only nearby building is a police station that definitely isn’t tall enough to house the creature he’s looking for. At least it doesn’t rain salt water he acquiesces, and sighs while trudging through the dirt endowed with a sludge-like consistency as delicately as he can, hoping to minimize the amount of excruciatingly thorough maintenance he’ll have to apply to the leather later. While the police station is the only observable building within eyeshot in the traditional sense (possessing a door, four walls, and a roof), it’s not the only structure, which is the best way he can think of to describe the enormous complex placed slightly ahead. There’s no doubt in his mind this is the source of the rumble, straining his neck upwards to even spot where the wall ends and the sky begins, more than lofty enough to hide the monster he’s searching for. Despite how disruptive the miniature earthquake seemed, at least to him, this entire area is bizarrely empty—all except for him. The construct itself is clearly high-tech, though the odd thing is it obviously wasn’t designed by Aether, brandishing no logo except a pattern of interlocking diamonds on the door. Cutting his observation short, the door opens automatically as he approaches closer to it; he sees no reason not to simply waltz in, so he does.

He’s utterly soaked within seconds.

How the weather can go from sunny to foggy to rainy to an outright thunder storm in just over the span of a mile astounds him, he wouldn’t believe it was possible if he wasn’t standing right in the middle of it, the copious amounts of gel in his hair fighting against the weight of the water as the spikes start drooping in a pathetic shape almost like Mukumuku’s fur. The very second he starts to move forwards, he has to close his eyes to resist the urge to cry, because the rainwater manages to dribble down into his boots—his socks are wet, and with every step he can both feel and hear the squelch inside his shoes (he isn’t sure which is worse). It nearly startles him out of his skin when thunder reverberates off the walls of the enclosement, white light temporarily blinding him as lightning strikes against the empty street in front of him, and he shrieks so loud and high that he might’ve shattered glass if there was any nearby. The sound of it unwillingly brings back bittersweet memories he’d rather forget, even if he wouldn’t be here without them, shaking a bit despite himself. He’s never been a fan of stormy skies. It’s so much harder to see the sun and the stars. Without them to look up to for guidance, he always feels just a little bit more lost. Surveying his surroundings while he’s still on edge waiting for the next crack of thunder proves to be somewhat of a challenge, but he manages to settle himself down just enough to catalog a few things. Abandoned cars and trucks littering the path like obstacles in a jungle gym, graffiti plastered across the cobblestone and rundown houses, a shutdown pokémon center, a really gnarled telephone pole entangled in wires and crammed against the wall, a dilapidated mega-mansion with a drained cement pool, but no sign of his Ultra Beast. He pouts. Guess it moved on, he thinks. Wait, did that pole just move? It is pretty wild in here, though. Musta been the wind—

“HEY!”

Ryuki’s dragged out of his contemplation on the abysmal weather by an angry shout, spotting another monochromatic man (save for some flecks of gold; first Piers, then Grimsley, now this guy, what is it with him and repeatedly encountering achromatic men) standing on one of the mini-roofs of the manor. “WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING HERE?!”

“The name’s Ryuki!”

“I DIDN’T ASK FOR YOUR NAME! ARE YOU STUPID!? ”

Squawking in offense, he opens his mouth to object, interrupted by a car alarm going off as the stranger jumps off the second story roof onto the hood of a truck. And if that display of athletic prowess wasn’t already impressive enough, the man immediately starts charging at Ryuki like an enraged tauros and he squeals in surprise, not able to back away fast enough on the rain-slick pavement. “W-Whoa, man, we don’t gotta do this‒” his nervous plea ends abruptly with what feels like the impact of a bus tackling him to the ground, and not a second too late as the force of a freight train comes bearing down on the street with a shock of lightning (causing him to flinch violently underneath the other man against his will), exactly where he was standing only a second prior. Oh, he realizes. So it did move.

Soliera’s warning about camouflage rings in his ears.

His saviour quickly springs back up, pulling Ryuki to his feet with so much strength that he goes stumbling into the other man’s chest, taken aback by the closeness and simultaneously amazed that even a crisis like this can’t stop him from swooning a little over yet another two-tone party crasher (he supposes he might have more of a type than he previously considered). The position barely even lasts the second it took to knock him over, the stranger grabbing his arm in a vice grip and forcefully pulling him in an attempt to get as much distance as possible between them and their opponent. Putting a hand in the pocket of his baggy sweatpants, the extremely tall man quickly tosses out a pokéball that forms the silhouette of a golisopod in front of them, before turning to the rockstar expectantly with wild desperation in his eyes. “Do you have any pokémon?” Ryuki isn’t listening, though—he’s remembering the home screen wallpaper of the cracked cellphone he left at his motel room with his own (for once he’s glad that his outfit doesn’t really have deep enough pockets to put them in, lest he have brought his into this storm, yet another repair cost he would not be able to afford), and he’s recalling the name “Guzma” from his earlier conversation with the aggressive stranger, and he’s thinking about Big G while his eyes drag over the other man’s impressively large figure—and the puzzle pieces come together.

“ARE YOU BIG G?!” After a long stretch of silence as he stared off into space without answering the other’s question, Ryuki’s sudden outburst surprises the stranger-presumed-Guzma, taken aback by how completely irrelevant the response is.

“...What?”

“BIG G! That guy on the surfing leaderboards with all the super-fans!”

The man quirks both of his eyebrows together in some expression of blatant incredulity, shouting back, “is this REALLY the right time to ASK THIS!?”

He means to say something in response, an impassioned yell in the affirmative because he can’t possibly ignore it if another star is in front of him, but he’s interrupted by the rumbling stomp of the Ultra Beast as it attempts to attack his ally’s golisopod. Miffed at being blocked from answers, and cut in on twice now by the same electric monstrosity, Ryuki pops open his guitar case over one knee with gritted teeth and throws the first ball he sees. Dokudoku pops out (something he’s quietly grateful for, as one of his more independent babies who doesn’t need as much guidance in battle) and he starts barking orders, balancing the case in an attempt not to scatter everything on the ground as he collects beast balls in his arms. Once he miraculously manages to close the locks with a complicated maneuver involving his teeth, he carelessly allows the spillage-proofed object to fall to the floor with a dull thud, precariously gripping hold of one of the many trinkets piled up in his arms as his company does a double-take with rapidly widening eyes. “Where did you get those?!” His voice conveys a suspicious sense of urgency, and though he isn’t pointing at anything in particular, Ryuki can tell exactly what he’s referring to.

“What, these? So now ‘Big G’ wants to know about a star like the great Ryuki!?”

“My name is Guzma.”

Grinning cluelessly at the stranger-confirmed-Guzma, he prepares to brag at being entrusted with a top secret mission, only to be stopped for the third time as radiant illumination shrouds his vision. A shooting tingle races up his spine, leaving a burning trail in its wake, and it isn’t until the delayed noise of terrifying and raucous thunder fills the air that he realizes he’s been electrocuted. At the very least, it happens fast enough that he doesn't get the chance to embarrass himself with another scared scream. With his consciousness fading, he recalls the sight of Grimsley elegantly swerving through the surf, and feels a metaphorical light bulb go off—the G does not stand for Guzma.

He wakes up at Aether Paradise.

It takes him a moment to recognize it for what it is and not life after death, unaccustomed to waking up in such a strangely clean environment, heart thudding in confusion until he notices the familiar white and gold colour scheme. When he looks to the side of the bed he discovers all his belongings, not just the guitar case he brought with him, but his bags and everything he left in his motel room before he set out. Part of him wants to know how and why they requisitioned his things, let alone knew the exact location he was staying at, but the other part decides that’s some idle curiousity he won’t be indulging just yet. Peeling back the thin blanket draped over him, he notices himself still donning the slick ensemble he left in, now dry and chilled against his sensitive skin from the cool air circulating through the facility. Ryuki winces when he shifts and it chafes against his body—with a deep, long-suffering sigh, he realizes he almost definitely now has a full body rash as a result of the previously wet friction between the grating leather and his inflamed skin. Along with an absolutely killer headache.
While he’s pondering his current predicament the door slides open, and Ryuki instinctively pulls the blanket up to hide himself. It’s a reflexive response to the sheet covering him—given the only times he’s ever in a bed is usually when he’s alone in his motel room, and the only times he ever unwinds enough to flip the switch off is by himself—which is where he’s often in compromising positions, reclining in his cute-and-not-cool pajamas with cucumber facial masks resting on his stripped-bare baby face, and relaxing in uncharacteristically peaceful silence. A side of himself he’s very determined to keep secret from anyone else for the sake of his reputation, hiding whatever about him doesn’t fit his rockstar image. “Oh, thank goodness! You’re awake. Good morning, Mr. Ryuki. Welcome back to Aether Paradise,” a feminine voice gently greets him as the sound of heels click against the marble floor, straining his eyes to make out the figure through the blur caused by his migraine, until she comes closer carrying a small tray of malasadas and assorted pastries and he immediately recognizes her as Faba’s assistant (he can’t believe he’s never heard her speak until now). “I brought you some breakfast.” The pleasant aroma hits him hard, stomach instantly grumbling in neglected protest as he catches a whiff. Wicke giggles at the noise but unlike her superior, her laugh sounds more pleased than taunting, wordlessly holding the platter further out for him to grab hold of. Never one to refuse a free offer, that’s exactly what he does, ravenously scarfing one batter-fried treat after another.

She smiles politely even in the face of his complete lack of etiquette, folding her petite and cleanly manicured hands in front of her. “I know Mr. Faba had you sign a contract regarding potential injuries, but I hope you do not mind if I apologize on my own behalf,” she moves to bow slightly in an expression of sincerity, but the gesture nonetheless surprises him, pausing and staring in vacant-eyed bewilderment with his cheeks still stuffed and a strudel clutched in his hand. “Oh my...” Wicke brings a dainty hand to her lips as her eyebrows furrow in concern, wrapping her other arm around her torso with a tilt of her head. “I suppose you don’t remember, then...?”

She takes his awkward silence as confirmation.

“You were electrocuted by UB-03,” she explains. “It’s really quite astounding you weren’t horribly injured, but I suppose the leather might have absorbed most of the brunt of the shock, though your metal embellishments negated the full effect of insulation. UB-03 is capable of emitting extremely powerful energy outputs.” Something to do with her phrasing or the look on her face somewhere between worried and puzzled gives Ryuki the impression it’s an anomaly he managed to live through this experience. “Naturally, you were rendered unconscious. Mr. Guzma then instead contained it with the beast balls that were on your person, and returned here with you as soon as he could. The Ultra Recon Squad left with UB-03’s containment and returned home, and Mr. Guzma left some time ago after I told him I would tend to your injuries. It is thanks to the pokémon here at the foundation that you only have temporary inflammation.”

Slowing down to swallow, he clicks his free hand at her in a pointing snap, winking with a grin. “Tell your babies they have my thanks!” He feels a twinge of disappointment that everyone seems to have departed while he was out, especially a certain well-endowed man in particular. “They left? Seriously?” Popping the other pastry still in grasp, he talks while chewing with his mouth full, trying to sound inconspicuous. “So...where is their home? Just curious. I wanted to give my thanks. For, y’know, givin’ me this gig.” He makes a show of looking nonchalant and not overly invested, leaning back on his palms and crossing one leg over his knee.

“Oh! That would be Ultra Megalopolis.”

“Hah?” Scrunching his face, he tilts his head to the side inquisitively. “Never heard of it. Where’s that? Oblivia? Hoenn?”

Wicke chuckles a bit. “Oh, no, it’s in Ultra Space.”

Further befuddled, Ryuki huffs a little through his nose. “What’s that, like...better, bigger space? Super cool space? Is that the name of a region?” Scuffing his shoe on the floor, he snickers a bit to himself. “Man, these guys really dig the word ‘ultra’, huh? Ultra Beasts, Ultra Recon Squad, Ultra Megalopolis, Ultra Space...heh, I guess I get it. I really dig the word ‘star’ myself.” Gesturing with one hand, he makes vague circles with his pointer finger, whistling and thinking aloud. “So those crazy strong pokémon, the UBs, and those guys, they all from the same place? Must not get a lotta sun over there...”

When he looks back up for a reply after receiving nothing but silence, he finds the older woman standing motionlessly with a semi-wide-eyed look on her face, clearly processing something before he waves his arm and she snaps out of it with a start. “O-Oh! I’m sorry...I was...surprised, how little Mr. Faba seems to have told you, ahem,” she quickly clears her throat to regain composure. “Ultra Space is an interdimensional realm reached through an Ultra Wormhole, that leads to other worlds and dimensions through warp holes. One of these such places is Ultra Space. Ultra Beasts, such as Xurkitree, can also be accessed through Ultra Wormholes, as they are from a different world than ours. This is the case for all Ultra Beasts. They could be extraterrestrial pokémon, yes, but they are called Ultra Beasts because they have significant genetic differences to the pokémon that we know here. As for the ‘ultra’...Ultra Space, Ultra Beasts, and the Ultra Wormhole were discovered and named by Professor Mohn of the Aether Foundation, before he disappeared...so I suppose you could say it was him who really...dug it.” She finishes up her explanation echoing his sentiment from earlier, seeming a bit chuffed with herself.

He blinks, dumbfounded as he sits back up. “Interdim–like outta our solar system?”

“Yes, but more specifically, not within our solar system at all.”

It takes a little longer for it to sink in, as he digests everything she said, and everything he ate. After a moment, he lunges forwards, completely in shock from the revelations as he yells his late observation. “ Huuuuuh?! For real!? You mean they’re aliens?!?”

Wicke simply nods. “Yes...both Ultra Beasts and the Ultra Recon Squad are extraterrestrials. But I suppose the Ultra Recon Squad are also humans, like you and me. Only from a different world. You are right, that they don’t get a lot of sun, or any. Their world is always dark, as the light there was stolen by Necrozma...” She continues on with her exposition, seemingly non-reactive to his stunned state, before pursing her lips with a troubled expression. “Mr. Faba was supposed to have told you this, if you worked with the foundation before, but...I hope you did not sign papers without reading them?” He decides not to answer that. It also occurs to him that he might not have been paying very good attention to Soliera's explanation—when he thinks back on it, it's entirely likely she mentioned something about a ‘home planet’ that he tuned out. “Anyway, disclosing info on any of this is prohibited, so let’s please keep this between you and me. And of course, Faba and the Ultra Recon Squad already know. Mr. Guzma was previously working with Madam Lusamine, so he was already in-the-know, as well. If I'm not mistaken, you do know the Champion–she also lent a hand previously, when we were working with the International Police.” Pausing for a brief moment, she continues. “I do hope you haven’t told anyone else about this mission. It is top-secret.”

Sweating a bit from the prospect of being punished for blabbering (a fine he can’t afford, or worse), he decides not to acknowledge that either, nervously avoiding her eyes as he quickly directs his attention to something else and settles on the belongings from his motel room. “So...why’s my luggage here?”

“Ah yes, we gathered your assets because we thought you might want them when you woke up, given the long recovery time. Not to worry, we did not look into your items. We also covered the overnight fee at your motel while you were unconscious. You’ve been asleep now for, oh,” she pauses to roll back a sleeve of her sweater, examining the time on an unsurprisingly golden wristwatch. “About nineteen hours now.”

After finally relaxing enough to continue eating, he starts choking mid-inhalation (calling it a bite would be too generous) in surprise, furiously thumping his chest with a closed fist as Wicke observes in moderate alarm. “That’s...that’s a long time,” the sentence comes out in a strained wheeze, frantically grabbing at his backpack for his phone (idly brushing up against the other one sitting at the bottom of his bag that he still needs to return, making a mental note of finding Guzma again later), checking to see if he missed any important messages. The only notifications are a few semi-frantic texts of concern from Toren; he tries not to be too disappointed at the otherwise lack of messages as he types up a quick response to the doctor. A thought occurs to him as he clicks send, halting in his actions with a brief sense of dread. “Did I...did I get paid?”

“Ah, well,” with the first two words not being an immediate confirmation he’s already deflating in despair, flopping back down against the luxury pillows. “I’m afraid Mr. Guzma received the reward for catching UB-03...but the Ultra Recon Squad felt responsible for your wounds, so they left me with some compensation. I, too, feel at fault...given that you were apparently not properly prepared by the foundation for this mission. I should have briefed you myself. Here, please accept this,” bowing politely, she extends her palms out to present him with a pearl string, standing back up again when he plucks it off her hands. “You should receive another reimbursement larger tomorrow. Through your bank, of course,” she flashes him a friendly smile.

It’s pity money, and not nearly enough, but he’ll take it. It’s better than nothing.

Just as he’s about to regain his bearings, he jolts forwards with a powerful and pressing concern, digging through his backpack for his pokéballs—his unease growing with the absence of one of them among his things, looking up at her in desperation and shouting, “where’s my baby?!” Startled by his sudden yell and likely confused by his vocabulary, Wicke blinks at him with large eyes in shock, as he frantically makes panicked gestures with his hands. “My...my baby! My bandmate! Docchan, my pokémon, my dragonite! Is he okay?!” In the midst of the storm, he’d been too preoccupied with distracting himself to give any thought to what pokémon he used except knowing they could handle themselves. Something he regrets deeply now, realizing which one of his companions he forced to be on the field with him, knowing what feeling and hearing the crack of thunder and lightning must have been a reminder of.
Upon understanding the nature of his distress, she very quickly waves her hands in a not-to-worry sort of movement, assuring, “yes, he’s quite safe, he’s being taken care of somewhere else in the facility. Mr. Guzma said he did well, and that you must be a good trainer. You must be a proud parent...I can tell you really care about your pokémon.” Immediately letting out a prolonged sigh at the reassurance, he sniffs a little bit trying not to cry from the sentimental compliment, rubbing the bottom of his nose with his finger as he dismisses the memory plaguing him. With the matter of his money settled and his questions fully addressed, Ryuki finally finds himself able to relax enough to properly take in his surroundings. For a patient facility room (and he didn’t even know they treated humans here), it’s extraordinarily fancy, draped with elaborate tapestries and sophisticated patterns on the silken sheets. “Where are we, anyway?”

Wicke blinks once, twice fast, with wide eyes. “Oh! This is the president’s quarters.”

“Wait, what?!” Shooting up even faster than he did following his spill into the water yesterday, Ryuki’s head throbs horribly with the sudden movement as his curiosity kicks into overdrive, confused why he’s somewhere he shouldn’t ordinarily be (not that he isn’t flattered at the show of hospitality, if it’s going to cost him, it’d be an issue) even though Wicke’s clearly here providing supervision. His sudden jolt obviously startles her as well, flinching briefly before waving her other hand dismissively in front of her face. “Oh, no, there’s no cause for concern! Madam Lusamine is not currently in the facility, so there is no need for alarm, I swear. Please rest easy. The young master Gladion is the current acting president, and he does not use these quarters. We do have residential quarters for the staff, but I hadn’t had time to prepare them when you came...this took less time. We needed to help you right away.”
Scrunching his eyebrows in confusion, he inquires “then where is she” while the other’s expression takes on a conflicted sort of look, raising her hand to stroke her chin in some self-comforting gesture. “I...imagine she’s in Kanto.” She regards Ryuki with a sort of gauging intent look, before dropping her hands back to their resting position with a content hum, elaborating on the situation after coming to her own unspoken conclusion. “Madam Lusamine is quite ill as a result of her exposure to an Ultra Beast, such as yourself, except hers was a far longer episode. She and the beast had undergone a fusion, and as a result she became quite embroiled with its neurotoxins. The effects on her body and mind were quite...severe, I am afraid, as she has hardly roused since. Miss Lillie, her daughter, took her mother with her to Kanto to seek the assistance of a man named Bill. He’s the creator of the pokémon storage system within our PCs, but in addition he has had multiple experiments fusing with pokémon, so thus Miss Lillie hoped he might be able to shed some clarity on Madam Lusamine’s condition...and now Master Gladion is acting as the president in his mother’s stead. That is the current situation.”

“Why doesn’t she talk to a doctor or somethin’?”

“As you might imagine, there aren’t many doctors that have experience regarding this particular topic. However, Miss Lillie has told me that there is a doctor there. Bill’s fiancée is a rather accomplished doctor and scientist herself, though her particular line of work centers more on the research of disease centered in pokémon themselves than in people, I’ve heard.”

Considering this for a moment, a memory of two nights ago comes back to him in a sudden flash, and Ryuki spews out a question before he realizes he’s speaking. “Is her name Daisy Oak?”

Blinking in blatant shock, it takes a moment for Wicke to recollect herself before pushing up her glasses with a, “why, yes, it is,” while staring at him in amazement. “How did you know?”

“Call it a good guess,” grinning with a wink, his phone vibrates against his leg with five new rapid-fire texts from Toren, and his eyes glance over the contact display name with a growing idea (and, incidentally, an opportunity to cover his tracks—he can’t get in trouble for spilling the beans if they do it themselves). “D’you think they’d be willin’ to collab? I might know somebody.”

Chapter Text

Toren thinks there’s something wrong with him—no, he’s positive there’s something wrong with him. He’s always had a habit of talking to himself when he’s alone, but ever since Ryuki started (or rather decided to do so on his own) coaching him, he finds himself singing instead. Sometimes it’s a song that he linked him to that gets stuck in his head, but most of the time he finds himself improvising a melody around whatever is occupying his attention, which is far more mortifying to try and explain when one of his co-workers walks in on him humming in the lab about his pokémon and their abilities or the activity he’s doing. They always open their mouth as if to comment (whether on his voice, singing, the content of his tunes; he doesn’t know), but he interrupts with a quiet and shrill “w-what did you nₑᵉed?” before they can get it out, voice cracking in terror at what they might’ve said otherwise. If he’d met Ryuki any other time than now it probably wouldn’t have been a problem, there used to be an unspoken line in the sand between him and his co-workers, none of them except for Jason entered his work area unless they absolutely had to. They didn’t talk to him, and he didn’t talk to them. And that had been the order that was established. But recently they’ve become a lot more friendly.
It’s an improvement from their previously turbulent relationship with him if he looks at it from a subjective lens, a huge one if he’s completely honest, but that doesn’t leave him any less awkward with the sudden change in attitude. He’s never been particularly adept at navigating conversations, and that’s one trait that’s remained frustratingly constant, which is why he’s utterly lost on how to deal with the unanticipated attention. They keep inviting him out for after-work parties, happy hours, weekend plans—and suffice to say, he’s running out of excuses to buizel his way out of them. The most obvious solution is to outright lie, but with how terrible of a conversationalist he is, he’s just as much of a horrendous liar. Luckily, or maybe unluckily in this case, a solution presents itself. In the few weeks since Ryuki left, somehow Toren had managed to avoid tripping all over himself like he’s prone to do—that is, until he does. Collision with his colleagues is far from unfamiliar territory to any of them at this point. With how often his gaze is cast downward while walking (not to mention the entire blind side on his right) crashing is simply inevitable, so when it does happen, nobody is surprised even as he’s scrambling to apologize. At least, that’s what should’ve happened—but this time, when he makes a rather extravagant spectacle of himself, he watches as dozens upon dozens of small pins emblazoned with Ryuki’s face spill from the pockets of his pants like a steady flowing river. Stunned together at the scene in front of him, he and his co-worker stare wide-eyed at the sight, stupefied in equal measure.

The cartoonish depiction of the rockstar winking back at his gawking expression through a layer of laminated film feels like a taunt.

It only takes a few seconds for his workmate to collect herself, gasping in excitement and bombarding him with rapid-fire questions once she does, drawing the attention of his other colleagues like a sharpedo—or a school of them, in this case—smelling blood in the water. The rest of them join in on the barrage of inquiries and exclamations, cornering him like a pack of ursaring against a helpless baby buneary, except for Jason and his chansey by his side who both desperately attempt to get them to relent.
“I didn’t expect this! What is it, anyway? A pin? A badge? Who is that? Is he famous? A Gym Leader? A musician? He’s got a microphone, and with that look, he has to be a singer, right? I’ve never seen him before! Are you a fan? Do you like his music? We didn’t know you liked things like this! We never hear about your life, Toren! And why do you have so many? Is this part of a campaign? An event? Merchandise? Were you handing them out? Have you been doing that after work? Or were you going to hand them out to us? Because you wanted him to be the speaker for the presentation? Were you going to give them to everyone in the pavilion when the presentation started as an introduction? Did he ask you to distribute them in exchange for coming? You didn’t make a suspicious deal for help with the presentation again, did you? Did he cancel like the presenter last time? Is that why you still have all of these? Where’d you even find him? And what’s the text on them say? ‘Ryuki’? Is that his name? Do you know each other? Is he your friend? How come you don’t tell us more about yourself, Toren? Do you still not trust us? We want you to have faith in us! Can you introduce us? Can we meet him?”
It doesn’t work, but Toren appreciates his efforts to help, nonetheless. The endless barrage and some of their own drawn conclusions does make him stop briefly. He hadn’t even considered it as an option to ask Ryuki to speak for the presentation on his behalf. He wishes he’d thought of that. In between brief pauses, he tries his best to keep up and answer some of their interrogation. Most of his words get lost or overshadowed by someone else’s voice, carrying only small bits and pieces of his scattered explanation that they selectively latch onto—confirmation that he’s a singer, he met him by accident, he’s not from around here, they talk a lot on the phone, they were staying at his apartment together (alongside apologies for his evasiveness that seem to be totally ignored)—all conveyed through vague and stuttered sentences in typical Toren fashion. They seem to get carried away on what little input he managed to offer, conjuring a story of their own making. Evidently, if they talk frequently and they were living together and he has all these items with the man’s face on them, then this showy guy must be his long-distance lover with a busy career in music that keeps them apart most of the year, “and really Toren, why haven’t you told us about your boyfriend before?”

And so, Toren does what he does best—he panics.

It turns out using a fake boyfriend you can talk to at night or see on the weekend because of conflicting work schedules as your excuse to avoid work functions works perfectly.

Most of what he does is simply nod or shake his head to confirm or deny the conspiracy questions his co-workers pose entirely of their own imaginations running wild, too frazzled to attempt at offering any verbal commentary and not being asked for it anyway, so he just goes through the motions until the inquiries eventually stop with Jason pulling them all apart and herding everyone to their respective work stations like a yamper directing a flock of wooloo. He can feel eyes on him for the rest of the day even hiding behind Stumble, sometimes accompanied by curious hushed whispers, rumours that sound like they’re centered around his ever-so-mysterious newfound love life. The recent excess attention paid to him was bad enough, but this is far worse.
With every hour that passes, he feels his shoulders tense higher alongside a rising paranoia that the topic of the murmured gossip has shifted from his fabricated relationship to more criticisms of his character, complaints about his flaws low under their breath where he can’t hear. Even as their respective relationships with him have improved, he’s never quite been able to shake the feeling it rests on a very thin string. Any colossal mishap, any small mistake, could undo all that progress. That they might be giggling amongst one another about his pathetic attempt at fibbing and “who did he really think he was fooling anyway”, or worse yet, maybe they’ve figured out he lied, and they’re disappointed in the lengths he’ll go to avoid hanging out when all they want is to be friends—because he can bear the feeling of being hated, but the thought of letting down people who believe in him leaves a burning in his chest and a heavy weight in his gut.
By the time the end of his shift rolls around Toren’s cleaned up and out the door faster than anyone else, ignoring the open-mouthed shock on Jason’s face as he hurries out the door earlier than he ever has before, when normally the other scientist has to all but physically drag him away from spending after-work hours skulking about in the lab until as late as 12 AM. Normally he’d stick around and wait for his colleagues to pack up and head home (even when he’s as unreasonably suspicious of drawing their disdain as he is now), comforted by the familiarity and spaciousness of his empty workplace at night when he can ramble out loud without fearing being eavesdropped on by his co-workers or neighbours; but today he has a question to ask Ryuki that they can’t overhear and he’s too impatient to wait to ask it.

It’s all he thinks about the entire route home, confusion and frustration making a hurricane in his head as he tries to make sense of the rockstar’s motives, so wrapped up in it he remains hyper-aware and doesn’t slip into unconsciousness or miss his stop like usual. Was it a prank? An accident? Well-intentioned? Was he making fun of him? Why would he do this? Why why why? But as soon as he enters his apartment, and firmly shuts the door behind him and his partner pokémon, all of his determination to confront the other man awkwardly stalls like a sputtering engine. He hates making phone calls, so he stands there right in front of the door with their text messages pulled up, and stares long and hard at the blank text box as if willing for the words to simply write themselves. When he finally accepts that a fully written message isn’t going to manifest on his phone and save him the trouble, he puts his fingers to the keyboard to type, and immediately scraps it by the second word, warring with himself on the tone he wants to come across as—“no, no...that sounds like I'm saying it’s his fault,” he murmurs to himself, gnawing at his nails. “B-But isn’t it? How should I sound? I can’t be sure, but if it was him...then what’s wrong with sounding like it’s his fault? But I don’t know for sure...”
He’s in the middle of deleting his seventh draft in the span of twenty minutes when his phone suddenly springs to life with a loud melodious chime, startling him so bad he tosses the device in the air, and plays a short game of hot potato trying to keep it from clattering to the floor. When he at last gets a stable grip on the case, it’s no one but Ryuki’s contact information flashing back at him with an incoming call. But before he has a chance to do anything, it expires as a missed call, due to the time he accidentally wasted with an impromptu juggling session—and before he can do anything about that either, his phone immediately jolts (and so does he) alive again with the contact name Ryuki gave himself in Toren’s phone. This time he manages to accept the transmission in time, putting it up to his ear right as the other’s deeper voice rings out. “So you were home. Why didn’t you pick up the first time, man?” Huffing in fake indignance, Toren knows the rhetorical question is meant to come as playfully gruff, but even the teasing emulation of irritation is enough to drive him over the edge. “Th‒You‒The‒” at least, that’s what he feels, but the assertive call-out he imagined immediately dies on his tongue with a sudden fear and second-guessing guilt.

The conversation abruptly falls into silence with the internal debate he starts having with himself. That he’s reading too much into this and assuming intent where there isn’t any, it’s not like anybody was hurt and he’s the one who tripped and got himself in this situation to begin with, and what does he even have to be distraught about anyway if nothing bad happened, if anything he got closer to his colleagues than he was before—but he has no reason to conclude that’s what was supposed to happen. It’s the fact that he doesn’t know what was meant to happen that’s driving him crazy. He doesn’t want to doubt the purity of Ryuki’s objective, he’s always been nothing but supportive even when he doubted him in the past, but he doesn’t understand. He just can’t piece it together. Hesitation paralyzes him completely from continuing—he intends on pretending like he was never going to ask anything to begin with, but Ryuki gently urges him on with “yeah, I’m listening, go on,” and any hopes he had of moving on without comment are immediately thrown out the window.
At his leg, he feels a light pressure, and looks down to see Stumble smiling up encouragingly at him. Instantly, he relaxes a bit, breathing in deeply to calm himself. He’s always been prone to overthinking and pessimism, weighing every possibility in his mind and every way it could and likely will go wrong. Her support at least, makes him calm down enough to recognize it’s probably nothing as bad as what his mind wants him to think. He clutches the phone in his grip, squeezes his eye shut, and forces out, “did...did you put your badges into my clothes?”

For all the effort it took to work himself up to talking, the following silence feels especially poignant. He barely breathes, tense and on edge with expectation, and only getting more so the longer it takes for the other to respond (in reality it’s only a couple seconds of a pause but it feels so much longer). “Oh, yeah! Forgot I did that.”

He tries his best not to sound exasperated. “...W-Why?”

“You’re pretty clumsy, yeah?” It comes across more like a rhetorical question or an outright statement than a genuine inquiry expecting a response, but Toren reluctantly in affirmation regardless, if not to confirm the other man’s observation then at least as an assurance he’s listening and wondering where he’s going with this. “I gotta lot more of those in my case and at the bottom of my luggage ‘cause they were my gym badges–but I don’t work there anymore and I still got all the extras I ordered, and nobody’ll buy ‘em! Not even for 50! Y’know how cheap that is?! All to buy the rights to use a picture of my star face, printed on a pin you can stick to anythin’ you want, yours forever? That’s a total steal!” The only sound between them is Ryuki’s irate huff after he finally pauses his increasingly quick-tongued rant with a single, slow inhale and exhale—undoubtedly an effort to calm himself down from the frustration fueled, worked up state he wound himself up into. Clearing his throat as he recollects himself into some manner of levelheadedness, the easily riled rockstar’s voice goes shrill on an abrupt “ANYWAY” in an endeavour to steer back the conversation he derailed. In his mind’s eye, Toren can near perfectly envision the unforgettable visual of worked-up agitation he’s seen displayed by the performer before, pouting and huffing when something doesn’t go his way—at least, that's the impression he gets from the tense strain in the other’s voice. “I thought it’d be a good idea to give you a bunch of ‘em to spread around. But then I remembered y’don’t talk to a lot of people, and I thought you probably wouldn’t take them if I tried to give ‘em to ya, so I came up with a plan. Y’don’t talk to people much, but you do trip and run into people a lot, especially in crowds. And I saw that you put your hands in your lab coat all the time, but you never use the pockets in your pants. So! I got the inspiration to cram a ton of ‘em in your clothes–that way the next time you fell to the ground like a shooting star, a bunch of buttons with my magnificent face and name on ‘em would fall with you and find some new fans and future audience members to fall for ME! You wouldn’t have to say anything, and I’d get some free promotion. Win-win, you feel me? And since you’re askin’ means you fell, doesn’t it? Did it work? Anybody end up falling in love with my rockin’ spirit, take a shine to my star-studded energy? Don’t leave me hanging, man!”

He can’t decide whether he should feel upset at the presumptuous and selfish intrusion of his privacy—
—or flattered by how much notice Ryuki’s clearly taken of him and his behaviour to even be capable of taking advantage of it.

All that he manages to convey is an exasperated groan, rubbing his face with one hand and holding the phone with the other. This clear sound of irritation isn’t enough to deter Ryuki’s desperate curiousity, however. But as he thinks back on it and what he’d have to explain as a result, Toren decides to refrain from telling Ryuki about that just yet, belatedly processing all the densely packed information he dropped in the past five minutes. “You were a Gym Leader?”

“Yeah, sorta, not a real one. I worked at the Kantonian Gym,” the former-pseudo-Gym-Leader continues talking through his sudden interruption of “wait‒” as he thinks back on Ryuki’s word choice earlier and has an awful epiphany, ignoring the subsequent clamouring of him rummaging through the drawers—only paying enough attention to the commotion he’s causing once it stops, as Toren turns a pair of his stored trousers upside down and watches a cascade of winking rockstars clatter to the floor. Only then, when he’s silent from utter shock and staring at the dozens of badges pooled around his feet, does the man depicted on them casually ask, “what’s up?”

“Did...did you‒did you put these in ALL my pockets!?!?”

“Nah. Not all of ‘em, anyway.” Brief pause. “Just the ones you put away and hadn’t touched in a while.”

Shrieking indistinctly in distress as he tears through the drawer while tossing all his pairs of pants on the ground, he wails in desperation at finding no apparent end to the bulky clumps of badges within each and every garment, overflowing and spilling on the carpet above the crumpled clothes. It’s at this moment that he distinctly regrets only ever doing laundry for the same few pairs of his favourite slacks, only ever wearing the less comfortable ones in his dresser whenever he happened to forget to wash his regulars—like what happened today. One lucky cycle of the washing machine is all it would’ve taken to cue him in and avoid this.
“Auuuughhh, what’s going on?!” Unsure of how to react beyond a whine of distress, he brings his hands to his head and ruffles his hair frantically in vexation, as Stumble eyes the slowly increasing mound of Ryuki (and him) with clear concern. “This is terrible! How many of these do you even have?”

Even with his abnormally out of character shouting, Ryuki hums contemplatively, clearly unphased by the abrupt change in behaviour. “Hmm...I dunno? Couple hundred, I think? Less on me now, though, ‘cause they’re on you.” He laughs.

He laughs, like it’s a joke.

Toren tries to find the words to succinctly describe how he feels—all that comes out is a high-pitched strangled, yell.

“OHHHH YEEEAAAAH!!! That’s the kind of intensity I’m lookin’ for! Let your blazin’ soul shine through, I knew you had it in ya!”

He puts his face in his hands and lets out a long, long whine.

He spends the next hour turning all his pockets inside out until he’s surrounded by a sea of pins, with Ryuki chattering off into his ear the whole time about a variety of things he’s only half listening to and isn’t expected to respond to. This continues until he interrupts the one-sided conversation the other man is having with himself to ask, “w-what am I meant to do with all of these” as he stares at what seems to be hundreds of aluminum buttons pooled on his carpeted floor. Some distant part of him wonders exactly how many resources were wasted in replicating these, and if they’re even recyclable, as his eyes glaze over looking at the heap—Toren has a vision of hundreds of the rockstar’s twinkling visage being gathered underneath a hulking metal contraption by conveyor belts, before being crushed by a hydraulic press and swept off to be re-sculpted into dollar store staple packs.
Unbeknownst to his internal monologue and envisioned sequence of events, Ryuki makes an unbothered noise, the verbal equivalent of a shrug. “I dunno man...hand ‘em out? Y’know, spread the word?” Suddenly cutting himself off with a snapping of his fingers, his voice goes high on an “oh OH OH” as a metaphorical light bulb goes off and he has a realization. “You should give ‘em to that lyin’ old guy! He’s a good performer, yeah? He could totally get me some new fans! Ya-hooooo! And with the Ultra Beast battle, he’ll have some new material to work with! Make the great Ryuki look even greater! So what if I never really got to fight it–he makes stuff up anyway! The battle never has to end! OH YEEEEEAAAH! It’s time for me, or I guess him, to show off everything I’ve been saving for the spotlight! ‘Ryuki’s a battling superstar, also you should totally buy his music!’ He can put himself in my story, too, if he wants. Anything that gets me one step closer to my dream of being an overseas sensation! I can almost hear the crowd chanting my name right now!” He trails off with a wistful sigh, lost in a daydream before abruptly snapping back to reality with an awkward laugh. “But he shouldn’t...y’know say Ultra Beast, we can just call it a really strong opponent, right? You shouldn’t tell him about stuff like that. It’ll be our secret, yeah? Not because of anything, though.” Clearing his throat, he suddenly pivots again. “So, whaddaya think?”

Trying not to linger on that very worrying and strange tangent, he ignores the other’s oddly placed reassurance. “Shouldn’t you help him or do something for him first, if you want him to help you like that...?”

The other man scoffs derisively, clearly disregarding the notion with a mumbled protest of, “he’s the one who kept messin’ with me, he should owe me.”

Toren opens his mouth to say something along the lines of “that’s not how that works,” but closes it as he finally sits at his desk for the first time since he got home, only to see a blinking email notification on his laptop from the man in question himself. Callahan has a phone, he knows this for a fact—a faulty, knock-off one styled after a decades old Silph Co. model that’s more of a brick than a device, but a phone nonetheless. That being said, he can count the times the older man’s actually had cell service on one hand (two fingers, actually). There’s that, and his vehement insistence he email the doctor using his sister’s computer instead of texting anyway, because the keyboard on his extremely tiny and outdated phony flip phone is too small for his fingers. Toren doesn’t really understand why he has a phone at all. Perusing the brief message, on the other end of the line Ryuki makes an inquisitive noise in response to the sudden silence, asking a casual, “what’s up?”

He makes an “mm,” noise to acknowledge he heard the question while he finishes reading the message, sighing a long exhale as he reclines back in his office chair, idly swiveling in a lazy circle. “He just emailed me.”

“Who?”

“Callahan.”

“For real?! Talk about great timing, man! With an opportunity like that so soon after bringin’ it up, how can ya refuse? That’s fate, man, no two ways ‘bout it! It’s written in the stars! You gotta help me out! We gotta guide each other up to never-before-seen, dazzling stardom, got it?! We can push each other to greater friends! I’m countin’ on you! You and me, Ren, we’re gonna go places together! I guarantee it!” The rest of whatever he might’ve said devolves into giddy laughter, caught in his own daydreams as a loud crash comes through the audio, followed shortly thereafter by a louder admonishment of, “HAMUTAN! That DOESN’T go in your mouth, baby! Open up! Take it out! Now, you hear me?!”

Toren isn’t so sure he believes in the rockstar’s boundless optimism, but he refrains from saying anything further.

What remains of the week passes by quickly, with him avoiding any and all interactions with his peers and being dragged into a phone call with Ryuki nearly nightly, it hardly feels like any time passes at all. Leaving the city makes him nervous for two reasons, incidentally, the same two reasons he’s seldom left it before:
1.) He’s really always been a rather extreme homebody, more comfortable the more familiar a location is.
2.) He’s scared of heights, and more so, the prospect of having an anxiety attack while suspended midair almost makes him anxious enough to have one about having one.
On the few occasions he’s left, he’s always called a ride service or taken a boat (neither of which he’s fond of either), but Callahan and his family live in Accumula—which is exactly where the cable cars drop off—so paying for a service would be ridiculous, and with Ryuki’s recent support and encouragement, he’s starting to feel something akin to bravery.

He’s beginning to regret that decision.

Every sway and rock of the cart has him borderline delirious in nausea and fear, clutching Stumble’s hand like a lifeline, guilt ebbing at him for the tight grip but unable to loosen his hand. Toren feels it approaching like an oncoming tsunami, gradually drowning him until he’s fully submerged, and he’s fighting against succumbing to it with every ounce of his being. I’m not going to be afraid and I’m not going to run, he insists to himself. I’m a star. I’m a star. I’m a star. Stars live in the sky, and they’re not afraid of falling, so I’m not. Stars don’t give up, they don’t quit, and they don’t run away. I’m a star. I’m not scared. I’m a star. He closes his eyes after his internal debate acting as if performing the closing sequence to a ritual, desperately attempting to convince himself before peeking.

Miraculously, it works.

The remainder of the ride passes wholly without incident, until he’s hopping out of the carriage still shock-stunned, walking to Mia’s home completely on autopilot as he’s stuck in slack-jawed surprise. The very second his knuckles make contact to rasp against the door, it’s pulled open with a grand flourish, and Callahan’s already primed and ready at the entryway to bolt. “Oh, good, you’re here,” the older man unceremoniously drops a pair of keys in his palm, before quickly looking to both his sides like a paranoid psyduck, wide-eyed and nervous but unsure about what. “Listen, I gotta go. Dinner’s in the freezer, bedtime’s at eight, she likes watching that show with the robots...um...am I leaving anything out? Oh, yeah, Mia’ll be home from work around eleven. Kellie’s inhaler is in the medicine cabinet in the bathroom, first aid kit’s under the kitchen sink, and Mia’s number is on a sticky note I put on the fridge. Capiche? I’ll see ya later, doc. Bye Kellie!” He can’t even get a word in (let alone show him the briefcase he brought, packed full of what feels like at least a thousand badges that he hoped to pass over to someone else) before Callahan’s clapping him on the back and calling out a goodbye to his niece on his way out, the latter enthusiastically chirping “bye-bye uncle Callahan” as Toren is ushered indoors and the door slams shut behind him.
Dumbfounded as he blankly stares at nothing in particular, it takes a long moment for him to recover enough to slip off his shoes and rest the briefcase against the wall, padding against the hardwood floor towards the scritching noise of crayons against paper with Stumble waddling behind him in a similarly confused stupor. As soon as he approaches, Kellie’s head snaps up at the sound, grinning toothily and calling out his name in unadulterated excitement. “Toren! Come look, come look!” He comes to kneel beside her on the only carpeted section of the house, the floor inside Kellie’s room, peering down to look at what she’s drawing while his chansey companion plops down in between them. The page is littered with all manner of doodles—depictions of Callahan’s sudowoodo joyously frolicking, what must be Risa given the multi-coloured rainbow hair, mechas or robots he assumes must be from that show Callahan mentioned, other children he guesses are her classmates, various scribbles of herself with her family, and then the drawing she’s pointing to at the bottom of the page. Stumble and himself smiling happily at the viewer.

“Amazing, Kellie! Th-That’s incredible!” There’s a pressure behind his eyes threatening tears, but he swallows heavily and represses the urge in order to deliver the compliment, hoping he doesn’t sound as choked up as the churning emotions in his chest currently make him feel. “I like it a l-lot.”

“Say, say, I’ll get you some paper so we can draw together!”

He sniffles. “Alrighty.”

After skipping over to her miniature desk and gathering several more sheets, she hands one to Toren and stacks the rest in front of them for later usage, pooling the assortment of crayons and coloured pencils between them. Without further instruction or discussion, they begin sketching separately—at least, Kellie does, while he blankly stares at the white space wondering what to do with it. As he’s pondering this dilemma, a small hand smacks against his back (he wonders if she picked that up from her uncle, too), and he turns his head to see Kellie smiling widely at him. “What are you doing? You're silly! You can't draw by looking at it! Duh.” She sounds a lot like her uncle for a second there, the similarity causing him to a double-take. It’s obvious she’s always imprinted on him, but it feels as if it’s become more pronounced lately. “You know what uncle always says, ‘it’s a piece of cake’!” Her voice drops lower and she puffs out her chest in imitation of the man himself, falling into a fit of giggles when Toren laughs at the interpretation, before going back to messily scribble a rendition of her beloved cleffa doll on the page. He’s not entirely sure he’s ever heard Callahan say that in a situation where he genuinely worked, but he considers her words nonetheless, picking up a red pencil and turning his thoughts off to just allow his hand to drift where it pleases.
Arguably, this works too well, because he completely tunes out his surroundings until Kellie exclaims “wow!” in awe and he blinks to see a completely finished piece of none other than Ryuki. Completely finished piece might not be the most apt description; it’s not fully painted or rendered, but it was made entirely within the limited medium he was given of cheap coloured pencils and crayons, and it’s as fully conceptualized as it’s ever going to get. Staring at a canvas-filling portrait of the self-proclaimed star done entirely in red, holding a similarly coloured crayon worn down to a nub and a pencil of the same hue now nearly twice as short as it was when he started, he can’t think of any possible way to improve it. More accurately, he can’t think at all—because he’s face-to-face with his own portrayal of Ryuki’s grinning expression while Kellie peers over his shoulder, and he’s equally as breathless and nervous as he feels in front of the real thing, face gradually flushing to the same shade of his sketch as she looks intently over his shoulder.

“Hey, hey, I saw him before! I remember!” She bounces beside him, putting a finger to her lip in thought as her eyes idly roll side to side looking at the ceiling, going “umm...” until she fully recalls and springs up against him in her enthusiasm. “Oh, I know, I know! When we went to go see you he was talking to uncle, and then you, too!”

Toren smiles awkwardly. “T-That’s right.”

“Say, say can you–can you draw Proteam Omega?!” Kellie jumps suddenly to her feet as her voice rises higher in pitch, drawing her hands to her chest in tiny fists and gazes at him with a sparkling gleam of admiration in her eyes.

He can't refuse a face like that.

“Hooray!” She leaps in eager anticipation once he accepts, immediately scampering over to her desk to hand him a clipboard so he can draw on his lap, wiggling herself onto the bed to recline behind his head while grabbing a brush and various hair ties and decorations off the dresser. Pulling up a reference of the requested robot on his phone browser, he spends the next fifteen minutes sketching it while Kellie plays with his hair, until she asks for something else and fifteen minutes turns into an hour which turns into two and before he knows it the time is 4:52 PM and his stomach is grumbling. He rolls his shoulders as reality slowly returns to him, groaning when his back cracks in countless different places from the extended slouched position. “I should get us something to eat...do you want to turn your show on?”

Kellie chirps “yeah,” and he leaves her with her cartoons to take the frozen pizza out of the freezer.

While the oven is preheating he gets a phone call from none other than Ryuki, and immediately his stomach does an involuntary self-conscious somersault just from seeing the contact name, utterly helpless to try and suppress the tingling wildfire sensation that licks at his cheeks and ears. It takes all of his willpower to take the call without torchicing out, bringing the device up to his ear with a meek, “h-hello?” He can barely even get that humble greeting out before the other man is blasting his hearing with shouts so loud that Toren winces, putting it on speaker and turning down the volume as he rests the phone on the counter to slide the pizza in the oven, silencing the beeping indicator and timing it to go off again in twenty five minutes.
“What’d he say?! Is he spreading my name across the sea as we speak!? Is your boy one step closer to worldwide fame?! Sorry about what I said before, if he wants anything in exchange, I’ll do it! For real!” While the enthusiasm in his tone is obvious, there’s a subtle undercurrent of desperation in his voice that Toren isn’t sure was there before, distracted as he was during their talk earlier in the day. “Listen, I gotta know if anybody’s interested so I can roll into town myself–bring some merch, my music, introduce me and my babies–get there while he’s got the crowd still red-hot, fired up, and ready for me! I can’t let him totally steal my spotlight, y’know? We can share once we’ve got the audience warmed up! Just need him to set the stage for me and my bandmates to play a set before the show’s over! I don’t do encores, understand?!” Before he has a chance to say anything, he continues, trailing off into a fantasy. “Imagine my star face on a billboard. The great Ryuki as a household name...everybody’ll know it, I’ll be recognized everywhere I go...that’s the dream, man. Anyway, c’mon, gimme all the details! Stardom waits for nobody!”

Toren cringes so hard he physically recoils. “Oh, I-I’m very sorry, but...I didn’t get to ask him. He...he left as soon as I got here...forgive me...”

“...For real? Maaaan, whaaaaaat,” he lets out a guttural groan of disappointment, sighing heavily as if all the previous hype leaves straight out of him in an exhale. “So uncool. Got myself all excited for nothing.” Again, he opens his mouth to apologize (he’s lost track of how many times this has happened) but gets interrupted before he can. “Well, it ain’t a big deal, I guess. It’s probably for the best that he doesn't help me out, anyway–or make up anything. I got ahead of myself. Wouldn’t really feel like I was makin’ everybody proud if I didn’t get to the top on my own, y’know? I gotta go my own way. Your boy’s always rocked solo, with my babies’ encouraging me. I ain’t ever had no plans of changing before, I gotta keep my word...” The last sentence is muttered more inaudibly, a firm resolution and conviction in his statements, and an odd implication that causes him to furrow his brow. Toren doesn’t draw any attention to how awfully lonely and difficult that sounds. “But passing off my badges is fine! He’d be good at handin’ them out, more than you would, and if someone wants to be a fan after seein’ my star face, then that’s up to them to come looking! You’ll just catch him before he can run off next time, yeah? How’s the babysittin’ going?”

“I’m cooking us dinner now, earlier we were drawing together. She, um, s-she...my drawing was uh, good, she said, so I drew what she wanted for awhile. That’s all.”

“You can draw?”

“Um...y-yes? I mean, I can. I’m not a professional or anything, I just sketch things sometimes with my smeargle‒D-Dopple, that is, as a bonding activity. Its ink turns transparent when distilled, so I use regular paint...w-why do you ask?”

“FOR REAL?! That's a hobby, man! Why didn’t you say that before!? So you’re an artist! It’s a lot more interesting than gardening!”

“Oh, oh, oh, are you talking to him?!” The high pitched lilt of a child’s excited voice comes from behind him as Ryuki’s yelling, and he whips his head around so fast his neck cracks to see Kellie standing in the kitchen’s archway, the very picture of innocent ignorance as she tilts her head. He can hardly get out so much as a squeak of sound before she’s dancing on the balls of her feet going “oh, oh, oh” in peppy fervour as a thought occurs to her; her curious enthusiasm would be endearing if he didn’t feel so much dread at what she’s going to say next, cluelessly unfiltered in that way all children are, as she unknowingly digs his metaphorical grave and then pushes him in it. “Do you like-like him?!” Then she raises a hand to her lips with a distinctly teasing expression bordering on mischievous, and his stomach feels remarkably lead-like as it drops so hard and fast he can almost imagine hearing it hit the floor. “Say, say, is he your, ummm, boyfriend!? That's what you call boys you hold hands with?”

Through the speaker, he hears, “wh‒”

Toren hangs up and puts his phone on silent.

He can’t bring himself to lie to Kellie like he did to his co-workers, but he can’t bring himself to tell her the truth either, both not wanting to disappoint, and knowing one little slip-up from an overly honest kid is all it’ll take to unravel everything. So he doesn’t say anything. She takes this as confirmation. Kellie giggles in elated wonder and spews rapid-fire questions about their so-called romance which she doesn't quite understand—“Say, say, what’s his name? Can I see him again? He said artist! Is he good at drawing, too? Is he cool like uncle? Does he know a lot? Why do you like-like him? Does he have super strong pokémon? Was he talking about stars? I was learning about stars at school! Is he an astronaut?! Has he ever been to space? Have you ever been to space with him? Hey, hey, can I come too?!”—until he ushers her out with burning ears, telling her to wait for dinner to finish cooking before bombarding him with a relationship interrogation, putting his head in his hands and sinking to the floor in a shameful ball once he’s alone. He remains utterly motionless in his mortification up against the wall, only spurring back into action with the ding from the oven to take out the pizza, allowing it to cool before taking out plates to serve.
Lingering in the kitchen for longer than strictly necessary to avoid further inquires as long as possible, he steels himself in preparation for them with a sharp inhale and heel turns out of the kitchen, instantly making the decision to eat with her in front of the TV rather than calling her to the dining room, utilizing the presence of moving images and sounds to his advantage as an easy distraction. The very second she spots him, the queries start up anew. Given her only knowledge exists in television shows and books for children (and whatever the adults around her see fit to impart), a lot of her basic understanding of “romance” hinges upon fairy tales or tall-tales from her uncle, asking who between them is the princess or the knight or the ‘mommy’ or the ‘daddy’ or the hero and the damsel in distress. Young as she is, she doesn’t quite understand the distinction of gender in these roles, either, wrinkling her nose in confusion when she thinks harder about the source material she’s pulling from.
Handing over her portion of food, he sits beside her on the couch and wills his face to remain as impassive as he can, offering no more than unhelpful responses like “mm” or “mmn” in various intonations. Eventually she gives up on getting anything substantial from him and stops asking, growing bored of non-answers in combination with the diversion of Proteam Omega airing reruns, suddenly demanding that every ounce of her attention be drawn to the screen instead.
Relief at successfully having avoided explaining anything he's ill-equipped to do leaves him finally relaxed, eating one more slice before washing the dishes and storing the leftovers, everything successfully wrapped up and returned to how it was by seven o’clock. With an hour left before Kellie’s bedtime, he decides to let her watch a bit longer, and sinks in comfortably to the cushions beside her. By the fifteen minute mark, her head’s already bobbing and weaving to stay up, before ultimately succumbing to the weight of staying upright to rest against his arm. Yawning with enough force to crack his jaw, he smiles fondly at the sleeping girl while musing to himself that he should probably carry her to bed, except he finds his own head bobbing insistently to an urge that gets increasingly harder to resist.

He wakes up to the sound of a camera shutter going off.

Toren comes to consciousness slowly, fluttering his eyelids to blurry orange-tinted bright light, gradually registering the white noise of whatever show’s on the television and the weight of a tiny body resting against him, before realizing where he is and what happened. His sudden intake of air upon waking must alert whoever the source of that noise was, because he hears a shuffling to the side and slightly behind him, and a feminine voice speaks up quietly in consideration of the slumbering child beside him. “Oh, I’m sorry. Did I wake you?” He cranes his neck slightly to see the blurry outline of who he assumes to be Mia, offering up a mostly incomprehensible reply while he’s still shaking off the last vestiges of sleep, which ends up sounding something like, “whuh-wassit...wha times’it?” Though the words are slurred and mumbled, he manages to get the question across for Mia to look at her phone before replying, “about fifteen minutes past eleven.” Yawning as his mental facilities boot back up again, he silently smacks his lips together and moves the monocle up his face to rub at his eye, blinking rapidly as his vision clears to see the adult only cartoons are currently on—and just like that he’s wide awake.
Scrambling frantically to grab the remote without jostling Kellie awake, his hand shakes so badly he presses the wrong buttons several times, accidentally changing the channel at least four times and bringing up the guide before turning the screen off and sagging back with a sigh. The older woman laughs with quiet restraint at his frenzied panic, and his face reddens a bit recognizing his actions were rather unnecessary with Kellie already asleep. She comes around the couch to scoop up her sleep-mumbling daughter (something about how she “wants to keep playing” that warms his heart), softly offering for him to stay the night with how late it is, but Toren declines knowing he’s often awake at this time and for hours afterward. With his job finished he stands up moving to leave, yet finds himself stopped by Mia’s hand on his arm, who gently giggles at him and points at her own head. “Did you forget?”
Self-consciously mimicking her movement, he touches his hair and realizes it’s still all done up with Kellie’s trinkets, and abruptly understands with a rush of embarrasment what the noise he woke up to was. Hurriedly removing everything and placing it in her open palm, he very quickly accepts her gratitude and says his goodbyes—for a fleeting second he considers leaving the briefcase there for Callahan to find later, before acknowledging he’s not the only one living in the home, and regretfully takes it with him out the door. On his way back to the cable cars he checks his phone, finding several missed calls and semi-petulant text messages from Ryuki at having been hung up on (an irony he doesn’t have the energy to point out) and a call from a number he doesn’t recognize, as well as a corresponding voicemail. He clicks the button to play it. “Hello, my name is Daisy Oak! I’m calling a...Dr. Toren, is it, about an offer to provide research and medical assistance with a special patient case? We’re a bit out of our area of expertise so any help would be appreciated, and you can reach me back at‒” wait, he thinks. WHAT?!?!

Chapter Text

“Wow, wow, wow! You really saw one? Are you quite sure?”

“Amazing, that it is!”

“Indeed‒truly, you witnessed one of those fabled beasts?”

With a confident grin, Ryuki echoes Charlie’s signature catchphrase and says, “believe it.” The latter isn’t absent, either—one of four participating in this shared call aside from himself, Darley, and Shirataki (who is with Farley in person and allowing him to speak through her phone; he’s begun to suspect they might be dating but doesn’t want to ask in case he’s wrong). Despite being present, Charlie doesn’t speak up about his word choice, but he can still sense the wannabe-ninja’s palpable annoyance at his shtick being stolen as the others erupt into enthused excitement. “You’re very strong, chie‒er, Leader, that you are, to face such a foe and live to tell the tale!” Farley follows up with, “indeed, indeed,” mumbled into the background as Shirataki’s voice drowns him out almost completely. “Sooo~oo? What’d it look like?! How did the battle go? Was it quite as dangerous and glorious as you’d hoped it’d be?”
Scratching his cheek where they can’t see his brief moment of hesitation, he lets out a small chuff at the probability of that encounter having been anything but both things (mostly the former, and he’d use harrowing over glorious, but that’s something he won’t admit to anyone including himself), firmly swearing “oh, yeah,” as he stresses the affirmation as much as he possibly can to convey just how dangerous and ‘glorious’ it was. “It was a biiiiiig baby, even bigger than any of my dragon-type pokémon! Electrifying, shocking, wild–made outta chewed-up lookin’ cables and wires, like that time Hamutan went through the stuff backstage at the gym, with a star for a head! Pretty wicked, huh?” If he hadn’t gotten his circuits fried by it (so to speak) and been interrupted by it twice, he likely would’ve found it far more captivating than he does—even might’ve been tempted to recruit it for his band, rather than having the unaired grievances that he does. “Of course, your boy is a pokémon battle superstar and I came all the way back to Alola just to get a chance to fight an Ultra Beast, so I didn’t back down. I even battled in the pouring rain where it could really mess me and my baby up–no biggie for a star like the great Ryuki, y’dig?” Adding a quick clarification to cover his tracks, he laughs a little nervously, conveying a certain sense of seriousness. “You all gotta keep this secret, though. This is between us, understand? I know it’ll be hard not to brag about being best buds with an Ultra Beast battling rockstar, but I mean it. Y’all are my most hardcore fans, so only you guys get to know about stuff like this, got it?”

Shirataki, Darley, and Farley all start gushing, quickly devolving into commending chattering cacophony—but Charlie chooses that moment to speak up, always having been more prone to questioning him than the other three. “So, you had the long-awaited battle...that’s huge, believe it! But did you catch it? That is what this ‘promoter’ wanted, right?”

“Well...I wasn’t the only guy who took the gig,” He thinks he manages to keep his voice mostly level from giving away the innumerable disappointment he feels at missing out on such a substantial amount of money, even if he sighs a little too harshly at the beginning. “Rolled up pretty late and didn’t know someone else was aiming for my opponent–I thought about getting ready to throw hands, as fellow trainers, the one with the stronger spirit should get the right to take the challenge–but the UB decided to make an entrance then, so we teamed up to fight it, and he beat me fair and square.”

Shirataki boos in sympathy, cooing “oh noo~ooo, that’s quite a shame, Leader!” Charlie doesn’t say anything in response, though he’s sure if he could see him, he’d be frowning in similar disappointment. He tries to play it off casually with a smooth “it happens,” and pretend the sting of his loss doesn’t feel so much worse on account of lacking the rather significant amount of cash that was meant to come with his victory. “You said your magnificent battle with the beast was approximately a week ago, did you not?” Darley speaks up during the sudden lull, posing his own question in its place. “The last time we spoke, you said you had many plans, that you did! What else have you accomplished since, leader?”

Shifting slightly on his squeaky-springed, cheap motel mattress, Ryuki awkwardly says “well” again while trying to think of what to say—because there’s no way he’s telling them he’s been cooped up all week recovering from a full body rash. “I haven’t been able to do anythin’ else ‘cause your boy didn’t get outta that battle completely alright...in other words, I got shocked. Gotta take care of myself, y’know? Eheheheh...heh.” It isn’t a lie—it’s just not why he’s forced to stay sedentary inside his motel room.

“WHAT?!” All four of their voices immediately pipe up in expressing concern for his well being, but the first and loudest one he hears is Charlie, still pressing urgently for an answer.

Dismissing their worries with an exasperated groan of “yeah, yeaaaah, I'm fine” Ryuki waves his hand back and forth as if they could see the motion before continuing with the ensuing silence. “Everything’s fine, I was down for the count, didn’t even get that hurt–that’s what Promotor Faba’s assistant said, the pokémon there took care of it. My baby was in more rough shape than I was! He’s doing better now, too. Nothin’ can bring down the great Ryuki, don’t you worry! For real, it’s not such a big deal. It ain’t the first time something like this has happened, I got shocked alllll the time back home, man. Must be used to it now! I don’t even feel that bad, really–like what...an on-off headache, and a little bit of tingling and numbness sometimes? That’s nothing! Your boy’ll be back up and at it with some rest in no time.”

To his shock, none of them are particularly comforted by this.

“Where was the island kahuna when this happened?! Shouldn’t he have come in to help?” One of them—he thinks Charlie—speaks up to ask this in between the rest of their disorganized shouting, which is honestly a good question, one he neither has the answer to nor thought to ask himself; he makes a mental note to find out later. Someone else bursts into tears, thoroughly convinced these (in his opinion, rather minor) symptoms are indicative of impending death, while the rest are all at once yelling their concerns anew about his recovery status. He tries to his best ability to assuage, or at the very least distract them from the topic of his injury. This serves to remind him why he refrained from mentioning any of the details to Toren, explaining the situation that resulted in him getting struck by lightning would require some context in which avoiding mentioning Aether and everything that happened would not be possible (and he wants to avoid sending him into a panic over the confidential information Ryuki accidentally gave him, at least not until he knows if the surprise solution he came up with pans out), and getting a doctor on his case isn’t high on his bucket list.
He was never going to bring it up himself in the first place, but in retrospect, he doesn’t know why he thought his non-medically inclined friends would be less of a hassle to deal with if the conversation topic happened to come up. Thinking back to the time he once sprained his ankle by falling off the stage at the gym, he remembers all of them immediately fussing over him even after he insisted he was fine. After an arduous endeavour at attempting to comfort them—“Yes, I’ll get another check-up. No, I don’t have any plans right now, wh‒were you even listening, didn’t I just tell you that!? Yes, I can still take care of myself. No, no, NO! I’m not gonna die!”—the subject is finally dropped in favour of asking what he plans to do once he’s no longer bedridden, and when the next time they’ll all be able to meet up in person ought to be. As someone who’s never planned anything in his life, Ryuki doesn’t contribute anything other than vague answers or non-committal mumbles, tuning out as the conversation shifts away from focusing on him to casual discussion amongst the rest of them.

Since the call first began he’s had the TV playing mindlessly in his peripheral, idly switching channels occasionally out of boredom, but it actually grabs his attention this time, as he by chance settles on the news for longer than ten seconds. Galar is on the news again—this in of itself is not surprising, their annual Champion Cup tournament started a few days ago with the Semi-finals, and yesterday was the Finals and the Champion Match (he stopped watching before then, though; once Piers lost, any vested interest he had was, too), but the reason behind its media interest now is. From what limited knowledge gets covered on the broadcast and what he hears while half-listening to his friends chattering in the background, he gleans a few things.

The Championship Match was interrupted and cut short by the man that was running Galar’s Gym Challenge, an older guy known as Chairman Rose who also runs some large company called Macros Cosmos as the president. The company responsible for the region’s ability to Dynamax. Racking his memory, he can’t recall Piers ever mentioning this name, although he remembers his dismissive attitude towards the battle gimmick. One way or another, it seems he got his hands on something rather colossal, kept secret underneath the Hammerlocke Gym—an apparent pokémon, no less than the size of a skyscraper—purple, glowing, and skeletal, from what he can discern with the blurry recovered footage. Looking at it (however vague it is) gives him a strange feeling, not unlike the bizarre pressure he felt face-to-face with an Ultra Beast, possessing a certain otherworldliness that even someone as oblivious as him can’t ignore. The grainy pictures of a swirling mass of purple and pink warped space forming around it reminding him of the descriptions of other dimensions. At least, what he’d imagine another dimension might look like. A suspicion that only grows when they confirm this creature also came from space, according to the legends and the man’s testimony.
Something about an “energy crisis” is why he released it, the rampage it went on more of an unfortunate side-effect. People fled in fear as pokémon Dynamaxed in the street from the strange aura it emitted, causing apparent mayhem and destruction in the visuals of partially collapsed buildings, but someone had to stop it. In this case—the Finals winner and current contender, alongside the Champion, and another challenger from the Finals. Not only that, but it would appear as if the contender is the one who dealt with the monstrosity directly, and caught it. When Wicke told him before that the Champion here in Alola was already informed about the Ultra Beasts and everything else that came with that knowledge, and she helped out with an unspecified incident involving them, he had been too wrapped up in the thought of legal repercussions to give it any deep thought beyond she is a Champion, after all. Given the opportunity of retrospection, it occurs to him now that if she was working with the police, getting asked to do something like what he’s watching right now isn’t far out of the question. He’s equal parts jealous, and a little unsettled. Ryuki’s always been the type to rush into things headlong, without giving much consideration for others, but he hopes someone was at least looking out for her safety.
A bit stunned, and sort of in awe, it leads him to mumble to himself “man...what kinda journeys are kids having these days?” Having forgotten about his phone call, he then has to go “nothing, nothing” to the confused questions when he accidentally cuts in on the discussion they were having, pretending as if he hasn’t been ignoring them all for the past fifteen minutes.
After this interference, it seems the chairman turned himself in to the police. They play a few clips from the interview he had before his arrest, his wanting to bring about another “Darkest Day”, something the newscasters briefly recap as part of Galar’s regional history. The name and sparse details of the event remind him of one of Alola’s own legends, one that he read about some time ago in Malie City’s library (before he was permanently banned from entry, which is a long story), and of the information Wicke imparted upon him about “stolen light” from an always-dark world. Ryuki recalls that conversation over the phone from a while back, where “after what happened with the president” was mentioned, and all the stuff he’s heard about vaguely from the employees at Aether—secret labs in the basement, an extraterrestrial beast with potential neurotoxins, a black sky where no light can pierce through, involving the presidents of two different respective organizations—he wonders if this is just standard fair for companies like this, if it’s not uncommon enough to happen twice in quick succession. He’s not sure what he’s putting together in his head, but it feels like something.

Needless to say, it all sounds a bit overly familiar to him.

He tunes back into the conversation just as Darley’s saying his goodbyes to turn in for the night, followed shortly thereafter by Shirataki (and subsequently Farley) departing herself, leaving only him and Charlie left on the line. After a brief moment of silence, the younger boy simply asks, “so, how are you doing, Leader?”

He scrunches his face up. “Huh? Didn’t I just tell you–”

“With your money, Leader. You didn’t say it, but if you didn’t complete their task, I believe they did not pay you. Did they?”

Abruptly snapping his jaw shut, Ryuki declines to answer.

“I knew it.”

Letting out an overdrawn, dramatic exhale, he flops backwards theatrically against the mattress with a creak of the springs—accepting the outcome of being called out because he’s too tired to argue, but not being happy about admitting it regardless. “...Yeah, so...I guess you’re right about that. But I did get some money, y’know! And they covered the fees for where I’m stayin’ while I’ve been outta work.” Grumbling a bit petulantly, he gripes about what could have been. “It’s not like I wanted that to happen. I would’ve caught it, too, if it hadn’t made me go beddy-bye in the middle of the battle. And even though I didn’t wake up in time, Dokudoku was still fighting on with all his spirit, y’know? That’s what they told me. He kept the passion going, kept going on without me, and I’m proud of him for that. It could’ve gone better, sure–but that was an encounter I could only have had here in Alola, and I’ll keep that memory with me forever. That’s more important than some paycheck.” Even though he genuinely means what he’s saying, the emphatic self-reassurances sound a bit hollow even to his own ears, with just how much his increasingly lighter wallet is beginning to ironically weigh on him. “It’s like I told you, I’m not gonna let anybody down. Like my pokémon who keep on rockin’ when I’m down for the count, or everyone I got cheering for me, I’ll keep going even if I have to scrape by to make ends meet. One little setback won’t change that, y’hear? In other words, don’t worry about it. And you can tell them that too, ‘cause they don’t need to know if I’m havin’ problems, you dig? I’ll deal with it on my own. Your boy rolls solo, understand?”
Even though he knows that they’ve been told about some of his financial situation already (given the conversation he and Charlie had at the restaurant before), he doesn’t think they know or understand the full extent of it, or at least not enough to lead them to speak frankly with him about it like the younger man is. It’s important to him that he push insistently that his reputation remains as untarnished as possible in the eyes of his only admirers, they can vaguely know that he struggles some because everyone does but he doesn’t want to give them any reason to think he’s not quite as unshakable as he presents, in order to avoid losing the one thing that never fails to make him feel like himself—like the great Ryuki, the star of the rock and rolling world that he insists he is, that he wants to become. “Alright, alright. I got it, Leader, believe it. But you’ve got to be more careful, chie–that is...Leader. You were unable to battle, it could have gone very wrong, believe it!” Ryuki automatically tunes the other out as soon as he starts chastising him, rolling his eyes and picking in his ears in response to the (in his opinion) unwarranted expression of concern. “Yeah, yeah,” he huffs in exhaustion at Charlie’s chiding, clearing his throat before his initial goal slips his mind entirely. “Listen, I gotta go. Catch up with ya later, yeah?”

He sighs a little, but drops the subject without further protest, putting some more pep in his voice for his farewell. “You better believe it! Goodnight Leader, see you soon!”

For a second, Ryuki is caught up on what he means by soon, but hangs up anyways. He concludes it probably doesn’t matter that much.

Opening up his contact list, he scrolls until he spots Piers’ name and pulls up their text message history. Back-and-forth correspondence has always been incredibly spotty, Piers has never confirmed or denied anything, but Ryuki’s always been under the impression Spikemuth’s reception isn’t the greatest (knowing the whole place is essentially shuttered off, including the sky, by a thin metal ceiling, he doesn’t think this is an unreasonable assumption), so he isn’t expecting an answer any time soon when he messages him asking if he’s safe. Checking all of Piers’ social media accounts doesn’t illuminate anything, he hardly ever posts beyond the every other month update of a picture of his pokémon doing something mundanely cute with the obligatory accompanying caption stating his continued well-being. Checking the indirects or mentions involving Piers and his various usernames across platforms is a different story, however.
What feels like miles of scrolling produces tons of results with only slight alterations, excited exclamations at seeing Piers appear in public and hearing him perform, and linked videos of differing quality from every single angle conceivable featuring the man himself—all of them having been uploaded the night of their Semi-finals. He’s hardly one to talk about spontaneous concerts given they’re the only kind of concert he really does, but the timing of this one feels a bit too purposeful to be coincidental, especially when he knows this is the first time in a long while that Piers has actually properly shown up outside of his hometown. Despite combing through every comment even alluding to him or what occurred today on the news, none of them provide any clarification as to his health and security, so Ryuki concludes it’s too soon to say whether or not he’s safe. Dwelling on it won’t help anybody though, so he allows the screen to go dark with inactivity, and hauls himself up to wash his face before he falls asleep.

Almost the very second he steps foot on the artificial island the following morning, Ryuki has this prickly feeling of eyes watching his every movement. It doesn’t particularly bother him because he thrives with attention, but the fact that it feels like it’s only coming from one person makes him look over his shoulder curiously, only to see a familiar green-tinted beanpole of a man quickly stop sneering to smile politely at him and wave. Oh, it was just Faba, he thinks, immediately disappointed. Considering Wicke doesn’t seem to be in the vicinity from a quick survey of the surroundings, his presence is nonetheless helpful to have. When Ryuki does a heel-turn and starts walking towards him, it’s clear Faba wasn’t expecting this escalation of events from the widening of his eyes, suddenly flailing his arms in front of him and backing away from the rockstar’s approach until he’s flat against the wall. Ryuki, for his part, remains utterly oblivious. “What’s your problem, man?” He half-heartedly mimics the older man’s frenzied hand motions with a quirk of his brow, looking back and forth to his left and right in confusion. “Is there somethin’ behind me or what?”

Faba’s relief is practically palpable.

He immediately sags out of the tense stance with a long-suffering sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose as his whole face screws up in an expression somewhere between what he assumes is annoyance and exhaustion, and starts rubbing his temple as he cocks a hip out to rest his knuckles on. “Was there something you needed, Mr. Ryuki?”

“Yeah, I was lookin’ for your assistant lady?”

“My‒” His face gives way to open surprise, eyebrows raising all the way to his receding hairline as he seems to come to a realization. “...Oh! Oh, oh, oh! ” Following an apparent revelation, Faba’s expression warps into something bizarrely giddy as he lets loose a series of shrill giggles, and Ryuki decides on the spot he prefers it when he’s scowling. “Hee hee hee...! Yes, yes, my assistant Ms. Wicke! Of course! Silly me, who else could you possibly mean? Allow me to go fetch her for you.” If before Faba looked like he couldn’t get away fast enough, he now strolls away at a leisurely pace, all but whistling to showcase his self-satisfied disposition as he flamboyantly sashays towards the elevator lift. Ryuki fortunately doesn’t have to wait especially long until he returns with Wicke, still sauntering with a pleased sway to his hips as they come towards him (he was hoping that whatever put Faba in such an unnervingly good mood would be gone by the time he came back, but no such luck). Despite the older man’s deeply unpleasant energy, Wicke is no less amiable and serene than she usually is, smiling kindly with her hands folded in front of her—the very picture of grace. In fact, she seems rather used to this sort of behaviour coming from him, not phased in the slightest by the strange attitude. Half of him is in absolute awe at her saintlike display of constant serenity, and the other half is utterly dumbfounded why she’s not at least a bit unsettled by his uncharacteristic mood shift. The pay here must be really good.

“Good morning, Mr. Ryuki! You wanted to see me? Did something happen...?”

Ryuki waves his hand dismissively at her concern, angel that she is to express worry over his health first and foremost, a bit guilty that she felt the need to fret over him at all.“Naw, naw, not at all. My buds wanted me to get looked at, s’all. And,” he pauses hesitantly to pat the side of the studded red leather case on his back (one of the numerous traveling bags he brought back with him from Galar), rattling a bit with the pokéballs inside. “I wanted to get Docchan looked at again, make sure my baby’s as fired up and rarin’ to go as ever, y’know? Gotta ask ya about some stuff, too, if that’s cool.”

“Oh, of course! Follow me, please. We’ll zip right up!”

He does so eagerly—ironically, now he can’t get away from Faba fast enough.

Thankfully, this time he’s led to a normal laboratory instead one of the eerie ones in the basement, passing along Dokudoku’s ball to one of the attendants somewhere along the way. Even though the laboratories all have the exact same sterile and pristine look to them, the ones above-ground have a distinctly less unsettling vibe to them, so he kicks back and relaxes easily enough when Wicke directs him to take a seat on the medical examination table. It begrudgingly occurs to him that maybe his friends have a point to fuss over his well-being when the assessment of his physical condition starts and he doesn’t recognize half of the tests she performs, realizing he doesn’t go to the doctor’s office nearly as often as he probably ought to (granted, he usually doesn't have an option to, even if he already generally doesn't enjoy his health being put into question)—Wicke doesn’t seem to be horrified at anything she finds, however, so he supposes he must be fine. For the entirety of her evaluation Ryuki sits in obedient silence, until she interrupts it herself with, “what were those questions you had?”
He startles a bit at the sound of her voice after lounging for so long without a noise from either one of them, before her words catch up to him, and he gets a bit nervous in expectation of one of the answers (which he has a lot riding on, in the hopes it works out and saves his skin). He decides to start with the low-stakes one first. “D’you know where I can find Guzma? Where he lives, what joints he hangs out at, anywhere. I got his phone, gotta give it to ‘em. And...d’you know if that scientist talked to Ren–I mean, Toren–or not about that gig? The collab I talked to you about. He ain’t gotten in touch with me for a few days, so I was hoping it’s ‘cause that whole thing worked out?” Wicke opens her mouth to presumably respond, but she doesn’t get a chance to speak as a loud song starts playing (one he instantly recognizes as an instrumental piece by the Go-Rock Quads, one he set as his ringtone) from inside Ryuki’s jacket, causing him to jolt on the exam table. Pulling his phone out of his pocket, when he looks the screen over to display the caller ID, it’s none other than the man in question. “Speakin' of the good doctor,” Ryuki mumbles, and accepts the call.

Despite having been the one to call him in the first place, the line is immediately quiet as soon as he presses the receiver to his ear—at first he thinks that maybe an error interrupted the transmission and cut Toren out on his end, until after about twenty seconds pass and the silence is broken by a timid, “...H-Hello?”

“Hey, man?”

“O-Oh! I, um, I wasn’t s-sure if you were there, UHʰhh,” he cuts himself off to the sound of scrambling going on in the background, with the noise of things clattering together like he’s frantically shoving things off his desk (an unlikely event, but amusing to consider nonetheless), taking in a sharp inhale in preparation to speak as the other sounds come to a stop. In the back of his mind, the clinking cacophony of Toren knocking objects together almost sounds like a somewhat discordant melody, and he notes to himself that he’ll have to ask the scientist to do some beat sampling for him sometime. “I-I’m very sorry I didn’t get back to you until now. Um, do you remember when we were talking before and I mentioned Daisy Oak? You see...she actually got in touch with me a few days ago. I still...it doesn’t feel real, like it happened, I don’t quite feel s-sane–but I’ve been all over the place b-because we kept missing one another until his morning–but, um, they want my help with a human patient from Alola...d-do you know anything about the Aether Foundation?”

“Oh, yeah! You bet! I’m there right now! Of course I know, I’m the one who talked to ‘em and got you to collab with whatsername–Daisy. The patient’s name is Lusamine, right?”

“Y-Yes, that’s right. But I think her case is very incredible to research, a-and to treat, of course! You know about Ultra Beasts...oh, I mean, of course you do–oh, you didn’t tell me how that went–t-that’s not the point. Now where was I? A-As I was saying, the Ultra Beast that Ms. Lusamine touched, it emits a poison that numbs your body and causes you to suffer paralysis. It was still in the testing stage, but I was researching a highly concentrated chemical with the properties of a pokémon ability, with similar effects, which I found during my research is effective against certain human diseases and illnesses. I think it’s very...um, amazing to think that my research could help someone like this, a-after what happened, that I’ll be working with the Daisy Oak to develop a cure, I-I mean me? It’s just...it’s...it’s amazing! Oh, and not only her, b-but Bill, too! He’s a genius! I mean he...he researched abilities that are only possible for pokémon, and invented ways for humans to use their essence through machines not chemicals! That’s...that’s just...that these scientists I deeply respect think I could save someone e-everyone gave up on, it’s-it’s incredible! I’m–” Cutting himself off once again, the call goes completely silent for a few seconds as Toren’s rambling comes to a screeching halt before speaking again. “Wait...y-you? You’re responsible? You mean it...?”

Grinning automatically in response to the other’s excited rambling and shell-shocked tone, a sort of warmth fills his chest as he naturally starts boasting. “Hahahahaha! You know I mean it, man! Thanks to my star power, I managed to pull some strings for you! It’s only natural they’d be beggin’ to work with ya though, you’re a star, after all! Somebody just needed to introduce you, and your boy just so happened to get the chance to do exactly that! Believe in yourself, man, you’re gonna blow ‘em away with your blazingly bright spirit‒and y’can count on that as a promise from yours truly, and you know I keep my promises. You’re just as amazing yourself, got it? And don’t you dare forget it! The great Ryuki’s never wrong, trust me, I know what I’m talkin’ about.” Puffing his chest out in a prideful display, he feels a little guilty for having had some minor ulterior motives in setting this up, but is too drunk on the ego boost from Toren’s obvious delight because of his actions to care enough to acknowledge it. “Your boy did good, yeah?”

“...Yes, you did. Thank you, really, I mean it! This means...so much to me. You are great. This...this was very sweet of you...thank you, t-truly.”

When he hears the genuine gratitude and admiration in Toren’s soft voice, blood rushes to his cheeks so fast he feels a little dizzy, sheepishly rubbing the back of his head as he giggles in glee, relishing in the excessive compliments. “Eheheh...for real? You mean it?” A gentle chuckle answers him, and a gentle “yes, I do.” Any attempt at furthering the conversation completely eludes him, floundering a bit in the face of the unexpectedly sincere praise as the blush migrates to his ears and neck. Utterly at a loss for what to do with himself, his other hand comes to rest on his cheek while the embarrassingly warbly and pleased grin on his face grows. “R-Ryuki?” Toren cautiously pipes up to check if he’s still on the line following the uncharacteristically long silence, causing him to quickly attempt to pull himself together and snap out of the flattery-induced trance, as he suddenly becomes aware again that he isn’t alone in the room. A quiet giggle from Wicke (that she tries, and fails, to stifle in polite consideration) in what he assumes must be a reaction to his oddly demure behaviour is what finally spurs him to speech, clearing his throat and leaning back casually with a nonchalant tone to try and save face. “Yeah, yeah, I’m here. It’s no biggie, man. For real. Anyway, listen–I gotta go, I’m in the middle of somethin’, I’ll call you back–later!” If he even has enough time for a response before the call ends Ryuki doesn’t hear it, escaping from the conversation as quickly as he can manage, tucking the phone back into his jacket.

If Wicke is surprised by anything she saw and heard, she doesn’t show it in any way, calmly folding her hands in front of her skirt with the same tranquil serenity reflected in her composure as always. “I take it that was your...friend?” He chooses not to comment on the implications of that pause. “The doctor? Did that address your question regarding Ms. Daisy?” Ryuki wordlessly nods. “Phew...well,” with a small gesture, Wicke separates her hands from the resting place at her lap to bring them together again in a soundless clap in front of her chest, smiling reassuringly (more than likely) in an effort to soothe his still a bit skittish disposition. “According to our reports here, nothing was wrong in your check-up, so you can tell your friends that everything is right as rain and working just like it should. Not an ill effect in sight!” Despite having been sure and knowing he felt fine before, he still lets out a sigh of relief at the confirmation of what he already suspected was true—maybe all the fussy concerns and Darley’s insistence he was going to die got to him more than he thought. “As for Mr. Guzma’s place of residence, I‒”

“Ms. Branch Chief, nothing to report! Vitals are all normal, the pokémon is perfectly healthy.”

Wait, he thinks.

“Oh, thank you. You don’t need to use the formal title, though, just Ms. Wicke will do,” nodding with a small smile to the employee who interrupted by walking in through the automatic door, she takes the pokéball held in her subordinate’s grasp, turning her attention back to Ryuki as the worker leaves back out the door with a hiss of compressed air. “Now, what was I...?”

Wait a second, he thinks.

“Oh, yes! You wanted to know where to find Mr. Guzma. I’m afraid I couldn’t say...he doesn’t truly have one, but his parents reside in Melemele on Route 2, beside the motel there. You may find him there, or in Iki Town, where he sometimes does work for the kahuna. There’s also, as you already know, Po Town. As far as I know, it’s now completely abandoned, but Team Skull did reside there once. He has also been known to frequent the Battle Tree or challenge the Champion, tour Malie Garden, or visit the beach on Hau’oli...that’s all I can think of, I’m afraid. I’m sorry that’s all I can give you.” With a displeased crease to her brow at being unable to pinpoint a specific place for him to search, Wicke walks up to him and gently takes hold of his wrist, placing the pokéball in his palm. “Here is your dragonite. If you would like to use it, we have our own ferry service docked below that can take you to the other islands at a faster pace than the standard models, for your convenience.” Stepping back into a respectful distance, she once again folds her hands in front of her hips, blinking innocuously behind her glasses. “I would like to offer you good luck in your search, Mr. Ryuki. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be getting back to work.”

“...Wait.”

“Hm?”

“You’re the Branch Chief?”

“Oh, yes, I am.”

“...I thought Faba was the Branch Chief?”

“O-Oh,” she laughs openly with mirth, more visibly jovial than he’s ever seen her before, only having been acquainted with the same courteously neutral upturn of her lips until now. “I’m afraid he isn’t, not anymore. I don’t think he will return to the position anytime soon...I was given it a long time ago when Madam Lusamine first fell ill and Master Gladion took over. I swear, that Faba...I’m sorry if he told you that. Please just go along with it.”

“But...why? ”

She smiles in that tactfully prudent way again, eyes twinkling pleasantly as her words contradict her expression. “He’s easier to work with if I let him believe he still has some power over me.”

She really is a saint, Ryuki concludes.

(He only realizes later that it completely slipped his mind to ask her about where the kahuna was.)

With the offer of providing ocean transportation already on the table, he gleefully accepts the invitation, starting off the day in a remarkably good mood after being showered with praise. To his disappointment, he doesn’t see Dulse—or the back of him—on his way out. As soon as they pull ashore of the mainland, Ryuki pulls up a map of Alola on his phone, jotting down a quick list of all the viable locations to check out. Some of them are automatically disqualified; he’s simply not in the mood to trek all the way up to the peak of Mount Lanakila only to freeze his fingers off should his target not be there, you couldn’t convince him to go back inside Po Town even if you tried (which, now that he thinks about it, is a lot like Spikemuth but worse), and they won’t let him into the Battle Tree because he’s never held a position of Champion-like repute and can’t otherwise afford the cost for a pass to participate (which makes rather curious how Guzma got let in)—no matter how much he begs them to let him past so he can try and score some music endorsements from the at least a dozen famous people who frequent the facility.

Idly, he wonders if Grimsley is allowed in.

Gotta be, he thinks, Ain't he a member of an Elite Four?

He wonders if Grimsley could score him an invite.

After taking out some potential locations and organizing them by distance to his current vicinity at the Hau’oli Marina, the list ends up like this:
1.) Hau’oli beach.
2.) The house on Route 2.
3.) Iki Town.
4.) Malie Garden.

Starting at the top of the list, Ryuki cracks his neck with a sigh—it might be a long day, better get to it.

Without his usual ensemble on, the saltwater doesn’t pose near as much of a threat as it would otherwise, but he’s still not exactly keen on getting sand in his shoes, so he surveys the beachfront at a distance regardless. The whole thing is essentially observable from the vantage point above the slopes; some swimmers sunbathing, a few pokémon, some umbrellas and lounge chairs. It’s a pretty small beach. His eyes glance over a pyukumuku lounging on the shore, and distantly he remembers that part-time chucking job at the Hano Grand Resort’s own beach—he really ought to take advantage of that soon, given he’s strapped for cash. Everything else aside, even just a cursory glance tells him Guzma definitely isn’t here. So that’s one place down, three more to go.

1.) Hau’oli beach.

Some part of him feels vaguely uncomfortable about meeting the man’s parents when he barely knows him himself, but the other part is a bit interested what sort of people could’ve produced such a behemoth of a man, and it’s not as if he has much choice in where Guzma hangs out (and subsequently where he has to search). He’s actually seen the house before, on previous visits to Alola when he stayed in the motel next door, albeit he was entirely oblivious who it belonged to then. Given the child-sized swing behind the fence, he’d always assumed that there was a child living there—he supposes they must be big on sentimentality, or that they don’t like disposing of furniture, one or the other. When he marches up to knock on the door, he confidently and loudly rasps his knuckles against the wood in spite of any reservations, eager to get on with it and at last complete this chore he’s had hanging over his head.
There’s some shuffling inside and muffled conversation as they probably peer at him through the peephole, murmuring behind the door about their surprise visitor and whether or not he's a peddler, after which, who he presumes to be Guzma’s dad simply yells, “we’re not interested!” Ironically, for once Ryuki doesn’t have anything on his person to promote himself—he wonders what kind of door-to-door salesmen they get in Alola where expecting a twenty-something man with a leader-studded case-backpack and wearing a Spikemuth Gym t-shirt is considered standard. “I’m not sellin’ anything,” he shouts back through the still closed door. They continue to talk to each other on the other side of the several inch thick block of wood separating them, as he gets increasingly annoyed at the fact they won’t just simply open it. “I’m lookin’ for Guzma!” More shuffling and subdued whispering follows as the gruff voice speaks again. “He isn’t here. Listen, I don’t care what that boy of mine gets up to after he ran away without even a word to his parents. But if you’re one of those troublemakers that like to follow him around, you’d best get lost before I set you straight! We don’t care for no good punks in this house.”

All that comes to mind is a confused huh?

With a stomping sound of the man inside moving away, the woman replaces him at the door, speaking more low and calm, without her husband at the door to monitor her words. “I know there’s a lot of rumours flying around, saying our Guzma was up to no good...but I know it’s all lies. If you see him, could you please tell him to come back home?” After a moment, leaving that sentiment to linger, she parts away back further into the house as well. Utterly lost on what else to do there, he simply walks until he’s no longer within eyesight of their home, before pulling out his notebook.

2.) The house on Route 2.

Iki Town is small, so small that he thinks calling it a town is a bit generous (and being from a small town himself, he thinks he can say that); it’s really more of a village, densely packed and sparsely populated. But even with the size being what it is, the whole place feels acutely lively and jubilant. The very moment he crosses the wooden threshold, a sense of contentment washes over him without any incentive, bringing with it a sudden burst of energy he can feel resonate deep in his bones. The abruptness of the rejuvenating feeling almost surprises him—but instead he feels distinctly at peace, leisurely casting his gaze towards the entrance to the ruins at the edge of town. It must be the effect of residing so close to one of the tapus, he guesses. Looking around doesn’t reveal any impossible-to-miss white-haired giants, but he doesn’t know which house is the kahuna’s, or even what sort of work Guzma precisely does here. Venturing further answers at least one of those questions for him. He thinks it’s reasonable to assume that if anybody would occupy the house that’s twice (maybe thrice) as large as all the others, it’d be the kahuna. Rearing back his fist in preparation to start yelling loud enough for anyone inside the large building to hear him, a man nearby approaches him with an “alola,” in greeting before he can. “Are you looking for the kahuna?”

“Sort of. I’m lookin’ for Guzma? Heard he works around here sometimes.”

“Oh, Guzma? He trains with Hala sometimes, but not today. Hala’s at the Ruins of Conflict right now, but he might know where you can find Guzma if you’re okay with waiting until he gets back?”

An idle thought occurs to Ryuki that Guzma is just as enormous yet mysteriously elusive as that top-heavy twisted mess of rubber and brass wires—they do resemble one another quite a bit, when he thinks about it. “Nah, I’ll just keep going.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, man.”

“Okay, alola for now, then!” Departing with the same gesture he greeted him with (this has always been a confusing custom to Ryuki, not only do they use the same phrase and movement, but there’s not even a change in the inflection; suppose foreigners like Dulse and his crew must feel the same, since they still can't quite make it sound natural, especially as aliens), the man walks back to his spot lingering near the sign to the ruins, while Ryuki crosses out number three on the list.

3.) Iki Town.

All day he was desperately hoping to find Guzma on Melemele, so that he’d feel accomplished and finish this errand with enough time to spare for an impromptu concert, not wanting to waste away the good weather for the day. But without having found him, he drags his feet to the docks in disappointment, and stumbles onto Malie City’s main boulevard strip late in the afternoon. He abruptly realizes he hasn’t eaten anything all day when he does, as a variety of scents waft down from the restaurants with a strong gust of wind to meet him. Wasting any time there might mean the difference between finding him or having the total day be a bust, however, so he ignores the hunger pangs and hurriedly shuffles into the garden—hoping that Guzma is somewhere within so he doesn’t have to update his list to go searching for the man through heavy rain and snow tomorrow.

4.) Malie Garden.

He has no such luck.

By the time he’s finished probing every nook and cranny of foliage with leaves tangled in his hairspray-stuck hair, the sun is already down and his appetite comes back with a vengeance so strong he nearly keels over. The bright illumination of the malasada shop’s sign in the dark looks just like the white light of salvation to him, clambouring inside with all the frenzied desperation of a starving pokémon, and no doubt looking the part with all manner of plants sticking out of his head like an almost nest. Thankfully, the cashiers aren’t phased by his somewhat feral appearance or his order of no less than five sweet malasadas (the only kind he actually likes, but is only comfortable ordering without any company to potentially judge him), simply directing him to a seat with a smile while they fry up the food. For once, he's tired enough that the disgrace of having a haggard and not at all star-like appearance in public doesn't even occur to him. He nearly passes out from a concoction of exhaustion and extreme hunger while waiting, but the second a server comes over with his tray, the honeyed smell returns his vigor in full force and he’s scarfing down the doughy delights in the blink of an eye. It’s like he blacks out—one second he’s staring at five of the most delectable looking treats he’s ever seen in his life, and the next he’s looking at an empty tray with absolutely no idea how much time has passed. He doesn’t feel close to fainting anymore, though, so he considers that to mean he’s safe enough to leave without collapsing on the pavement outside. There’s a certain shame that hits him in leaving the shop after his meal has had time to settle, allowing them all to see him in such an uncool moment, one that makes him avert his eyes and mutter “thanks” in response to their cheery goodbyes on his way out the door.

On his way back to the place he’s staying on foot, he spends the majority of the time blindly digging around his scalp, pulling out twigs and branches and other assorted greenery that clung to the adhesive in his hair while he was ducking and weaving through the less-traveled paths in the garden. This time he’s grateful that he opted to move his pokémon to a more portable bag than his somewhat unwieldy guitar case, and chose not to wear his usual full-body ensemble in place of a more casual outfit, even if it caused him to miss out on the opportunity to advertise himself (not that he would’ve had a chance to anyway). Having to lug around a several-dozen-pound instrument container packed to the brim with a built-in speaker and other products outside of just the already heavy guitar itself, and his additional luggage, in typically very hot weather while often wearing something not particularly breathable and warm itself, everywhere he goes—can be more than a little draining on days where he covers a lot of ground. It’s honestly a miracle that coupled with the heat of stage lights, and his pokémon’s red-hot explosions and fire, he hasn’t fainted from heat exhaustion before. It works in his favour despite the drawbacks; all of that combined with occasionally having to physically support his hefty pokémon (who from time-to-time jump on him in their excitement), ensures to keep him in tip-top shape for his nomadic lifestyle, and lets him able to keep things lively on stage. He’s never been the kind of person interested in spending his time with sports or in some boring gym, aside from the ones dedicated to battling, so this has always been suitable enough exercise for him.
During times like this, though—when he’s already sore and tired from walking all day in unwieldy shoes, and getting more so every second, as the rented mudsdale trots atop the uneven rocky terrain of Route 12 and jostles him and the rigid case on his back on the saddle—he wishes he were a bit less uncompromising when it came to his sense of fashion and his public image, or at least that his body could hurry up and get used to it. Even when he isn’t wearing his concert ensemble, all of his clothes outside of the ones meant for lounging are typically made of tight leather, heeled boots and tight shirts. Sweat always sticks to him for hours, leaving him damp and his skin crying for oxygen, and his feet aching from the pressure of heels and the tight cramp space they’re shoved into. Once he’s clear of the part of the path only navigable via the all-terrain hooves of a mudsdale and back on his feet, he dismisses the borrowed ride pokémon, and trudges towards the motel wanting nothing more than to take a hot bath and then fall asleep so deeply he could passibly be mistaken for being in a coma. As he’s approaching his room, however, he hears a familiar voice. Familiar from two different instances, he realizes, actually—the same person he heard shouting outside and baiting that Ultra Beast about two weeks ago, and the voice of the man he met several days later, who body-slammed him to the ground to guard him from the aforementioned Ultra Beast.

You’re kidding me, he thinks.

Ryuki decides that he must have done something to offend the tapus or some other higher power, because when he turns his head to the source of the sound, it’s none other than Guzma himself standing casually in front of a trailer outside. Witnessing the man in the flesh reinvigorates him on sheer force of annoyance alone, huffing as he exaggeratedly marches towards the other, not registering anything outside of his goal and unfettered in his single-target focus. Guzma’s still in the middle of talking when he storms up to him, but quickly diverts his attention from his conversational partner to Ryuki as he comes to a halt in front of him, digging through the bottom of his leather-studded pack until he locates the clunky black cellphone to present to the other man. “Man, could you stay in just one place so people know where you are? I spent allllll day lookin’ for you at all your stomping grounds, ‘cause when I asked anybody they were all just...‘nah, sorry, I dunno where Guzma is’ or ‘get lost’, and then I get back to my joint only to see you here–which ain’t even a place anybody told me about, y’know! So uncool, making me go through all this when I didn’t even get money for that gig–you owe me, man!” Finishing his miniature tirade with an almost dejected puff of air, he quickly recovers to put his hands on his hip, with a prideful grin. “You should feel grateful that I, the great Ryuki, was so determined to find you! Your boy’s a star, after all, and a star never gives up‒so, you’re welcome! I also wanted to say say th‒”
Guzma doesn’t even get the opportunity to take his phone back or respond beyond a mumbled protest of “being ‘your boy’ is my thing,” before a hand with crisply manicured (and sharp) nails clamps down on the device and digs into his palm, as the person he was previously engaged in conversation with—that Ryuki forgot was standing there this entire time—growls a guttural “you.” He yelps in pain and snatches his hand away from the stranger’s immediate reach, quickly snapping his head up to see a slightly taller woman with seviper-like eyes and heavy makeup glaring down at him, and opens his mouth with the full intention to protest her treatment of him before the recognition as that voice from over the phone before hits him. “Are you...Plum?” With the way she sneers at him in response to the question, he’d almost be inclined to think that the name is some sort of deeply personal slight to her, if not for her own response. “My name is Plumeria. Only this idiot here,” she says, referring to Guzma with one pointed finger, who doesn’t even bother protesting the insult. “And my adorably dumb little siblings have a right to call me that. You, though, you’re lucky I’m not settling the score right here and now for hanging up on me. How dumb even are you, anyway? You had his phone this whole time, and you knew I was calling it, even before the battery ran out! If you’d just called or texted or responded to any of my messages before it died, you wouldn’t have had to spend ‘allllll day looking’ for him in the first place, you stupid twerp! So why didn’t you?!” She looms over him with the cell clutched in her hand and brandished like a weapon, whole body trembling with restraint in expectation of answers—but he doesn’t know what to tell her, because the honest reason is that he muted the notifications so he wouldn’t have to listen to her potentially yell at him again, and then forgot about it entirely as an option until the battery was completely depleted.

He decides to omit the former half. “Whoops...? I forgot.”

This doesn’t make her any less angry.

While he expected that much, he underestimates the depth of her capacity to stay angry, immediately throwing back everything he says with twice as much animosity. “Since you’ve obviously got a lot of free time to waste a whole day looking around, you’d think you would know more about Guzma’s reputation. No duh people told you to get lost–we’re still Team Skull to them, everybody in Alola is scared of us. Are you stupid? Don’t you know who we are? You have a lot of guts making demands of us –just so you know, we can’t stay ‘in just one place’ because we don’t have one anymore! Not like you got any room to talk, if you’re staying over there, huh? I was looking for you, too!” She gestures with a jerk of her head to the cheap motel nearby, an obviously temporary location indicative of someone predisposed to wandering from place-to-place, a similar type of irritation in her voice from his unintentional elusiveness. “And we don’t ‘owe’ you anything–no one wants to see a sore loser. Took you long enough to give it back, anyway. I thought you were gonna steal it. Is that what you are, huh? A thief?”

“The great Ryuki is NOT a ‘thief’ OR a ‘ loser’, and I ain’t ‘stupid’ neither!” he objects immediately, hackles raised immediately in offense as he defends himself, taking up a more aggressive posture. “I couldn’t battle ‘cause that UB got the jump on me, and that wouldn’t have happened if HE, ” pointing very firmly towards Guzma, he keeps his gaze fixed on her. “Hadn’t been there! Me and my team members are strong, we trained for this–I came all the way to Alola hoping to fight an Ultra Beast! You’re right, I don’t know who you are, just that some guy Promoter Faba didn’t tell me about was trying to steal my spotlight! If you’re so infamous, how come I’ve never heard of you, then?” Parroting her words from earlier, he admits more than he means to in his worked-up state, too ruffled to think better about it. “I really needed the money from that gig, y’know! Why would I even want your lame stuff, anyway?! It’s not cool and it barely works, mine has style and is way better!”

“It makes sense you don’t know, ‘cause otherwise you wouldn’t be picking a fight with Plumeria of Team Skull! Good for you. Well, we can’t get another ‘better’ phone with ‘style’, because you’re not the only one who needed that money, idiot. Hmmph! We have more to worry about than just us, not like you’d know what that’s like, huh?” He tries not to let that one get under his skin, gritting his teeth before she continues. “I never have a moment to myself–I’ve got brothers and sisters to take care of, little siblings that have nowhere to go without me and Guzma being there for them. So, sorry if I don’t really care that you didn’t get to battle, and that Guzma ‘stole your spotlight’. Not like he didn’t save your dumb ass, so why are you acting like he got in your way?! Would it hurt you to show some gratitude?”

Petulantly huffing, his voice picks up even louder. “I was going to before you–”

“You knew I was calling, you knew I was worried ‘cause we couldn’t find him, you knew that my numbskull brothers and sisters kept asking about him because it’d been almost a week since anybody had seen him, you knew everyone was scared!” She gets closer with every sentence, every pointed jab directed at his chest. “You knew that we were looking, and that you had the only thing we could use to talk to him! And you didn’t care! You were doing all of that for yourself! You saw him before we did, and you didn’t even try to tell me he was safe! He could’ve been hurt, and we wouldn’t know! ‘Cause you let it run out! And all you can say is, ‘I forgot’, like it’s not a big deal?! Not even an apology!? ”

While before he was at least invigorated and affronted enough to defend himself, pointing out the potential ramifications to his neglect of the situation causes him to freeze with his jaw snapping shut, guilt washing over him so thoroughly it causes his veins to freeze. Despite how he looks and acts, easily and obviously riled up by simple statements, Ryuki has never been the type to get in heated arguments—petty squabbling is one thing, but actual animosity directed at him tends to make him freeze up, genuine and legitimate criticisms not sliding off of him as easily as spiteful slander. He wouldn’t be a star if he couldn’t handle some mean-spirited barbs in his direction, heckling and laughing about his singing and his playing, right to his face sometimes. He learned how to deal with people like that with a lot of practice and a lot of tears when he was younger, with his pokémon’s encouragement, pointing them out in the crowd to strip away their anonymity and dedicating his next song to them, make them feel ashamed to aim that kind of attitude towards another living being. But this is different. Her gripes with him are valid and justifiable, complaints he can’t so simply brush off with a loud, prideful laugh and a deflection. A star wants to be loved, cherished, praised. And when the reason he isn’t is his fault, it doesn’t feel great. Given the opportunity with his sudden faltering, Plumeria hurls all manner of insults at him in a disparaging tirade, only restrained from likely outright assaulting him by Guzma beside her holding her back with his hands on her raised shoulders.
“I can’t stand you! I bet nobody buys your damn music because your singing is just as annoying as you sound right now! Ever think it’s ‘cause nobody likes your bad attitude? You’ve got some lungs on you, I’ll give you that, but you don’t have anything to say. Do you?!” Before he can even try to retort, she carries on while his arms raise and his mouth opens, powering right through his attempt to recover from her tongue-lashing. “A star...hmmph! For all that big talk, you don’t look like anything special. You’re just a short little pipsqueak-nobody who thinks he’s a big deal because he’s full of himself! You think we're not worth your time, huh?! Do you think we're below you like everyone else in Alola!? Is that why you didn’t care? Is that why you wouldn't pick up?!” At this point, he knows she’s run out of well-founded critiques and is just striking out blindly in her rage or re-treading the same ground, wherever she can hurt him the most—while normally he’d be able to dismiss it all as misplaced raving and not let it bother him (the result of someone having a bad day, some internal projections, envy), the circumstances make it much harder for him not to take it personally, each grain of truth nestled in between insults feeling like little barbs and splinters nestling in his skin. “You were going on about your ‘lyrical genius’ like it’s something to be jealous over, but I don’t believe an idiot like you can write anything people wanna hear when you couldn’t even remember to do something as simple as turning a phone on! Are you even as strong and tough as you said you are? Do you really think you’re strong, that you trained enough to battle and catch that UB if Guzma hadn’t helped you out? Or do you have too much pride to deal with knowing that even when you give it your all, you’ll still fail to live up to everyone’s expectations, because you’re such a sore loser that you can’t take it knowing you’re always gonna fail? Honestly, your feelings just come off like idealistic talk–you’re nothing compared to what we’ve had to go through!”

While he tolerated every insult that came from her lips prior, this one causes him to snap—calling him weak and belittling his life experiences is one thing, but calling his partners or his family weak or inferior simply for encouraging and believing in him makes his blood boil, rearing forward towards her in self-righteous outrage. “Is that a challenge?! You ain’t seen nothin’, you don’t know a damn thing about what me and my pokémon have gone through! You want to have a battle with Ryuki, see for yourself just how strong we are, what our fiery spirits look like when we’re fired up!? If you wanna throw hands, bring it on!”

“Alright, I can throw down! Mess with me and my people, I’ll show you just how serious I can get!” His offer seems to get her just as incentivized, both of them separately up-in-arms.

Guzma finally decides enough is enough once he starts to retaliate to her verbal abuse and reigns her in, but regardless of how passive he tries to come across as, Ryuki could see him wince and make faces with every venom-drenched harsh delivery of criticism that came from her mouth—yet he didn’t stop her after the first one, or the second, or even the third. And even as he ushers Plumeria into the trailer with a mumbled “sorry about that, thanks for giving it back,” as he closes the door to the sound of them bickering a bit further inside, he doesn’t contend against anything she said, and he only barely apologizes on her behalf for the humiliating overreaction of publicly slandering a practical stranger in public. He knows he deserved some of it, that it wasn’t completely unprovoked or unwarranted, but a not-insignificant amount of it was absolutely uncalled for and crossing a line. Ryuki can’t help but feel that the other man’s lack of protest means he agrees with her. With everything she said.

The adrenaline and protective rage over his loved ones doesn’t leave him right away, still riled up and ready to fight as he stomps away in a dissatisfied fury, back to his motel only a few yards away. His anger serves to temporarily shield him from giving further consideration to anything was said, still properly worked up on behalf of his supporters as he slams the door shut and charges through the dark of his room, making a beeline for the shower as he furiously scrubs off all the grime and sweat lingering on his body. The steam and heat soothes him, a comforting rhythm and mist, slowing his frenzied breathing until the stream comes to a screeching halt with the knob’s turn. For a moment, he stands there drenched and naked in silence, staring at the droplets coming down the tile wall like it’ll show him something, before stepping out and trudging over to the sink with his wet feet slapping against the ceramic floor. With the white fluorescent bulbs in the bathroom bearing down on him, the mirror reflects a sodden and disappointing version of himself that he doesn’t want to see, someone who looks like a worn-out and washed up imitation of ‘the great Ryuki’ still playing pretend at being a star.
Something like this shouldn’t get to him as much as it is, no matter how true or accurate her accusations might’ve been—that’s all they are. Towards the end of their altercation, it felt an awful lot like a series of projections and deeply personal insecurities directed his way, words someone wouldn’t think to use against another unless they’d heard them before, thought them before. But this rationalization doesn’t comfort him as much as it normally would. It got him seething being disparaged like that, hearing such cruel statements, but that doesn’t mean she didn’t have good reason to be upset with him. No matter how much he insists to himself her opinion and conjectures aren’t worth anything beyond what was true—she’s never actually heard him sing, she doesn’t know how he feels, she doesn’t know his babies, his lyrics, his family, his struggles—he can’t stop them from poisoning his thoughts. Not after the conversations he’s had with Charlie, not after the chord she struck reminding him of the mistakes he made as a teenager, or the days he’s been having lately. He would’ve apologized knowing she had a point, had she not dug the knife in deeper, and now he’s not sure whether he should even try or just burn that bridge while he’s ahead. The fact he’s doubting himself at all serves as more fuel to the fire frustrating him.
With his bangs slicked wet back against his skull, he stares down his image in the mirror with a somber determination, like he could force it to change into something else by sheer willpower. Looking at and feeling his bare body, discouraging in the way his waist tapers, his hips flare out, his ribs start to poke through a bit when he stretches, the lack of significant muscle definition in his arms and legs. Even on a good day, he’s still sometimes insecure about how he looks (he still has a baby face, his eyes are too big, his brows are too thin, his eyelashes are too long, he’s too short, he’s too thin, who will ever take him seriously as a hardcore rockstar when he’s not manly, he’s not cool), but it’s insignificant enough he can brush it aside. There’s some things he likes, like his sharp teeth and his big mouth and his calloused hands, pulling on the inside of his cheek with one finger as he lets it pop back and slaps his face. It doesn’t matter if his appearance without all the bells and whistles bothers him, as long as he behaves like it doesn’t, carries himself the way a star ought to. With endless confidence, and a good can-do attitude. Everything else will fall into place. But today he betrayed that credence, right now he’s so ashamed he can barely stand to look at himself, so he doesn’t. It's just not his day. Not his week. He applies product after product to his skin on auto-pilot, all the while staring at the soap-diluted water pooling in the plugged sink, too cloudy to show his reflection. 

Once he’s finished pulling a few towels out with a flourish, there’s a brief moment where he’s immersed entirely in darkness as he steps back into the main room, having neglected to flick the lights on when he came in. The night has never really been his thing—while he likes the moon and the stars, the soft light pillowing down through the clouds, total darkness like in a shuttered-off room feels suffocating. When he was a child he was scared of it, so his parents bought him a sun-shaped night-light and a projector that casted constellations on his bedroom ceiling to soothe him. While he isn’t afraid anymore, it gives him pause, fighting the depressing instinct to crawl under the blankets as soon as possible and cry. Some days just aren’t his day, even if he starts out each one telling himself it will be. The appeal is strong enough that he’s almost persuaded to do it, still wrapped up in damp towels, but his pride and sense of hygiene keeps him at bay as he changes into his pajamas. You can be better, you could do better, he repeats this mantra to himself, an encouraging chant against the negativity dragging him down. You can make it up to them in the morning. You can show her what it means to be a star. Once he’s finally ready to hit the bed face-first, he decides against releasing any of his pokémon this time, unwilling to risk the possibility of paying for further property damage in addition to his already increasingly stacked bill. With a deep sigh, he bounces and sprawls against the creaking bed, and dreams of performing in an unfathomably large stadium with the crowd chanting his name.

He wakes up the next day at thirty past five in the evening (given the time, he guesses he won’t be making it up to Plumeria and Guzma today, but he supposes it’s for the best to give her time to cool off) to eleven text messages, five missed calls, and his phone going off.

While he’s still shaking off the daze of slumber, the noise cuts out.

Six missed calls.

With all the curtains drawn, and the room submerged in what dim light is offered by the little amount of sun that escapes past the drapes covering the window, pressing his phone screen on—which is set to only slightly over halfway to maximum brightness—blinds him instantly, groaning as he rubs away the bleary-eyed sleepy tears obscuring his vision. Once he does, he turns the screen brightness down. Along with the five previously missed calls are five corresponding voicemails from Charlie and Darley, ones which he opts to ignore for the time being, as a notification pops up to announce a sixth voicemail from Shirataki following the most recently missed transmission. Instead he chooses to click on the flashing unread messages badge, seeing the notifications split between texts sent to their group chat, and individual ones from all four of his former subordinates (Darley’s in particular sticking out, granted the at minimum twenty crying emojis, and the plea for Ryuki not to follow the white light when he hadn’t responded). Given the numerous and consistent attempts to get a hold of him, in a flash of panic, the first thought that occurs to him is that there’s been some sort of horrible accident. None of them are unaccounted for, all having sent him communications in some shape or form within the past hour, and they don’t know Toren beyond mere mention of his name to even tell if he had been in some sort of disaster (he completely disqualifies Selene as an option, she can fight and handle herself well enough, she’s fine). Which only leaves one option, because he doesn’t have too many people he could claim as friends—Piers. While none of them know Piers very personally either, he is a public figure as a Gym Leader and a relatively famous musician, and they do know that Ryuki has some sort of history with him (which he has never elaborated on). He quickly comes to the conclusion that this must be the case since he still hasn’t heard back from the other man, heart thudding in his chest like a jackhammer as he scrolls through what he missed while asleep. Reading the messages, though, presents an entirely different scenario than the one he instinctively feared.
At first, he can’t make sense of what’s happening; most of the inquiries are asking if he forgot or for his location, and all of the questions feature him as the subject rather than Piers, or anybody else for that matter. But as he skims through the rest of the conversations, he remembers the earlier mention of “seeing him soon” from Charlie and the preceding talk between the rest of them about where to meet up next, the same talk he completely tuned out for. As much as he doesn’t want to give any of them the impression he wasn’t listening, none of the texts exchanged give an explicit location for their meet-up, so he isn’t presented with any option that doesn't immediately out himself. Having that in mind, the question becomes less about how he can avoid giving himself away, and more so about which of them he should ask to save as much face as possible. Darley is the first to come to mind as the most likely one to follow instructions and comes across as the most eager to please, but he’s also easily peer-pressured and horrible at keeping his mouth shut, so trusting him with any potentially sensitive information is a futile effort when all of them will know by the time Ryuki arrives. Farley is more subdued but similar, anything he’s told ends up with Shirataki eventually, which usually results in spreading to Charlie one way or the other, and the aforementioned boy himself is obviously disqualified as an option. He doesn’t doubt that Charlie will (and already does) suspect Ryuki wasn’t paying attention regardless, but there’s a distinct difference in leaving the answers to his inklings ambiguous rather than confirming them for him, and subsequently subjecting himself to more of the younger boy’s lectures once he’s made aware that he was correct. And that leaves Shirataki as his only choice—who is, well, Shirataki.

It’s the best he can do.

She doesn’t chide or say “told you so” like Charlie does, or let secrets slip at the drop of a hat like Farley and Darley, but she’s a bit of what he’d call a wild card; whether she chooses to keep any acquired knowledge to herself or go public with it is impossible to predict, let alone whether or not she’ll agree to help him in the first place, and he can't figure out a surefire way to bribe her into fully cooperating on anything. But she’s the best choice he’s got to choose from, so he sucks in a deep breath with his fingers crossed, and starts typing. Right off the bat, he’s got a not-so-great start—rather than admitting to the truth of having never heard the plans in the first place, he tries playing it coolly casual by phrasing his question like he simply forgot, asking something along the lines of [WHERE ARE WE MEETIN UP AGAIN? (￣～￣〃ゞ] Shirataki has almost the same sort of weird sixth sense that Charlie does when it comes to him (though, thankfully, she doesn’t nag him over his lifestyle choices), and immediately picks up on exactly what he was trying to hide, teasing him by asking what she’d get in return for supplying that information. He completely flounders while trying to think of something to offer in exchange, but before he can formulate a desperate plea to propose, she texts him the location with a [juuuust kidding] and he lets out a heavy sigh of relief.
The relief nearly shifts into an irritated groan once he fully reads the address and realizes it’s on another island, he’s not looking forward to riding the ferry back when he’s too drunk to fly on his pokémon (he could opt out, but with the week he's had, he’d still be drinking even if they aren’t going to). While he’s somewhat infrequently visited Akala a number of times before, usually to participate in a battle royale or perform on the busy street in front of the dome, he admittedly isn’t very familiar with Konikoni City. He knows he’s been there at least once before, it isn’t a difficult conclusion to come to granted he’s almost 100% positive that he’s stepped foot in nearly every square inch of Alola even if only for a second, but he remembers nothing except for a thin strip densely packed with shops way out of his budget. Akala in general is a bit too rich for his blood—not only do they have two luxury hotels, one of which being significantly more expensive than the already costly other one, but the clothing store on Heahea’s main road charges more than 12,000 for a pair of cargo shorts—the only exception being the thrifty megamart on Royal Avenue that hands out copious amounts of discount coupons, but it’s precisely because they give out tons of free vouchers that it’s only a technical exception, because Ryuki’ll get carried away by the promise of a deal and end up spending just as much as he would without a sale on stuff he doesn’t need.

And that’s why he writes all his lyrics (and made the list yesterday) using Alolan Exeggutor-styled ballpoint pens.

It’s been almost a year and he's nowhere close to running out.

Thankfully, he discovers that the restaurant they’re eating at is a true exception to the rule when he enters and orders, as the worker manning the register informs him of their daily lunch-dinner special before guiding him to the table Farley reserved for them. Shirataki gives him an innocent smile as he approaches and is greeted by the rest of his companions, one he doesn’t trust even a little bit; when he offers up the same excuse he tried on her earlier, though, Charlie looks like he doesn’t believe him but doesn’t dispute the claim, so he supposes that she must have kept her word. For the next twenty minutes or so until his food arrives, he occupies himself detailing to them the relevant events of yesterday. How strange Faba was (which actually isn’t all that relevant, but was disturbing nonetheless), the official diagnosis from Wicke about his health to ease their worries, and his impromptu hide-and-seek session with Guzma. As he’s going through the sequence of events leading up to the altercation outside the trailer, recalling the conversation has him freezing in place mid-sentence with a open-mouthed grin still stuck on his face. The abrupt pause only lasts for one or two seconds but he can feel the questioning gazes on him before he’s graciously intercepted by the waiter showing up with his meal, distracting away from his brief hiccup as he furiously starts shoveling the pasta in his mouth to avoid having to talk again. After a very brief but awkward transition from the sudden halt, the conversation continues into something between the four of them that he can’t hear, drowned out by his heartbeat in his ears. By the time another lull in the discussion redirects their attention back to him, he’s finished eating and they’ve all had at least one drink if not more. “You never got to finish telling us about what you did yesterday, that you did! What happened afterwards, leader?” Darley tilts his head in curiosity, face lightly flushed from alcohol as he regards the other, and Ryuki looks at him while sipping at his drink—

“I dunno, don’t remember.”

—and lies.

None of them ask again.

An hour later and he can certifiably say they’re all drunk, if not utterly wasted. Darley is out cold on the table, drooling into a tiny puddle pooled underneath his cheek. The rest of them are laughing (himself included), but he can’t remember why, because his phone vibrates in his pocket with a text message from Piers and immediately grabs all of his attention. All it says, and it doesn’t really say anything at all, is a thumbs up emoji in response to Ryuki asking if he was okay two days ago, no follow-up. No explanation. Even though he’s currently far from sober, and as a result his tolerance for letting things slip by is far more lax than usual, this is an absolutely unacceptable answer to him. Unfortunately, given that he is currently far from sober, attempting to convey this through texting is quite the ordeal. Typing with his intoxication-impaired motor control proves to be more difficult than anticipated; he proceeds to spend roughly the next ten minutes getting increasingly frustrated as his fingers continually hit the wrong keys, grumbling in irritation as his unsent message unfailingly ends up undecipherable from countless typos, until he abruptly stands up (startling Charlie, who was idly tipping his chair back, into almost losing his balance and hitting the floor) with a declaration of “be right back” as he maneuvers around the table to get to the door.

Shirataki for her part, remains utterly unphased by his sudden statement, calmly asking, “hm, what’s up?”

“I’m gonna go outside t’call Piers, be back in...I’unno...sometime.”

“Send him my regards, indeed!”

“Quite! Ooh~ooh, you should get my headband siiigned...tee-hee...oh my goooosh, it’d be worth so much money...”

“Indeed, indeed! Not that you’d‒you’d sell it, of course?”

“Quite right!” So she says, though her smile comes across as disingenuous enough that Ryuki sees it more as her simply agreeing to humour him.

He waves them off with a “yeah, yeah,” tuning out their chatter as he dials and puts the phone up to his ear to hear it ring, letting the restaurant’s double doors shut behind him with a jingle of the bell tied to its frame. Clumsily bumbling his way down the cobblestone street, he gracelessly drapes himself onto one of the benches beside the lighthouse just as Piers picks up, sighing an exhausted “...‘ello?” He almost always sounds tired but it irritates Ryuki far more for this moment in particular, because the conversation hasn’t even begun yet, and he can’t believe (he can, actually, but he’s still mad) Piers has the nerve to be exasperated when Ryuki thought he might’ve been horribly injured—in a sudden burst of clarity, he understands how his friends feel when it comes to him, and feels an uncomfortable pang of remorse thinking of Plumeria. “What the hell happened, man? Y’can’t jus’...just gimme a li’l thumbs up like, like your whole region didn’t almost like...explode. Like BOOM. Also you’re performin’ again? What’s that about?”

Grumbling under his breath, Piers mutters, “eh, somethin’ like that,” and sighs again—which is something he often does. “Hey, Ryu. Why couldn’t you have just messaged me ‘stead of ringin’ me up?”

“M’drunk, ‘s hard to type.”

“...Ah.” With a brief pause, Piers sighs for the third time. “Was wonderin’ why you sounded more like me than usual, mumbling like that.” Another sigh. “Where do you even want me to start?”

He throws his hands up in a dramatic shrug so forceful he nearly launches his phone, sputtering in disbelief that he could possibly choose anything other than, “all of it?”

Five sighs now, this time followed shortly thereafter by a groan. “Fat lotta help, that is.” Six times. “Alright, let’s start with this‒how much do you know? I’m takin’ a guess that you saw the news?”

Ryuki waves his hand in a vague gesture, muttering incomprehensibly to himself as his memory tries to catch up with the conversation. “Somethin’ happened with your League’s chairman takin’ that Ultra Beast whatever out so that he could, uh, I’unno...make the sky dark again? ‘Cause...reasons? Somethin' about the energy. An’ he, um, inter‒dis‒uh...y’know...got in the way of the Championship Match. So your Champion an’ the challenger went n’ stopped it, an’ then the chairman turned himself in an’ got taken in. That’s ‘bout it, at least what I can remember.” There’s a momentary silence after he speaks and before Piers starts to again, in which he can sense the other man wondering whether or not he should ask what an ‘Ultra Beast’ is, but ultimately deciding against it as he understood enough of it as he continues.
“...Yeah, that’s about the gist of it. Honestly, I dunno much more about that whole deal than you already got from the telly, I just kinda walked into the thick of it without meanin’ to. Caused a distraction, made a ruckus, the kinda stuff I’m good for‒that’s all. Nobody really saw Eternatus ‘cept for Leon, Hop, an’ Victor, sure the thing blotted the sky out an’ whatever, but none of me and mine got close enough to see the thing in the flesh...or maybe bone would be more fittin’. Anyways, you wanted to know if I was okay an’ you got your answer, so...any other burnin’ questions on your mind?”

He does actually have questions he wants to ask, which is asking who Leon and Victor are, but follows in Piers’ stead and decides against it as he sprawls against the bench with a prolonged exhale. More than anything, Piers’s markedly nonchalant attitude towards his inquiries into his well-being irritate him, acting like it’s a chore just to speak to him—and with the buzz in his veins and the week he’s had, he becomes more vulnerable and defensive than he intends to, a distinctly intimate softness in his voice as he mumbles that hasn’t been present since they were last together. “I was...I jus’ wanted to know if you were doin’ okay. You don't hav’ta sound all...mad, about it. Like y’don't wanna hear from me.” Softer, still. A pout on his face. “If you needed anythin’, anybody, I’d drop what I was doin’ to come see you...”

There’s a silence on the other end for just a moment, before another sigh, directed more inward this time. “I...fuck, I’m sorry, Ryu.” The way he says his name with a degree of fondness still makes his chest feel a little lighter, the nickname he chose for him, even now. “I don’t...I didn’t mean to sound like that, it’s just...it’s been a long week. Just got dragged into some kind’a awful mess. I’m fed up with disasters. A lotta people askin’ after me for a chin-wag, or needin’ my help with something, I’m just tired. S’not because of you.”

At the very least, he understands that frustration.

“You’re makin' that face again, aren’t ya?” His voice is fond, even through the teasing lilt to it, a tone that makes Ryuki huff a little in denial as he mumbles “nuh-uh, mm’not” to the other man’s amused laugh. “I can feel you doin’ it. That face ya make when things don’t go your way. The pout. You’re not good at hidin’ how ya feel. Anybody ever told you that?”

He decides not to dignify that with an answer, a bit miffed but not in a bad way, as he circles back to the last thing he was asked before. “How’s your sis? She was in th’ Semi-finals, right?”

“Marnie?” Piers seems taken aback by the question but not unpleasantly, either surprised that Ryuki would think to ask or that Ryuki knew she was, but happy to gush about his little sibling regardless. “A bit bummed at havin’ lost, but she’s shapin’ up to amp up her trainin’ so she can take my place.”

For some reason, he gets this sinking feeling. “...Huh? Take your place?”

“As Spikemuth’s Gym Leader. I’m retirin’ from the position to focus on my music like I always wanted to, since she took up my offer. Marnie’s always been more talented at battlin’ than me, anyhow. I’m really not a great Gym Leader, y’know, feels like ‘s ‘cause of me that Spikemuth doesn’t get any visitors.” 
He remembers—they’d had a few conversations about this subject before, when Ryuki would complain about how dreary and dark and depressing the other man’s hometown is, wondering why the other musician didn’t take advantage of the region’s battle gimmick like everyone else. “It may be sad an’ fallin’ apart, but it’s home. I wasn’t gonna be a Gym Leader for some place I’m not from, somewhere that ain’t Spikemuth, just ‘cause it don’t happen to have a Power Spot underneath–I got my pride too, y’know? I can’t leave behind the only home I’ve ever known, even if it’s shitty. S’ppose it’s too bad we can’t Dynamax, but as long as we’re authentic to ourselves, stayin’ lively, and we got each other...it’s good enough for me.” Ryuki had always found his conviction to represent his hometown admirable, but it was easier said than carried out in practice, when the entire Gym Challenge became built upon the premise of being able to Dynamax. Given that in conjunction with the other’s lack of enthusiasm for a career he wasn’t necessarily invested in, the town was oft neglected during his time there and before, falling further and further into dilapidation and obscurity without sponsors or tourism to keep the economy alive. Support and diligence can only get you so far without the talents and passion to back it up, especially when he seldom left to show his face or advertise, unwilling to abandon it for even a moment until he could recruit someone more suitable in his place.
“If anyone can do Spikemuth justice in the spotlight and help everyone there reclaim their pride, she can. I know when it’s my time to exit the stage. And I can support ‘em all in my own way. It’s not like I performed the other day just so people could listen to my music, but if me getting attention makes people want to visit Spikemuth, that’d be great.”

“...Oh,” he says simply. Several conflicting emotions surge through him before he can think to process any of them—confusion, glee, envy, anxiety—settling somewhere between slack-jawed surprise and celebration on the other’s behalf. “That’s...that’s great, man! I’m excited for you. I know y’wanted to pursue singin’ for a while now.”

Piers remains oblivious to his inner turmoil, laughing lightly with something like hope in his tone, something Ryuki hasn’t heard from him in a very long time. Maybe never at all. “Yeah, I’m lookin’ forward to it. All this time I’ve been composing and writing a lot of songs while the city was shut up or empty, hoping for someone to take my place–when I was alone, with no one to listen to my concerts, it was like my soul was weepin’. I’ve got a lot of ‘em ‘waitin to be sung.” Both understanding and jealousy come to him in equal measure. “We haven’t caught up in a bit, eh? How’re things lookin’ on your end?”

“...H-Huh? Didya say somethin’?”

“Oi, oi! How carefree can you be? You’re the one who called me up for a friendly chin-wag and now yer not listening?” Despite the scolding, it’s obvious he’s amused by the other man’s seemingly innocent spacing out, letting out a small laugh. “You must be right pissed. Drink some water with your dinner, mate. I was askin’ what you’re up to.”

“My bad.” Clearing his throat, he doesn’t bother to argue about the state of his drunkenness, stumbling to his feet to lean against the picket fence nearby and look over the calm ocean. “I’m...” He stops in his tracks before he says anything; the truth not nearly as promising as the other’s future, but given the state he last saw Piers in (despondent and bone-weary, trying to keep his head up for everyone else, only motivated to go outside by his sister or Ryuki’s insistence), he’s more than reluctant to bring him down again. “I’m...good. I’m doing great, o’course!”

“Yeah?”

He tries not to stutter through his nervousness. “Yeah!”

“You workin’ together with those weirdos again at that, er...Kantonian Gym, was it? Been doin’ any gigs?”

“Oh, yeah, I’ve been gettin’ gigs, for sure–I ain’t been workin’ over there, though. Bein’ a Gym Leader isn’t really my thing, either. Though, guess it was worth it for you, huh? I’m out with ‘em now, though. Y’know...after knowin’ a star like me, they jus’ can’t get enough, hahaha!” Speaking a little faster than typical, hoping he doesn’t slur too much of his words, praying his laugh doesn’t sound forced. “You ain’t seen nothing yet, I’ve been havin’ an excitin’ time over here, too. I can’t tell ya ‘bout it, though, it’s a secret.”

“That so?” A soft chuckle. “Sounds like I’ve got nothing to worry about.”

“Nahhh, never! You know me! I’m always rockin’ with my pokémon! Gotta keep each other goin’ through tough times, passing through the fire without getting burned!”

“Figures. I’m well aware how positive you are. Even when I’m negative, you were always there encouraging me. You’re kind’a similar to my obstagoon, y’know? Solid partners to have around, even if you’re both awful needy. Not much gets you down, does it? All full of beans, s’ppose except for on gloomy, gray days and in soakin’ wet rain. You make everythin’ look like a walk in the park.” As much of a compliment as it is, he can’t help but feel like a fraud as his heart sinks with the praise and concern directed his way. “But I hope ya know I’d do the same for you, Ryu. If ya needed anythin’, anybody, I’d do anything to bring back your smile. We may not be together anymore, but I still care about you. I’ll lend a hand, if ya ever need it.”

The sinking feeling from before returns in full force, leaving the impression of going down the highest pinnacle of a roller-coaster, as his gut plummets with a tingling feeling of butterfrees in his stomach. A constricting sensation coils around his heart in a vice grip and leaves him temporarily unable to breathe, suddenly much more sober as he slumps against the fence with a sharp inhale, glancing over the water and night sky. The robbing of the air from his lungs only lasts a few seconds, but it leaves the tightness and some yearning regret in his chest behind, squeezed taut into a compact ball that threatens to overwhelm him entirely. He takes another faltering breath. “...Hah, I appreciate that, and I love your babies like my own, but I am not ‘needy’, got it? A star like me just...needs some extra love. After all, the sun is a rockstar with its own solar system, so a star as bright as me needs love bigger than the sky–enough to match the whole world, until I can hold it in my arms and make it mine.”

Piers snorts a bit, amused by his quick defense, brushing it off with an “ah, whatever” before falling into a brief lapse of silence. “...Sorry I couldn’t give ya that.”

“No, no, no! I don’t blame you,” he tries not to sound too frantic in his rebuke, feeling queasy as he lurches forward, unable to tell if it’s from drinking-induced nausea or a guilty conscience. “I know you gotta lot’a people you’re cheerin’ on, that you gotta look out for back home. I get it, you know I got family and others cheerin’ me on, too. Can’t help it if you got t’ give a lotta love to everybody else–when you’re sharin’ with that many people, there would never be enough left for a superstar like me. I just won’t be satisfied ‘til the whole world’s saying my name, understand? There’s only one thing two stars like us can do but chase our dreams. And I didn’t really dig Spikemuth, anyway. It’s got spirit, but it ain’t for me.”

“I know. Too gloomy, innit? It’s just too sunny the way you ‘dig’ it, with the heat cranked all the way to eleven. Not havin’ it.” They share a brief tension-easing laugh, before he circles back. “But I mean it, Ryu. You got me if ya need me.”

Swallowing heavily, he quietly speaks, “I know. Thanks. I lo–” he cuts himself off before the affectionate phrase can leave his mouth, more on instinct or impulse than anything—he thought he was over it and over Piers, he thinks he is, but in vulnerable moments like this he starts to doubt himself. “...Anyway, how’s bein’ an ex-Gym Leader? Take better care of yourself now, got it?!”

“I mean, it’s real nice and all. I’m happy. Don’t worry ‘bout me. Nothing to worry about.” Even through the reassurances, and the genuine joy he feels on behalf of the other’s success, it makes him feel a little sick. “We could even collab on a song together sometime, if you’re willin’ to.”

Somehow, he manages to find the will to speak after a sharp gasp of air, even through the rushing dread he can feel churning inside his ribcage like the eye of a storm. “Y’know how I feel about collabs. I wanna spread my fame in a way where people buy my songs ‘cause they want to hear my music, not ‘cause they see your name on the cover.” His face scrunches up in a pout that he doesn’t quite feel the emotion behind, whether out of habit or to maintain some illusion of normalcy against the paralyzing impulse telling him he’ll never measure up enough to see that happen, he isn’t sure. “After I make it big, then we can talk, got it?”

The real rockstar laughs again, a genuinely cheerful sound that leaves him stricken with equal parts guilt and jealousy, only hearing Ryuki’s characteristically stubborn refusal over the resentful connotations—his stomach churns in revulsion towards himself. He wants to just be happy for him, nothing else. He really does. But he can't help feeling like he's being left behind. He feels sick again. It could always be the alcohol, but he has a feeling that isn’t the case. “Yeah, yeah. I got it. But if you ever change your mind, I’ll be here.”

He grumbles in reply. “I’ll think about it once I have my own team of groupies,” a petulant, envious rejection of the invitation that only makes him feel worse.

Piers chuckles again, unable to discern the bitter inflection and mildly spiteful undertones in his words over the phone, and he feels all at once violently ill with shame so all-encompassing his mouth snaps shut with a click of his jaw. “Righto. I should get goin’, don’t wanna ruin your night out gettin’ plastered. Gimme a bell whenever‒or, actually, just text me next time. Night.” Ryuki can barely force out a quiet “bye-bye,” before Piers swiftly hangs up, leaving him blankly staring at a vast and empty sky.
Where did all the stars go? He laments, with no reflection in his eyes, and an aching feeling deep in his bones.

For a long and quiet moment, Ryuki stands there, looking out to the horizon line where the ocean disappears. He stands there and watches the waves ripple gently with the breeze until he loses himself in it, until all he feels is a numb detachment from everything around him. The soothing lullaby of the ocean waves under the moonlight, a balm for his aching soul. The sky, the wind, the moon, the ocean’s song, the grass, and the fence he rests on. Then he takes a deep breath, and walks back to the restaurant. Once he finally makes it back to their table, the rest of them have only gotten more inebriated, laughing uproariously in drunken happiness while he feels nearly stone-cold sober. Charlie is the first to notice his return (and Darley is still out cold on the table), waving him over enthusiastically with a “how was your call, Leader?”

“Didja...a-hic-ask about getting my headband signed?”

He inhales sharply through his nose as he pulls his chair out, forcing himself to plaster on a simple-minded grin, like nothing is wrong (because nothing is). “Nah, I forgot.”

They all laugh—none of them think twice.

He loses himself in the motion of drinking and pretending, making himself laugh along with them on cue to a conversation he isn’t actually listening to, until he’s so wasted it comes naturally and the establishment’s closing in thirty minutes. “Whatcha thinkin’ about, Leader?” Charlie addresses him with his head resting on his arms, looking up at him with an innocently curious gaze that burns right through the core of him; he smiles dopily through the stinging pain, and prays he’s smashed enough to improvise his way out of an interrogation. “Nothin’ much. Jus’ thinking ‘bout what I should do next. Was thinkin’ I oughta pull some strings t’ get let in at th’ Battle Tree, maybe ask around for some side gigs...y’know.” The younger boy makes an awkward face, avoiding his eyes with a furrowed brow and a conflicted look as he kneads at the flesh of his lip with his teeth. Ryuki’s drunk enough to ask, even though he has a feeling he’ll regret it. “What?”
At being brought to the focus of the conversation, Charlie shrinks further into himself, twiddling his thumbs—he has to hold himself back from snapping the question again, tensely strung like a tight rubber band pulled back, ready to go flying or give way and come apart just as quickly. “It’s just...I’ll always support you, Leader, believe it...but,” he pauses to worry at his lips, and Ryuki feels the sinking sensation anew at full force, submerging him—he thinks, don’t give up on me—and drowns. “If you...y’know, if you came back to work at the Kantonian Gym with us, you...you wouldn’t need side jobs, believe it.” It’ll all work out. It has to. Believe me, I’m a star, remember? “You’ve...you’ve done well to get this far on your own, believe it, but...you did not succeed in capturing th...that Ultra Beast, a-and what tasks will you be given? You have not been let in t’ the Battle Tree before, chief!” I'm your star, your boy! “I really want things to work out like you...you want ‘em to, Leader, believe it or‒or not.” Aren't I? “I’m just...I’m worried about you, we–we all are! Darley though you were gonna d-die ‘cause you were so reckless, chi–I mean Leader, believe it!” When I say you can count on me, it’s true! “And that’s not all you’re not careful about, you’ve been carried away all this time traveling, an’ nothing’s changed.” But it feels like I can’t count on you. “Y’don’t have any plan, and I dunno how long you can keep refusing t’ go along with us and do this ‘rockstar style’ before somethin’ bad happens. Maybe it’s not your dream, b-but it’s a job, and it pays. Things don’t always work out. So...it’s smart to have a back-up, believe me.”

Some part of him is distantly surprised when the usual defensive anger or thoughtful solloquies over his way of life doesn’t bubble up out of him in response, but he’s worn down from fighting and resisting against his better judgement, and Charlie’s words settle over him like a blanket of soft resignation. “...I miss you,” he nearly misses the other’s quiet admittance, strangely vulnerable and child-like with the alcohol stripping away the mask of self-reliant responsibility he always hides behind, and Ryuki can actually see him as the afraid, younger boy he’s been this entire time, the way he looks up to him just like the others; Shirataki and Farley murmur their quiet assent, and he finally acknowledges what he perceived to be Charlie’s lack of faith in him for what it always was—realism. He thinks of Piers, of the people who he has back home, of Plumeria and Guzma and the little siblings she looks out for. And he thinks of the people cheering him on back home.

Maybe it’s finally time for him to face the music, so to speak.

“...I’ll think about it.”

Charlie startles at him suddenly speaking up in a gruff mumble, voice going shrill in surprise. “H-Huh?”

“I said I’ll think about it. You’re...you’re right, I dunno how much longer I can scrape by like this. I’ll...if y’can get me a gig back at the Kantonian Gym again, I’ll... think about it. Just think! I’m not sayin’ I will!”

“R-Really?! You’ll come back to the Gym of Kanto?! This is huge, believe it!”

“I said I’ll think about it–”

Shirataki is alerted to the topic of their hushed by Charlie’s excited yelling, immediately whipping around to face them.

“You’re quite serious, Leader!?”

All three of them immediately erupt into high-spirited boisterity, enough so that their volume and jostling of the table finally jolts Darley awake, who is instantly swept into the ecstatic celebration. The blatant enthusiasm in their voices at the mere prospect of having Ryuki back in the job with them is almost painfully touching (completely ignoring the fact he didn’t fully commit to anything, his heart constricts on something akin to remorse at the thought that he abandoned them, that without him they just can’t operate the same way—even if Charlie’s the only one to ever give a fraction of voice to it. And it’s not like it was ever a bad gig, he was perfectly happy with it, he even made enough money to eat food that wasn’t instant or ready-made on the semi-regular; it was the best setup he ever had, all things considered. Then he got restless, itching for a change in the established routine, desperate to feel like he was actively doing something to bring his aspirations to fruition—so he left. This is how he’s always been, constantly on the move to seek out any opportunity he can find that might end up being his big break. It’s never really occurred to him that anyone would want him to stay.
When he left his hometown, swearing he’d make them all proud as an overseas sensation, they sent him off cheering with “good luck!” Nobody tried to hold him back or stop him, even his overly supportive and loving family that were surely sad to see him go, so he assumed they were happy to part ways as long as he was. When he expressed wanting to quit working and travel away from Alola, all he was met with was supportive encouragement and variations of “hope to see you soon” that all sound to him now like reluctance to part, but refusal to hold him back from his own pursuits. Even Piers never made any attempt to stop him from splitting up and leaving (even if he was sad, even if they were both sad, even if they wished things could’ve gone differently), waving as he was on his way out, wishing him well. It was the best thing he’d ever had, to be with a musician he admired and respected so much after fumbling his way through scoring a date then a relationship with him, and he threw it away because it wasn’t enough. He wasn’t doing enough to aim for the top, not there in Spikemuth. Even if they were both poor at the time, scraping by without much excitement, they had each other—and now because Piers didn’t stop him, he’s getting recognized for his musical talents, while Ryuki’s still right where he was when they met. All because he became a Gym Leader himself, idolized and known by his local community for the prestige of being associated with a League, as well as sticking around in Galar long enough (in fact, never having left) for his face to be a regular site to the locals and most visiting tourists.
Maybe, he thinks, hangin’ around in Alola for longer ain’t a half-bad idea if more people know my name. Being the Gym Leader of the Kantonian Gym isn’t entirely the same as the notoriety of being affiliated with a real one, but some of the people here already know who he is, so at least he’s got a foundation to start on, and it’s the best and only option he’s got. He only wishes that the thought of it didn’t put such a sour taste in his mouth—he can’t tell if it’s because it feels like he’s betraying everyone from his hometown who cheered him on, or because he knows he’s settling for something (even if only temporarily) that could never fully satisfy him, all because he’s not strong enough to carry him and his pokémon all through passion alone. Running out of money affects more than just him. When he was on the streets as a teenager, he only had one pokémon to care for, so scraping by wasn’t as much of an issue. But now, there’s far more babies he has to look after, and they won’t be able to keep fighting for his dreams if he can’t support them himself.

“All riiiight, that’s enough,” he grumbles in mock-annoyance at their clear excitement even though he’s entirely drowned out, standing up and ushering them all out of the restaurant as the workers nervously linger behind them, too hesitant to outright kick them out but clearly wanting to close up shop. “It’s late, we should all get headin’ home,” his breath comes out in a visible burst of cold air as they’re all lingering on the dimly lit street, huddled together underneath the street lamps. Charlie comes up to him as they’re all saying their goodbyes, enveloping him a tight hug so suddenly that he flinches involuntarily, taken aback by the startlingly fast movement and the uncommon display of affection. When he releases the hold, Charlie beams up at him in a grin so wide he can almost see the gums of his teeth, wiping away a happy tear forming in his eye with a curled finger.

“Th-Thank you, Leader. I’ll be seeing you soon, you better believe it!”

Though he’s always been predisposed towards high spirits, he sounds more cheerful towards him than Ryuki’s heard him in a good long while—it only further serves to jumble up his thoughts.

While he dreaded the inevitability of having to take the ferry back, he ends up puking before he can even reach the terminal, emptying his stomach completely until the only thing he’s left with is the residual feeling of nausea. Once he finally manages to stand up on shaky legs and keep walking, when he arrives at the terminal it’s another five minutes until the next ship arrives—minutes which he spends in the bathroom washing out his mouth and panting into the sink trying to stave off the dizzying cold sweats racing down his spine. By the time he’s boarding and setting off towards Ula’ula’s shores, the sea sickness-inducing rocking of the boat is almost comforting to him, in a roundabout sort of way; the unbearable queasiness was already there before he stepped on the ferry so the motion of the waves makes no difference, but at least the swaying causes everything around him to feel just as unsteady as he does. Once they dock and he steps foot onto stable land, it feels exactly the same to him. He was so imbalanced beforehand that the ship neither made it better or worse, the only true distinction is that everything else isn’t teetering alongside him.
Though he’s so woozy it’s hard to even think coherently without bringing about a headache, he repeats the same mantra to himself that he did a bit over two weeks ago, and whenever he has a particularly bad day—or a few, in this case. Tomorrow will be better, he tells himself. The jostling sensation of riding the mudsdale atop the jagged rocks activates a debilitating migraine that only gets worse with every trot of the pokémon’s hooves, but he reminds himself, every day can’t be a bad day. It’s been a tough few weeks, but it’ll get better, he tells himself. You’re just havin’ an off day. Tomorrow you’ll wake up and realize you’re being totally uncool and lame, and it's not a big deal to take a break from touring. Doing gigs at the gym again could be great and set the stage to stardom for you. He insists to himself, you can hold concerts on the stage there, just like you used to. Trudging up to his motel room, he inserts the key into the lock and twists the handle, gently pushing the door open to a space enveloped entirely in darkness until he finds his way to the desk by memory and flicks on the dim light of the lamp. Yeah, you only ever had them and the challengers in the audience before, but things could be different now! You know more people...like, y’should invite Guzma and Plumeria to your shows! After you say you’re sorry, though. Make her take back her words with your soulful voice, then she’ll understand just how much of a star you are! He carries out this conversation with himself, blankly staring into the light of the fixture until spots dance behind his eyelids. And you can even invite Grimsley to watch, he continues to himself, as he pulls away from the light to clean up in the bathroom. Once he sees how great the great Ryuki really is, maybe he’ll get you into the Battle Tree, he tells himself. Just like you always wanted, he tells himself, avoiding his reflection in the mirror as he washes his face. It’ll be your big break, he tells himself, padding against the carpet as he comes to a stop in front of his encased guitar resting against the bed. A little practice couldn’t hurt, he thinks, trying to goad himself into picking it up—but his hand refuses to move, so he pulls away, backing up to take a seat on the mattress. How about some singing instead, he thinks, just belt it all out, everything you’re feeling. He opens his mouth, suddenly seized by a long moment of hesitation, sitting with his mouth agape like a magikarp out of water.

JUST SING!

He gasps in a sharp inhale, and starts to sing.

The action is instinctual; he doesn’t immediately recognize the lyrics rolling off his tongue until he remembers the countless grainy videos of Piers from the other day, singing an impromptu tune in the midst of a crowded train station, packed with ordinary people going about their everyday lives without a second thought. It isn't his usual style, but tonight isn't a usual night, and the mood of the piece feels especially poignant to him right now. “The...only thing a humble singer can do...is sing a humble song.” His throat still burns from earlier, left sore and parched from the repeated strain, and his voice croaks through cracked lips unable to hit the notes—but still he continues to sing. “Maybe...my songs don’t make anyone happy.” If he closes his eyes, he can see the scenery. A bustle of bystanders around him as his microphone screeches some feedback, gawking at him with awed recognition in their eyes. “Maybe...” They all gradually turn to him with sparkling gazes, whispering amongst one another (“hey, isn’t that Ryuki?”) as they gather around him, pulling out their phones. “...I can’t help.” Watching him with bated breaths as they record his performance, quietly beginning to cheer him on while they stare at him with admiration, lives made all the more better because of his music enriching their day. “But still the only thing I can do is sing‒”

“SHUT UP! You’re so LOUD!”

A loud bang on the wall accompanied by a shout from the room next door startles him out of his happy fantasy, alone again in his room as reality sinks in—a world where no one knows his name, the real world, one where he isn’t Piers. No microphone in front of him, no hustle and bustle of the people going about their day, no adoring audience. Just him. He can hear his neighbour grumbling in annoyance as he abruptly goes silent, words that would be all but entirely inaudible if not for Ryuki’s exceptional hearing. He’s always prided himself on being able to distinguish notes by sound and play things by ear, but it’s times like this where he thinks maybe he’d be better off without it, as the person in the motel room grunts about his “shrill voice” hurting their ears.

“...My bad,” he murmurs quietly under his breath, even though he knows they won’t hear.

Tomorrow, he desperately repeats to himself. Tomorrow will be better.

When he wakes up the next morning to his alarm going off, he throws the curtains open with a flourish to let the sunlight in, and plasters a determined grin on his face as he pulls his guitar onto his lap. Every movement he makes as he reaccustoms himself to the sensation of his fingers on the strings feels unnatural, clumsily shifting his hands too far left of where they ought to be, playing a slightly off-key rendition of a Go-Rock Quads’ melody he used to have memorized. Or rather, one that he still has memorized—he knows exactly what position his hands ought to be in, but the more he messes up the chords, the more his hands nervously slip across the strings like he’s making a fool of himself in front of a live audience.

It isn’t until he strums his way through half of the song with a building frustration and acknowledges “this ain’t fun,” that he stops, sighs, and lets the guitar go slack in his lap. Tomorrow, he insists again, determined if nothing else. If not tomorrow, then next week, or next month. It’ll be better. You’ll get better. You can do better, better than that. You'll train, you'll keep it up, you'll get stronger. You've got to encourage everyone that believes in you.

I won't let them down. I swear.

Chapter Text

Usually, the busiest time of the year for him work-wise (which, because almost everything he does all the time is pertaining to his work, essentially just means life-wise in general) is the weeks before and of the Wind Festival, but the key word here is usually—because the next several months end up being far busier for far longer than he’s accustomed to, and not in the same frenzied way as last year’s festival incident that kept him occupied in non-stop stressful havoc, but only lasted roughly a week and a half before petering out into the same low activity that preceded it. This is a constant sort of engagement, but it’s not as all-encompassing as last year’s either, keeping him moderately tied-up with something everyday regardless of what it is but still leaving enough time in most of his days to be filled by whatever miscellaneous aspects of his life not related to work are left. He essentially occupies himself entirely with his actual-occupation-work, while simultaneously corresponding back and forth with Daisy and Bill about when their schedules can finally allow him to visit them in Kanto; he’s been trying to plead to the board to let him pursue this as a research project for as many weeks as it’s been since they first contacted him but it’s been slow-going, as any formal due process involving paperwork of any kind generally is. And then whatever time he has left is usually either taken by Callahan asking for his help in babysitting Kellie (of which the requests have been getting increasingly more frequent lately without explanation, but aside from that, he really doesn’t know why the older man won’t just ask Risa to do it), or Ryuki for whatever reasons.
For the past couple of months, he’s dropped the singing lessons significantly, if not almost entirely. He still makes an effort to contact Toren at minimum once per week (generally bi-weekly or thrice), and Toren’s itinerary is too jam-packed for him to risk asking the rockstar and potentially having to cram impromptu singing lessons back into his agenda again. Even aside from that change, he’s noticed Ryuki abruptly pivoting his usual behaviour in more ways than one. Avoiding questions or talking about what he’s been doing when ordinarily he’d be all too happy to divulge that information, calling less frequently than he used to (which is a bit of a relief, allowing Toren some time to decompress by himself however minimal, but still out of character for the other man)—and perhaps the change that is most concerning to him, Ryuki doesn’t self-inflate his ego nearly as often. If this were regarding almost anybody else, a reduction in over aggrandized self-importance would likely be a good thing, but because this is Ryuki, he’s frankly extremely worried. It’s not only this shift that bothers him, because with it comes a more noticeable lack of his typical encouraging and poetic tirades, hopeful and bright expectations regardless of what the future holds. And though he struggles to verbalize as much, having an overly optimistic person always in his corner did bring him some comfort, even if it can be more than a little overwhelming at times. It doesn’t mean that the dramatic singer has dropped his self-glorifying and overly positive deameanour entirely—he keeps it up and plays it up whenever an opportunity presents itself, but it occurs far less often in comparison, and he sounds almost forced when raising his voice into that now-familiar over excited fever pitch. Toren’s too afraid to ask in the event he’s wrong (and even if he was right, Ryuki’d more than likely dodge the question, anyways), and he’s been far too busy to make the time to properly address it even if he was brave enough to bring it up, but it still remains a concern lingering in the back of his mind.

Things finally align in his favour on the first Monday of November. After months of waiting in anticipation for his research request to climb all the way up the ladder of command and then slowly trickle back down again, he finally gets the seal of approval, an official go-ahead to split his workload between time spent in Fula City’s research pavilion and at Bill’s seaside cottage outside of Cerulean. The compromised offer is simple in theory, difficult but doable in practice. For each month that his independent research persists, he operates on a bi-weekly rotating schedule, spending an equally split amount of time working from both locations—while still remaining open to phone calls from both sources, and being expected to prioritize any emergency request or orders from Fula, being that it is his actual job and thereby holds the most authority.
It’s a heavy task load, and a lot to juggle all at once, but he doesn’t think he’s ever been more excited for something in his entire life. At the same time, the previously unthinkable concept of getting able to meet one of his greatest inspirations and long-time heroes in the flesh makes him unquestionably nervous, anxious with paranoia about all the things that could potentially go wrong meeting in person; it’s miraculous that he’s even gotten this far speaking to Daisy and Bill over the phone without screwing up somehow, he’s been waiting this entire time for the other shoe to drop, yet somehow, nothing has. Naturally in his mind, this means that something absolutely must go wrong, because he’s been long overdue for something to go wrong like it always does. When he expresses this concern to Ryuki over the phone as he’s packing things in preparation for meeting them within the next few days, the other man laughs at him. “I-I mean it!” His voice goes squeaky high on embarrassment, sputtering with his first impulse to defend himself, before he realizes he’d be advocating for something he doesn’t even want to happen and snaps his mouth shut with a red-faced pout. 

“It’ll be fiiiine,” Ryuki insists as soon as he stops laughing at the other man’s expense, casually unconcerned as ever about the sort of things that keep Toren up at night, plagued by anxiety thinking about all the ways everything could go wrong. “You worry too much, man.” 

Grumbling defensively under his breath (he’s been talking to the rockstar far too much lately if that’s his first instinct, instead of apologizing immediately and shutting his mouth), Toren murmurs back, “well, m-maybe you don’t worry enough.”

He doesn’t expect, however, for Ryuki to agree with a quiet, “...yeah.”

“Huh?”

“Anyway, it’s late and you should go beddy-bye early tonight, yeah? Remember what I told you way before, about how you were gonna blow ‘em away with your blazin’ spirit? You’re gonna do great, Ren,” he speaks from the heart, but rushed, spoken as if he’s trying to escape the conversation as fast as he can. “I’m gonna go, let you get some sleep. Nighty-night.”

“Ryuki‒”

He hangs up on him.

As it turns out, Toren does end up plagued with anxiety that leaves him unable to sleep, but for an entirely different reason than he initially expected—haunted by Ryuki’s resigned surrender of compliance, staring wide-eyed with terror at the ceiling thinking he might’ve hurt the other and irreparably damaged their (what he already views as very tentative, too afraid to confidently claim any sort of conclusive relationship for fear it will inevitably go sour) friendship, and what he would even do with himself if he had. It goes without saying that Toren doesn’t befriend people easily given his generally nervous and timid disposition, let alone keep any of them when most end up giving up on his inability to hold a conversation, and it’s especially rare that anyone puts in the effort to become such a significant person in his life as Ryuki has. The prospect of driving him away scares Toren more intensely than the concept of making a fool out of himself in front of some of his greatest icons. He’s never had such a long-lasting (cautiously labeled) friendship with anyone his own age that he doesn’t already work with. The only other person that he can hesitantly apply the definition of long-term friend to is Callahan, who is roughly a decade and a half older than him, and still there’s the matter of something he's felt growing contributing an added complication to his already stressful dilemma—something which he is currently refusing to acknowledge, which he has been refusing to acknowledge for the past several months. Such as right now, rolling over in bed and wrapping a pillow tightly around his head as if to physically shut out his thoughts. Whether or not this is an effective strategy is up for interpretation, but at the very least it sufficiently suffocates him enough to pass out for at least an hour before his alarm goes off.

After all that worrying over whether or not Ryuki resents him now, he ends up waking up to an enthusiastic ‘you got this’ text (in all caps with copious emojis and so on, in his typical informal texting style) from the rockstar, so he supposes everything must be alright at least for now. Enough to push it out of his mind in favour of more pressing events. He’s been to Kanto a few times, also all for work-related reasons, but the travel route had always been an ordeal in of itself—paid airfare directly to and from the region that left him stressed out of his mind from fear and caused him to miss his returning flight, or one to the neighbouring Johto that caused him to become horribly lost. Given his difficulty with heights and just about everything else, they’d all but forfeited when it came to transporting him anywhere, delegating those types of outreach jobs to his colleagues. The particular method of transportation he’s funded for is taking a ship past Fula’s port through the Decolore Islands and everything else in-between to Vermilion, and then taking a bus from there to Cerulean. Using public transit obviously isn’t unfamiliar to him as he uses the trolley to get to the pavilion everyday, but it came as somewhat of a surprise to discover Kanto has no equivalent system that travels in between the various cities. Fula is a moderately sized city, so he figured a route system would undoubtedly be standard for a whole region with cities not separately isolated from the rest by an inconvenient mountain range (such as Fula) but this was apparently not the case. He considers it nothing short of a miracle that they were willing to accommodate with his history and take his nervously-suggested option of a sea route instead of flying him directly, even in spite of the increased cost and travel time. He’s known about it for some time now given the docks at Fula City, but since it’s mostly known as a vacation travel or a path for mariners and seafaring career-havers, now marks the first time he’s ever utilized it.

While he’s aboard and watching the sun rise over the primarily still, blue waters, he messages Ryuki back with pictures of the gorgeous sight. He doesn’t expect an answer anytime soon, their time zones were already much different in Unova, let alone right now, and the reception on the ferry isn't the most reliable. So he puts the device away in his lab coat pocket and allows himself to be enraptured by the vision of dawn over the ocean, relaxing for the remainder of the trip and working to gather everything he needs for his upcoming meeting. By the time the ferry’s arrived in Vermilion a few days later, he’s in another time; it’s truly a unique experience to watch with your own eyes as the sun rises to the center of the sky and then seemingly retreats to start the process all over again, with his change in position dictating where the celestial body shines in relation to him. The city itself is built in all kinds of warm colours—yellows, oranges, and reds reflecting off the roofs of every building—their slogan is something along the lines of “the port of exquisite sunsets,” and although he hasn’t seen one of their fabled sundowns, from just this view alone he’s be inclined to argue their sunrises are equally as exquisite. 
Looking at the warm colours glinting in the sunlight and blinding him when the shine reflects into his eye reminds him unwittingly of Ryuki. Though his claims of being a star tends to evoke images of one twinkling in a dark sky, he reminds Toren of the sun (the biggest star of them all), glowing bright and hot in the noon sky. It’s hard not to make the comparison with his bright red stage outfit glimmering under the warm light, his blindingly bright grin glinting even in the dead of night, his generally exceptionally sunny and fiery disposition, how he lights up and elevates everyone around him to burn brighter, the only reason Toren’s able to be here at all—o-okay, that’s enough! He forcibly brings his thoughts to a stop before he gets too carried away in his head and accidentally misses the bus he’s supposed to take, awkwardly avoiding anyone’s eyes and shuffling through the small crowd of people at the docks with a face almost as red as Ryuki’s leather clothes, embarrassed at having almost gotten entirely too caught up daydreaming amongst a crowd of complete strangers.

Cerulean is farther up north although still a coastal city, but otherwise he finds it to be very much the opposite of the warm colours of Vermilion, primarily decked out in various shades of cooler blues and teals. As they get closer to his stop, he pulls out the crumpled paper that he wrote the directions on from his suitcase, double-checking his instructions for locating Bill’s cottage again. When he first asked the older man for an address, he’d said something along the lines of “erm...eheh, uh...we don’t got one” before telling him to just ask for Bill when he arrived in Cerulean, because “e’rrebody knows who ah am.” It was only after Toren expressed clear distress at lacking a proper guide did the more experienced scientist give him the vague directions of going north over the golden bridge to the cape once he reaches the city, and then heading easy down the path until he reaches the cliff-side at the end, and subsequently the lighthouse and Bill’s cottage. It isn’t ideal for instructions to get to a location in a city he’s never been to before, but it’s better than nothing, and it’s certainly better than having to resort to asking a complete stranger for directions.

The bus eventually comes to a halt at the most bustling section of the city, in between a bike shop and a regular pokémart, with the wide berth of their gym ahead, and the looming frame of a pokémon center beside it. He steps off the vehicle timidly, shuffling meekly behind Stumble who walks on forwards without any reservations, serving entirely as his support in a new area when he’d otherwise be completely stranded on his lonesome. The buildings may be objectively large or tall and there may be a hustling throng of unfamiliar faces, but in actuality he’s seen much more far-reaching skyscrapers that practically blot out the sky in his day-to-day life and been surrounded by far more densely packed crowds than this, so it’s less to do with either of those factors and more to do with the stress associated with being in a landscape foreign to him. Neither of those factors help, though. He’s the kind of person who was never really meant to endure the hurriedness of city life, too easily distressed by large gatherings of people and overwhelmingly lofty towers. Ironic, then, that he’s lived in such environments practically his entire life.
But when he crosses the golden bridge into the city’s cape, the greenery and forested area presents a new anxiety of the foliage hiding whatever could possibly be waiting for him within the flock of trees—so he supposes he’s doomed to consider the worst regardless of where he lives, save for maybe the vast and open plains of a desert (but the weather would likely do him in quicker than anything else). Every little chirp or crack of a branch as he’s walking underneath the trees sets him on edge, scrambling to grab hold of Stumble while resisting the urge to jolt and squeal to every teeny tiny sound he happens to hear. It’s less that he fears whatever pokémon dwells here or anywhere, but more so the prospect of a person jumping out at him, trainers seeking to battle, or looking for someone unsuspecting and easy to take advantage of.

The home itself is as friendly and unassuming as the flower-coated meadow and serene ocean surrounding it, but his apprehension causes his vision to warble and meld around the building like it’s warning him to stay away. But behind him is the more nerve-wracking experience of going through an unknown forest again, and he’s here for a reason, so he steels himself with Stumble’s reassuring touch on his back. “Pokémon power, pokémon power, pokémon power...” The oppressive feeling gets thicker the closer he gets to the door, but he’s already holding his breath anyway, so he powers through it and rasps his knuckles against the door in a firm one-two knock. There’s some shuffling inside followed by a muffled exchange, before the door is thrown open to reveal Bill standing in the doorway with a distinctly skitty-like smile on his face. “Hiya! Toren, right? It’s me, Bill! Good t’ see ya in person–yer taller than ah expect’d. Come on in.”

Though he already struggled to understand him over the phone, Bill’s accent is somehow even more unintelligible in person. It feels a bit familiar, though, if much more pronounced—he wonders if he and Ryuki might have lived in the same place at one point.

The shorter of the two steps back to allow space for entry, and Toren follows his lead by stepping into the space with his arms drawn in close to him and Stumble following obediently behind him. Daisy is lingering while waiting inside until he fully steps in (and he notices she’s a bit taller than Bill, closer to his own eye level) presumably to greet him, but stops before approaching with a worried crease to her brow. “Are you okay? You look a bit...purple,” she says. Oh, that's right, he thinks—and remembers to breathe again. “Y-Yes!” Gasping greedy inhales of air as he over-enthusiastically replies, he does the first thing that comes to mind, and bends over in a rigid formal bow with his arms sticking out straight behind him stiff as a board, eyes tightly scrunched together in dread as he cringes his way through a proper introduction. “I-It’s an honour to meet you both! Sorry to keep you waiting! T-Thank you for giving me the opportunity to work with you! I-I’ll try to push myself to meet your expectations with my research!”
With his eyes screwed completely shut and his head facing the floor in anxious anticipation, the deep-seated cynicism inside him having already convinced him he’s ruined everything irrevocably, he doesn’t immediately see Daisy’s reaction until he hears giggling. His heart sinks straight out of his chest with the instinctual assumption he’s being mocked (no matter how out of character for her he logically knows it would be), and by one of his greatest heroes and inspirations no less, reflexively snapping his head up to look at her before he can stop and spare himself the devastation of seeing one of his most admired icons ridiculing him for his incompetence.
But while she is giggling at him, her expression is soft, lingering somewhere between endeared and amused. “Gee, I don’t think I’d ever had anyone bow to me before, until Lillie showed up, and now you! How cute!” If he’d thought of something to say before that point, it immediately escapes him following her comment, as his face goes completely tamato berry-red in embarrassment. “I could get used to that, hee-hee,” she hums another snicker with her hand held gracefully over her mouth, before extending to him a hand to shake with a gentle smile on her lips. “Hi! I’m Daisy Oak. It’s lovely to meet you.” Scrambling frantically to return the gesture, Toren over-zealously grasps her outstretched hand in both of his, nodding furiously in agreement with her sentiment. “Y-Yes! Likewise!” Clearing his throat to re-announce his presence, Bill steps up to offer his own handshake as well, clearing his throat into his fist before curling his mouth into a broad grin. “And I’m Bill Sonezaki, o’course,” despite his smaller stature and somewhat clumsy nature, his grip is strong and firm, clasping Toren’s own hand confidently.

“Um...”

A higher, much more meek voice draws his attention to a blonde teenage girl with her hands fiddling the drawstrings on her shirt nervously, who bends over in a polite bow as soon as she sees him looking. “H-Hello. You can call me Lillie. Thank you for agreeing to help cure mother‒I-I mean, my mother! It’s nice to meet you...” Her voice trails off to become quieter as she straightens out again, wringing her hands and avoiding looking him in the eye as her seeming burst of courage fades away to timidness.

“Yes, you too!” Rushing to return the gesture out of courtesy, his sudden movement startles her which in turn startles him, causing him to profusely apologize for scaring her while she rebuffs them with her own apologies at having been caught off guard in the first place—before they can continue in this infinite cycle of exchanging blame, Bill and Daisy interrupt with separate exclamations of “lemme show ya ‘round th’ place” and “tea, anyone?”
Lillie immediately follows after the older woman, practically tripping over herself in her hurry to get away while proclaiming her stuttered announcement to help, leaving the two men standing alone together in the entryway and Toren wondering if he did something wrong. Bill sidles up to him and lightly claps him on the back much like Ryuki or Callahan would (he finds he doesn’t flinch in response to the unexpected touch nearly as harshly as he used to), offering a small sympathetic smile while shrugging his shoulders. “Ain’t nothin’ t’ do with you, Lillie’s jus’ shy ‘round strangers, she was with us, too. Don’t ya worry. She’ll warm up t’ ya eventually,” he pats his back again, lighter in comfort, before stepping back in front of the green-haired scientist with his hands resting on his hips. “Oaky-dokey, now that introductions are outta th’ way, feel like checkin’ out th’ cottage? How ‘bout spendin’ time with me, so I can give ya th’ grand tour? Ah got a lotta fancy gizmos an’ neat devices I’m sure a scientist like yerself would ‘ppreciate.”

The home itself is nothing particularly out of the ordinary, humble in nature and small in stature, but cozy and welcoming nonetheless. More interesting are the various inventions strewn about the place—the time capsule designed to transfer pokémon back in time, the dual-pod transportation system (which Bill holds him back from approaching with a hand on his chest, sheepishly saying something about “a lotta accidents” happening with the machine, while scratching his cheek and avoiding eye contact), a shrinking machine, the original computer he designed the PC system on, the first prototype of the Vs. Seeker, and a regular if-not-defective time machine, as opposed to the time capsule (which he’s also not allowed to get too close to, for undisclosed reasons, with his tour guide grinning guilty and offering profuse bashful apologies). He showcases the kitchen and dining area just as the shrill whistle of a kettle sounds out and declares the water piping hot and ready, while Daisy and Lillie shuffle around the counter to fill up four cups lined up neatly in a row, already prepared to brew with their tea bags. 
“Come back in a bit when it’s cooled down,” the older woman relays instructions to her fiancé before giving him a quick peck on the lips, leaving both Toren and Lillie bright red and wide-eyed at the blatant display of affection. Bill smoothly responds “oaky-dokey, beautiful,” with a smug grin at her suddenly annoyed pout, gently ushering the stunned-silent other man out to resume their tour while waiting for the drinks to cool. He deigns to leave the exploration of the nearby lighthouse that Toren will be staying in for after, instead guiding him through the various rooms of the house—the bathroom and the first aid kit inside the medicine cabinet, Bill and Daisy’s bedroom, the room where Lillie’s staying, and before they can get to the room Lusamine’s being kept in, Daisy calls them back to the kitchen with a call of, “tea’s ready!”

When they return Daisy hands him a cup of green tea (“I didn’t know what you like, but I thought you might enjoy something calming,”) and pulls out a chair for him at their dining table while passing over something floral-smelling to Bill, and he graciously takes the offered seat, with Lillie already sitting to his right and gently puffing on her drink. As the other two take their respective chairs, they all sit in silence for a few moments, only occupied by the sound of blowing away steam and tentative sips until Daisy speaks up. “So, Toren,” her voice addressing him catches him off guard, jolting up ramrod straight so abruptly he nearly spills his drink. “How did you get in touch with us through Aether? You’re not from Alola, right? Did you work with them?”

“Oh, um...my,” he pauses briefly, caught up again on that sudden uncertainty of how to describe their relationship, before tightening his grip on his mug and forcing himself through it so he can’t keep hiding behind uncertainties. “My...friend, Ryuki, referred me. He talked to them and learned about Ms. Lusamine’s...um...condition, and told a scientist there about me. B-Because he knew I’m a doctor and I always, um...wanted to work in this field of research. L-Like you, miss. Studying human diseases, I mean. I just never was able to.”

Daisy at first looks surprised, pointing at herself with wide eyes. “Me? I’m...flattered to be thought so highly of,” he nearly self-consciously backtracks to avoid coming off too much like a child confronting their hero, but Daisy switches the topic with a curious tilt of her head before he can. “How’d the two of you meet, you and Ryuki?”

Toren starts choking on his mouthful of tea mid-swallow at the unexpected question, slapping a hand to his mouth as soon as he feels the sensation in his throat to avoid spewing or letting the liquid dribble down his chin and make even more of a fool out of himself than he already has, face bright red and bulging with the urge to couch against the unmoving white-knuckled restraint of his hand. This presents an additional dilemma beyond the obvious inability to speak or breathe, which is that there’s no possible way to avoid gracelessly choking and coughing in front of them other than excusing himself from the table to hack in private, but this is obviously impossible when he can’t speak in the first place. 
Lillie immediately seems to catch onto his predicament and hands him a wad of napkins from the center of the table, which he gratefully takes hold of and hastily holds up to his mouth as whatever willpower he had left to restrain himself from hacking up a lung falls victim to that exact urge, stifling the sound and undoubtedly ugly visual of him heaving and wheezing behind the excess tissues pressed to his face. Daisy expresses concern at his sudden coughing with an inquiry of “are you okay” as she moves to stand, but he hurriedly nods and waves his free hand to indicate he’s fine, and would rather pretend this didn’t happen as soon as he regains his bearings.
Once it feels like he can inhale again without feeling like an unfezant with its neck absurdly puffed out in his resistance to cough, he closes his eye in a brief moment of silent mortification, preparing himself to speak (and about Ryuki, no less) without humiliating himself any further. Clearing his throat, Toren slowly opens his eye and lowers the crinkled napkins in his hand from his mouth, pointedly avoiding looking up to see Daisy and Bill’s bewildered faces. “Um,” he cringes a bit upon remembering the exact circumstances of meeting the rockstar, abruptly remembering how much of a klutz it makes him out to be—despite it being completely true, he at least wants to give off the illusion of at least being marginally competent and put-together, but it might already be too late for that. “I...ran into him, on accident. Uh...t-twice. The first time he lost his wallet and didn’t know until later...the second time he was calling to find a solution for that. And...um...catching me caused him to drop his phone and it...cracked. It was all my fault, so I let him stay with me until he was able to leave. B-But he asked for my contact information before he did, so...we kept in touch.”

Bill lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head in disbelief with a “phew” as he knocks back the rest of his tea. “Ya got an absol’s own luck, don’tcha, pal?”

“Say, what a wonderful friend you’ve found, though! That was good luck, don’t you think?” Daisy refutes him with a kind smile and a thoughtful finger to her chin, humming in contemplation.

“Well, um...”

A hesitant voice draws all their eyes to Lillie, twirling the drawstrings of her hoodie again as she shrinks from their stares, staring blankly at the table to avoid looking up. “Oh, um...so...I-I have a clefairy, you see...which is quite rare and shy, much like chansey. Chansey is considered to be a lucky pokémon, isn’t it? Because much like clefairy, they’re rare in the wild due to bad experiences with humans, having one is thought of as good luck, a-and they’re said to bring happiness...” she redirects her gaze to look down at Stumble with a gentle smile, then meekly meets his eyes for only a moment before skittishly looking away. “...maybe her good luck balances out your bad luck. They’re said to be kindhearted pokémon that will never grace the company of those with evil hearts, and will help any creature in pain, s-so...you must be a great trainer for her to be by your side. A-At least, um, that’s only...that’s my thought.”
Stumble coos happily by his side at being acknowledged, radiating pride in her ability to help him find his own happiness and fortune, and his chest goes warm with affection and endearment—tears prickle his eye when he thinks of how often he takes her constant presence for granted, because someday she won’t be there to support him anymore, but he holds back the tidal wave of emotion with a quivering smile to pat her head instead. Toren doesn’t know how to take the accompanying compliment for himself, torn between feeling more than honoured and a humble denial that he isn’t really anything special. He decides to let it go by without acknowledgement, focusing instead on his partner. “...Y-Yeah, she’s...a good pokémon,” he sniffles a little when speaking, soothed by the pleased smile Stumble gives him in response to the physical affection.

“How sweet!” Daisy’s sudden exclamation startles him out of his pondering, watching as she rests her elbows on the table and leans over to peer down at Stumble and gush at her, “you must really love your trainer, don’t you?”

The question makes him stiffen in embarrassment, stammering and waving his hands frantically in front of him as if to physically repel the question. But this does not discourage Stumble from wobbling side-to-side in excitement and making enthusiastic sounds of agreement beside him, rocking joyfully back and forth on her heels next to her horribly flustered trainer. “Cuuuuute!” The older doctor gushes again, giggling with a satisfied smile at Stumble’s obvious display of devotion. “It’s good to have someone to love and take care of, and to have them take care of you.” Her smile gets softer and more secretive as her tone drops quieter, a genuine sort of gratitude on her face. “I’m glad you’re being so well taken care of.” Though she’s still addressing his partner pokémon, his face flushes brighter in knowing he’s the subject of the almost one-sided conversation, freezing up self-consciously in reaction to the indirect praise.

Bill suddenly stands up, garnering attention with the sound of the wooden chair’s legs scratching against the floor as he claps his hands together, turning his head to talk to Toren. “Well, listen, that’s enough waitin’, let’s wrap up th’ tour with th’ room you’ll be mostly workin’ in?”
As he gets up to follow the other man, the other two follow behind them as well, and one by one they step foot into the dimly lit makeshift-hospice room. Most of the lighting provided is from the various buzzing and beeping electric and medical equipment, casting neon blues and greens off their cheeks. His guide’s voice falls to an almost-hush as if in response to the suddenly somber atmosphere, looking down at the bed where Lusamine’s resting, still as the dead and as pale as a ghost. “We’ve got her hook’d up t’ a heart monitor an’ IV drip, tried a couple things so far an’ remov’d a l’il bit o’ th’ poison from ‘er system, but...it ain’t enough.” Toren follows the other man’s line of vision to stare down solemnly at the former Aether President’s visage, a shell of a person and nothing more, until a movement in the corner of his eye grabs his attention. Slightly behind them and to the left near the top of the bed is Lillie, scrunching up her skirt in tight-gripped fists; she quietly whispers “mother” with a deeply conflicted expression and eyes shining with held-back tears, hanging her head low so her bangs obscure her face, as Daisy from behind her places a comforting hand on her shoulder with a melancholy expression.

Something about the sight spurs a feeling deep inside him that tugs at his heart strings, compelling him to ball up his own lab coat with one fist and squeeze the spot right above his heart with the other, staring down at the unmoving Lusamine with a fire of determination to help burning in his chest.

The following two weeks are spent training him with all of the equipment and procedures, sometimes leaving him in charge of the daily tasks like changing out the IV bag and administering regular doses of medicine, all of them essentially operating as Lusamine’s personal nurses. Staying at the lighthouse, he spends all of the time left to his own devices concocting various formulas and potions, or working on whatever comes his way from back home. He eventually explores the entire property, regardless of how important it may actually be to his research and work goals; with his work and crazy luck, there’s no way to tell what would become relevant information one day if he overlooks it.
By the time he’s due to return in Fula the passage of time seems to have snuck up on him entirely, because it takes him completely off-guard to realize a whole two weeks have already passed while he was working, too preoccupied to even acknowledge anything but the tasks placed directly in front of him until that task just so happens to be the calendar on his phone flashing with the notification to head back home. He feels uncomfortable with the prospect of leaving without at least saying goodbye (temporarily, anyway) to the three of them after spending nearly half a month with them, swinging by the cottage to say he’s going back to Fula for the next two weeks with another overly formal bow as farewell, which Bill and Daisy both laugh at him for before shaking his hand and giving him a friendly embrace in parting. Lillie bows in turn from behind them, a gesture that he barely manages to return through the limb-locking shock of being hugged by one of his greatest inspirations, walking away from the home in that same awkward duraludon-esque gait his co-workers made fun of him for before.

It’s purely because of this shock that he manages to navigate his way through the same forest and city that overwhelmed him before in a completely numb stupor. And not only that, but the days spent riding the boat all the way to the docks, getting on the trolley all the way to his apartment complex’s street, and walking all the way up three flights of stairs to enter his humble home—only knocked out of his trance by a hand on his lower back and Stumble’s mildly confused sound of concern to this inattentiveness. Several hours since he came ashore have already gone by in a blink once he becomes aware of his whereabouts, with the sun shining brightly outside his window, in contrast to the bracing chill of the weather as the shortly-lived winter morning bleeds into midday. Letting out a breath of air, he pulls out his desk chair. No time to waste the few daylight hours he has left, after all.
He spends most of the weekend compiling the data he collected observing Lusamine and catching up on the backlog of emails that piled up in his absence, of which the contents are including but not limited to: work-related back-and-forth correspondences from the science pavilion he was copied in on whether or not they’re entirely relevant to him, a few cryptic messages from Callahan that are completely indecipherable, a polite and courteous “thank you and see you again soon”-type sentiment from Daisy delivered just over two hours ago he suspects she scheduled for his arrival home, various irrelevant memos from news outlets and journalism papers he really ought to unsubscribe from, and the one he dreads the most. A notice from the board about the mandatory company holiday party to be held at the research pavilion. They always host it a tad earlier than the typical choice of early December made by other organizations because of how their vacation days tend to pile up, with a handful of employees who use the weeks of time they’re required to take off with in order to go on vacation for the entirety of December (himself included, not that he does anything particularly special for the holidays, but he has no choice but to use them anyway so might as well). In past years he’s always stuck to himself or conversed with his familiar co-workers, though conversing is a bit generous of a descriptor given his general inability to talk at all, but this year he probably won’t be able to do either. He decides to ignore that for now, though, and puts it in the back of his mind for the time being.

In fact, he pushes it so far back that he forgets about it completely, until he returns to work on Monday.

It turns out that using a fake boyfriend as your excuse to avoid work functions works perfectly—that is, until the company holiday party rolls around that you’re required to attend, and you have to introduce the aforementioned fake boyfriend to the colleagues that have been raving about meeting him for months.

Almost the second he enters the building he’s getting utterly bombarded with questions. “So, how was your trip? Did it go well? What are they like as scientists? Have you heard about the company holiday party coming up? Are you going to invite your boyfriend? Ryuki, right? That was his name? Can you finally introduce us? We can meet him, since you’ll have free time, right? You should invite him! It’s at night, too, so your schedules will line up! Right, Toren?” Even Jason seems to be curious because while he doesn’t ask any questions himself, he watches the commotion with a similarly curious glint in his eye and makes no move to intervene like before, leaving the monumental task of separating him and his snoopy co-workers entirely to Stumble. All day they barrage him relentlessly with inquiries that he could not possibly hope to keep up with, and frankly tries to avoid entirely, but not before peer pressure causes him to relent in saying he’ll “invite” his “boyfriend” to come—and so, he is now presented with another dilemma. A dilemma with which there is only one solution... 

...he has to tell Ryuki.

As soon as he’s no longer contractually obligated to stay, he hightails it out of there and away from his colleagues as fast as he possibly can to dodge their prying, practically collapsing against his doorway with Stumble patting his shoulder as he sighs and wills himself to ask.

Sliding open Ryuki’s contact, he texts him a simple message: [I need a favor.]

Chapter Text

A lot happened in the months that followed.

Charlie and company had managed to convince whoever actually owns the building that they use for the Kantonian Gym to rehire him as the “Gym Leader”, to which the one they had acting in his place very graciously stepped down. After the previous complaints about an inconsistent theme, Ryuki suggested remodeling it based on a gym actually in Kanto to negate it of any theme whatsoever beyond that, leaving both him and the others free to pursue their ninja and rockstar garb without strings attached. Lacking knowledge of the interior of many of the gyms back home, he was forced to rely on his own memory, setting it up like the one in Vermilion. Once construction was finished, the initial shock of being surrounded by the familiar appearance of his home city’s gym gave him pangs of nostalgia, and a vague sense of unease and queasiness thinking about the real building across the sea, and the people inside it. He shrugged it off quickly enough once he’d got used to being inside, but it had been a bit of a rough adjustment period. The others didn’t hide their disappointment knowing real gyms in Kanto didn’t live up to their exaggerated expectations, nor did they ask him why he knew what this one looked like—he still hasn’t told them it’s where he grew up, nor has he bothered to correct any of them on their bizarre stereotypical assumptions, deigning to let them fantasize about it instead.
He didn’t mention it to Toren, either, even when the scientist said he was heading through there on his way to Cerulean and texted him scenic pictures of an ocean horizon view that Ryuki has seen hundreds of times before. Instead, he texted back [ROCKIN VIEW MAN! ∑d(＾∀＾d)] and ignored the strange turmoil in his chest. As much as he misses his family and the comfort of his hometown (in spite of the bittersweet memories that haunt him), he can’t go back there until he’s sure he can make them proud. He rationalizes it by telling himself he doesn’t have a home, not in the traditional sense—a superstar like him could never be satisfied with performing for such a tiny portion of the globe for the rest of his life, and the whole wide world belongs to him, so everywhere is home—but whether or not it comforts him varies by day. Rockstars like him aren’t the settling down type, can’t be tied down to any single place. That’s why working in Alola is only temporary. Just a back-up plan, something to keep food on the table, until he gets his big break. That’s all. No matter how much time passes.

After her explosive outburst at him, he was genuinely surprised when Plumeria showed up at the gym to apologize to him before he had the chance to do the same, accompanied by a gruff-looking Guzma with his arms crossed. She explained it away as a built-up amount of stress at the latter’s involvement with another Ultra Beast after “what happened with the president” among everything else she’d said during their argument, having been primarily frustrated with herself in actuality, but without any outlet she took it out on the first person who happened to invoke her ire—which had been Ryuki. “But even if that’s true, I treated you really badly–I shouldn’t have done all that.”
It wouldn’t have been far to place all the onus on her, so he returned her honesty with grace and blame of his own “it’s my bad, too, man”, she had some justifications in her actions and he easily acknowledges he can sometimes give off a less-than-favourable first impression. Before the others at the gym had a chance to question what was happening or pry into something he’d purposefully kept under wraps, he’d led them both outside, took them out to dinner as an apology where they had spoke further. Throughout the duration of their conversation, he learned more context behind their situation, and the combination of factors that had led to that blow-up. What Team Skull was (and is now), how they all related to one another, everything that led up until now with the president and the Aether Foundation. Without the barrier of confidential information between them, there had been nothing to bother keeping secret. Learning about Guzma’s history with the Ultra Beasts, knowing exactly why she had been so high strung, had only served to deepen his guilt on a variety of fronts.
Ever since Team Skull disbanded, the two of them had been forced into a position to make enough money to support not only themselves, but the others from their group that live with them in that single beat-up trailer. She had been convinced to try battling again by the kahuna of Ula’ula and the head of Hokulani Observatory (who he remembers speaking to before, and belatedly connects as one of Alola’s Elite Four) while Guzma works odd jobs, like behind the drinks counter at the nearby pokémon center’s café in Tapu Village. Trying to make a living out of being a trainer is hard enough as it is when your money doesn’t come in the form of a consistent paycheck—but when you’re a only slightly better-than-average one who’s strong enough to wring allowance money out of inexperienced kids, yet not talented enough to get anywhere meaningful in battling competitions with sustainable prize money—it’s next to impossible. Sometimes she doesn’t make enough to scrape by and had to resort to asking for favours, not smart or qualified enough for most of them, except for the more demeaning ones like custodial work. Molayne always offers extra compensation because he knows she’s struggling to make ends meet, but she continually refuses out of pride.
“It’s totally infuriating,” she griped through gritted teeth. “To be a fully grown adult with bills to pay, and to lose over...and over...against a little girl.” While this particular problem isn’t one that plagues him (focused more on his passions than his skill in battle), he had resonated with everything she said more than he would ever verbally admit, understanding her struggles acutely. He knew what it felt like to feel inadequate, to feel like time is slipping away, to be insecure of your talent, of your worth, to be a bit jealous of other’s success. They had been his own, and they still are, even if he wouldn’t say it. He accepted her apology easily, even if it did very little to soothe his bruised confidence—stars are above holding petty surface-level grudges, and he never could bring himself to feel anything beyond faux-annoyance in the first place. “Everybody’s got their own problems, man.” He even performed for them after, and they liked it, but it didn’t feel as satisfying as he’d hoped it would have. They became fast friends after that, frequently hanging out in the evenings near the Kantonian Gym or around their trailer, and they even started bringing their former gang members to his concerts. It’s been a very pleasant change, having not just pokémon rock out to his music, but their trainers too.
Later, he found out they’re all fans of Piers as well, and they expressed significant shock when he said he knew him and would add them to the growing list of autographs he needed to request.

They started keeping in more frequent touch after everything that happened in Galar and his confrontation with Plumeria. Regardless of the reception in Spikemuth influencing the frequency of correspondence, Ryuki had never been especially great at remembering to contact people or respond to messages himself, flighty as he is and prone to seeking out whatever he can to keep himself busy from dawn to dusk (or forgetting to pay his phone bill). Being faced with the consequences of his recklessness and sometimes lackluster communication had inspired an attempt to change, to try and check up on his loved ones more often, even if he’s still not entirely consistent. Piers ended up giving him more information on the situation eventually, a more detailed account that ended up interweaving even more closely with events that had gone down in Alola before.
(He found out at one point from talking to Guzma and Plumeria more about the day that the sun went out—he had wrongfully assumed at the time this was nothing to be concerned about or important, and brushed off Charlie’s comment a few months ago about “things coming out of the sky”, until they had both corroborated this account. “...For real?” He’d said, staring at them both in suspicion mixed with surprise, thinking he was being tricked. “Ultra Beasts were comin’ outta the sky? That pokémon took the light from the sun? Like that ‘pillager of light’ thing? What, did all that go down in one day, or less than a week? And I missed all of it? No way, man. You’re kidding.” As incredulous as he had been, they seemed to have been even more baffled. “To be honest, I’m not sure how you did.” When they found out he hadn’t known that Ultra Beasts or the Ultra Recon Squad were aliens, they had laughed so hard he started shrieking at them to quit it, miffed at being the butt of the joke. He’s always been the type to march to the beat of his own drum, but he had never realized just quite how true that was until that moment, compared to everything he learned from Wicke before. It was more than a little embarrassing being the only one out of the loop. He had to apologize to Charlie for inadvertently making it sound like he made it up.)
Every time they’d get in contact, Piers had jumped five more steps ahead—a new album, a new song, a new personal record, a new contract, a new deal, a sold-out concert. After the initial rude awakening and extreme envy, it became easier to genuinely offer up his excitement hearing about his success. It still stings a bit knowing he’s living out his dream, but he tells himself to just be patient for a real opportunity like Piers was, and not taking any flimsy excuse to get out his wanderlust. He’s never been good at waiting. When he told him about the list of autographs he’d promised and wracked up, the other musician had laughed, and sent him a package in the mail of signed merchandise and t-shirts. He passed them all out as early holiday gifts.

Grimsley ended up finagling an invitation to the Battle Tree for him after he finally managed to hunt him down and took him up on that offer to fight (which he lost, but it was a close match). Having access to it had been such an exciting prospect, to be able to visit an exclusive area filled with a whole metaphorical treasure trove of potential connections, but he ended up finding out he couldn’t even proceed far enough in the tiers to even meet any other stars. The frustration of knowing his goal could be so close to him and yet just out of reach nearly drove him crazy, harkening back to what Plumeria had told him about her own struggles. He had decided to step back instead, train and harness his pokémon and willpower until he would be strong enough to power through. No other alternatives, an inevitability to triumph. He’s not there yet, but he will be, as long as he practices patience. These past few months have been a vicious test of his restraint and endurance.
Upon speaking more frequently with Grimsley and the others, he had at last received an answer to the previous mystery of the missing kahuna, albeit entirely unintentionally—accidentally stumbling into a conversation between the kahuna of Ula’ula himself, Plumeria, and Guzma. It had turned out that the “old man” Grimsley spoke of before was referring to the aforementioned kahuna, a man named Nanu who lives at the other end of Route 16 inside the police station he passed by. As it would happen, at the exact time he that he was being thoroughly electrocuted, Nanu had been waiting at Sushi High Roller to meet up with none other than Grimsley himself. Something which the former Unovan Elite Four had failed to mention.
After explaining what had happened, as an apology for his absence, the older man had reached into his shirt’s breast brocket and pulled out two laminated cards for him and Guzma. With a closer inspection, it became evident it was a shoddy knock-off emulation of a “get out of jail free” card from the Monopoly board game, all of the text written with an extremely bold sharpie marker and accompanied with a poor drawing of an Alolan meowth. “I’m a cop and an island kahuna, you know, but it’s a hassle doing my job when Alola’s usually peaceful enough that I get to take it easy,” he had explained to Ryuki, while Guzma had pocketed the gift immediately with the ease of someone who had received it already once before. “You look like the kinda guy to make noise and cause a fuss, can’t stay out of trouble. So if you ever do get in some problem with security, here you go. Give them this, and you’re good to go. I only have a few, and they’re laminated, so don’t lose it.” Ryuki had slipped it in his luggage too; he wasn’t sure whether to feel complimented at being marked as a daredevil, or insulted at the assumption he’s high-maintenance (even if it’s true). At the very least, he’s still kept it on hand in case he ever gets another surprise fine for performing somewhere in Alola without a needed permit.

He eventually got around to challenging Selene like he does every time he visits, a tradition more than anything—and he, predictably, lost. He knows he only has ever wanted the position of Champion idly to advertise his more important music career, so failing to best her has never bothered him. Battling has never been a passion of his to the same level of his dream of being a famous musician, more a hobby or a fun past-time than anything else, and matches with her have never been anything less than exciting. She’s a real star on the battlefield, shining and glowing so bright she eclipses almost everything else. While he’s never envied this ability of hers (having thought of himself as the brightest of all), he understands Plumeria’s frustrations facing up against her, knowing there’s always someone younger and better out there. It can be hard not to measure up your own level of achievements against someone who’s got it all figured out before they’re even half your age. For his part, though, he grins knowing the future will be littered with bright, brilliant lights guiding the masses. It’s difficult not to be at least a little bit excited about that. He just shook his head with a grin, and said, “I’ll getcha next time, Champ.”
Despite the very niche and practically non-existent human audience he’s cultivated for his music, he’d always found a fan in her, happily blaring his tunes through his speaker during their showdowns. Unlike most pokémon, hers have never been distracted by the intense vibrations, single-minded and determined in their focus, even though it has always been evident they enjoy it just as much. It’s impressive, exactly how much self-control and strength she and her team must have, for how little time they took to get where they are. The ghost-type specialist of the Elite Four, a former Trial Captain and friend of the Champion, had also made her enjoyment of his music clear from the get-go. Every now and again Selene would show up at his performances, bringing along with her a small gaggle of her friends, like the president’s son (who always seems to dodge him after he’s done performing) or some former and current Trial Captains, along with the other girl Acerola. He has always made it a point to engage them all after his shows, most of them may be too young or broke to financially support him, but it can never hurt to show appreciation to his fans.
Through these hang-outs and his intermittent phone calls with Toren, he learned about Selene’s crush on the Aether President’s daughter, and had started playing matchmaker. Given the latter’s location in Kanto, she had lost her opportunity to confess, left hopelessly pining and occasionally whining about it to her other teenage friends, and then Ryuki hearing about it through them. He had always fleetingly known about the Champion’s interest in studying poisons, and training poison-type pokémon, but he hadn’t known until she revealed to him that it had been with the intention to eventually study a cure for the malady plaguing Lillie’s mother. With Toren having met her, he figured it was a chance to address those unresolved feelings. He had never tried his hand at being cupid before, but he reasoned a game of telephone (literally and metaphorically) between two preteen girls couldn’t be that hard, as long as the older scientist didn’t fumble any of the delivery on the messages.
And at the very least, it’s given him something else to focus on than his own abysmal love life, having been able to relate uncomfortably hard to her hopeless romanticism. Trying to break through Dulse’s alien nature and social customs to ask him out had been a repeated bust, so he gave up on that avenue a while ago. He came to the conclusion after getting to know Grimsley better that sounding like he’s constantly flirting is just how he talks, possessing a naturally conniving and smug personality, rather than any indication of personal interest (it seems like he’s got other problems on his mind, anyway). It’s for the best anyway, he reasoned, because pursuing someone who resembles the ex-boyfriend he still can’t determine if he’s hung up on would be a recipe for disaster. Not that he plans on staying in Alola forever either, this is only a temporary arrangement to make some steady cash until he can score something more suitable, after all—at least, that’s what he still fully intends it to be—so he’s not sure why he had ever been considering a relationship in the first place. He’d inevitably have to break up with them before anything got too serious, just like what had happened with him and Piers. But he guesses he’s craving the comfort of some loving company, to help carry him through the rough patch he’s been going through. It’s a selfish and unfair expectation to put on someone else, and he knows it, so he put the fleeting thought to rest. Romance isn’t in his list of priorities right now, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t in the young Champion’s future. Helping her out hasn’t been a perfect distraction for his own looming loneliness, but living vicariously through her has worked well enough for him a majority of the time, and it’s a better solution than nothing.

And that about sums up his life lately.

There’s been more, the boring and tedious day-to-day schedule and the occasional unique interaction amongst a sea of completely unnoteworthy ones, but those have been the most significant changes to his life. Every week day follows roughly the same pattern: he wakes up and gets ready, he goes to work at the Kantonian Gym, he eats dinner either with one of his now various groups of friends or stays in and orders take-out, and then he goes to bed and starts the cycle over again for the following day. Often times he used to watch TV before he decided to sleep, but after seeing a recently broadcasted match between Lance and the former Galar Champion Leon, he became so unreasonably upset at his biggest hero’s defeat that he screamed in despair and inadvertently caused his turtonator to instinctively unleash explosives in response that left numerous holes in the wall (more damages he’s had to pay for, he’s lucky that he hasn’t been evicted from the motel already)—so he’s sworn off watching television for the time being.
The weekends provide a little more variety, but not much, he generally cycles through a list of activities already familiar to him and selects at random how to spend his free time based on his mood. As much as he craves variety, and constant excitement, there isn’t much else that he can do when nothing the region can offer is particularly new to him anymore. The most common occurrences nowadays are training himself and his team to eventually be capable of properly taking on the Battle Tree’s challenge, or street performing, but he’s been known to grace the company of others as well. Sometimes spending a day hanging out with the former bosses of Team Skull (Guzma’s been teaching him to cook lately; he never asked for it, but when the other man found out he only orders or buys whatever food he can afford, he insisted on lessons because “cooking meals yourself is cheaper”), his co-workers and friends at the Kantonian Gym, or the Champion and her friends whenever they happen across one another. The eccentric one, the only Trial Captain on Poni Island, has taken to occasionally asking him to model for her—he doesn’t receive any compensation beyond an artistic rendition of himself, but he’s never been one to turn down a portrayal of his star face, even if he does struggle significantly with sitting still. There’s also the occasional participation in a Battle Royal, or pyukumuku-chucking to shake up the monotony, or completing menial tasks for Faba at Aether Paradise, favours and jobs which he now receives actual payment for. It’s a perk he’s confident can be attributed to Wicke finding out about his previous instances of unpaid labour for the scientist, something Ryuki himself never complained about, but definitely not a change he’s going to protest.

Despite knowing Faba isn’t the Branch Chief anymore, and thereby no longer possesses the standing he acts like he does, he has kept his promise to Wicke not to shatter the illusion in spite of his impulsive loud-mouth habit of blurting things out before he’s thought them over. He hasn’t really had any urge to call him out on the lie either, even though he’s always a bit put off by the other man’s giddy demeanour when he sees Ryuki coming, the only person to his knowledge that he can still dupe into thinking he’s high on the ladder of command. In some way, he finds it impressive that the older man has been capable of keeping up such a convincing pretense of self-importance even as everything he’s strived for has clearly become completely out of his reach. It’s a remarkable sort of resilience, one that he can’t help but admire and cheer for himself, able to relate in his own way. But Ryuki’s own dreams definitely aren’t nearly as impossible to achieve, so he offers the older man a supportive clap on the back and a “I believe in you, man” (much to his blatant confusion), and carries on like he always has.
Even if he’ll never give up, and knows in his heart that getting where he wants to be is inevitable, that he’s destined to be the brightest star in the sky—the dissatisfaction of being stuck in a rut where he pours all his heart and soul into his songs for hours upon hours in return for meager attention, added with his already mounting irritation at not being able to regularly travel, has been itching under his skin. With the steady if still paltry cash flow from his day job, it’s been at least one less stressor having to worry about getting enough tips from performing to scrape by, but it’s a small consolation. Most of the reactions he gets to his music are from his friends or the former grunts of Team Skull, Plumeria’s self-proclaimed “stupid but cute little brothers and sisters”, and it’s through them that he learns Guzma is somewhat of an aspiring musician as well.
Ever since their group was disbanded, the monochromatic man has been occupying his time with a variety of jobs: working for Hala, training and battling at the Battle Tree, and working as a barista, all the while attempting to build himself a career in rap and hip-hop on the side. It’s not something he publicly advertises or seemingly talks about, Ryuki hadn’t even known until then (and it’s not like the man himself told him), apparently content to simply proceed at his own pace without attempting to speed things up. A mentality that’s practically a foreign concept to Ryuki, as much as he’s been trying to subscribe to it the past couple of months, it’s becoming abundantly clear he’s lacking whatever makes the tedium tolerable.

It’s all so wonderfully monotonous and pleasantly predictable. And it’s making him insane.

He asks him about it over coffee during his next day off, although he’s the only one drinking it, since Guzma’s on shift at work and the one making it from behind the counter. The other gets a surprised look on his face when he brings it up, pausing momentarily in his task of cleaning a mug with a dish rag. “You heard about that?” His expression goes back to neutral as he averts his eyes again, resuming the repetitive mindless motion with his hands. “Yeah, I make beats. What about it?”

Taking a small sip of his drink, then a larger gulp as the sweetness hits his tongue (he never told Guzma about his taste preferences, but he seemed to have somehow picked up on it anyway, and Ryuki isn’t going to bring any attention to it as long as neither of them bring it up). “How come you never said anythin’? It’d be a blast to talk to another musician!”

“Ain’t much to talk about.”

“Whaddaya mean? Isn’t it a dream you’re passionate about?”

The other man snorts, in the sort of way someone does when they’re laughing at something they don’t find very amusing, an empty and bitter response to poke fun at the harsh reality of a situation you’ve given up on trying to change. “Yeah, I guess I’m into it, but so what? It ain’t ever gonna mean anything, just something I make for myself whenever I got the time to chill.”

“Yeah, right,” he scoffs with a smirk, pointing at him with a clawed fingertip. “If it was just for you, then ya wouldn’t let your groupies hear! So what gives, man?! Keeping your star self secret from me, but everybody else gets to know!? So uncool! I wanna hear everything that’s inside your soul, too!”

Huffing as if in irritation, he can tell it’s just a show of it from the small smile on Guzma’s face. “I don’t care what you say to me, yo. No can do. Completely outta the question. You ain’t hearin’ a damn thing from me.”

“What?! Why not!?”

Loudly guffawing at the rockstar’s obvious offense and cackling harder when he bristles, pouts, and protests, he only quiets down with some pointed looks of disapproval from nearby customers and people seated at the café tables away from the bar where they’re occupying. “Because I said so.”

“So?! Why do you say so!?” Huffing, he resists the urge to make more of a ruckus and get the other in trouble, mumbling his protests. “You’re just tryna fire me up. You know I’m dying to hear what kinda sounds you dig, and you’re keepin’ it from me to work me up.”

“Sure I am,” it’s obvious he agrees just to get on his nerves. “Nah, really, but someone’s gotta teach you to stay out of other people’s business.”

Ryuki doesn’t say anything to that, hoping he can wordlessly convey his displeasure.

“Kidding. You can wipe that pitiful look off your face.” Before he has the chance to deny that he had any such expression, Guzma snorts, briefly pausing to serve another customer before returning to their conversation. “It’s a personal policy. I’m the big bad hated Guzma who beats you down, and never lets up, and I don’t let anyone watch me lose.”

The confusion must show on his face, because Guzma looks at him and sighs before continuing. “Why do you even bother with being a musician? What’s the point of it, to you?”

Initially taken by surprise by the seemingly sudden shift in topic, Ryuki opens his mouth and closes it a few times, before gathering his thoughts quickly with a dismissive scoff. “Why bother? ‘Cause it’s my dream, man! I’ve always been obsessed with the idea of being a musician, and I swore to myself and everybody else I’d make it as an overseas sensation, and spread my fame everywhere I go! The point–the point is being a star! A rock and rollin’ superstar at the top of the world, someone everybody’s eyes are on, an example of what it means to be great! I want my music to resonate with everyone’s souls, touch everyone who hears my awesome voice, let ‘em hear everything inside me!” After a moment, gesticulating wildly with his hands, his voice softens some as he presses a hand splayed against his chest and stares off at nothing in particular. “I...I want everyone in the world to fall in love with me. I wanna steal the heart of anyone who digs my tunes. I want to be the greatest, and brightest star in their life, the great Ryuki.”

For a moment, nothing is said between them, letting the lofty ideals and desires he spoke from the heart settle in the space between them. There’s an unreadable expression on Guzma’s face, looking down as he polishes a glass, before he speaks. “Yeah, that’s what I’m talking about. You know why you’re doing this. There’s no reasoning with someone like you. I got no hope of even being competition.”

“Huh? Who ever said anything about a competi–”

Guzma interrupts him. “You said ‘everybody else’ you swore to? That more than your homies? You got family? They care about you?”

“Wh...well, yeah. My family and everyone from my hometown saw me off when I left to pursue my career, cheering me on. They’re waiting for me and my babies to make it big, too, so I can’t let ‘em down.”

Humming in acknowledgement, the other man is silent for a few moments. “Y’know, I like you, Ryuki. Leaving home like that to make your own way, wanting to make a name for yourself and get stronger and stronger, takes some real guts. You’re impressive. I don’t know if you believe it yourself when you say it or not, but you are. Don’t let me sayin’ this get to your head. You’re a real pain, too, and you’re a spoiled little brat–but you’re somethin’ special.” Before he can think of how to feel, he continues. “I got nothin’. Not even my team anymore. I’m just another regular nobody. And I don’t get you, I don’t have that...‘passion’ you’re always goin’ on about, not anymore. My dreams were crushed when I was a kid. I gave up on myself a long time ago. That’s why you don’t gotta hear my beats. You’re going to be somebody. I still got some things I can’t let go...but you don’t need to hear what the soul of a good-for-nothing like me sounds like. People got your back. You know how lucky you are for that?”

The sudden heavy turn in the conversation leaves him momentarily speechless, unsure how to grapple with the extremely earnest and profound compliment and reassurances laced in Guzma’s words, quietly taking another sip of his drink. “You know... your family told me they want you to come back home.”

“HAH?!”

Jolting up to look at Ryuki with an incredulous expression as he shouts, it’s obvious he wasn’t expecting to hear anything about his home life, nearly dropping the cup in his hands before he clears his throat and drops his volume following the disapproving scowls from other clientele at his outburst. Leaning in closer, he stops a few inches from the other man’s face with an intense expression looking up at him from under his eyebrows, whispering conspiratorily. “That’s a good one, you got me, I gotta admit. But don’t mess with me like that again, or I’ll crush you, got it?”

“I’m–I ain’t messin’ with you!” Frantically trying to de-escalate without further invoking his ire or indicating he’s intimidated, Ryuki crosses his arms across his chest with a contemplative expression. “I met ‘em, when I was lookin’ for you before. The joint on Route 2, that’s your family’s place, right?”

“You met–” blinking back another disbelieving look, he lets out a long groan and runs a hand over his face, before gathering himself. “You met...my family? And they said...what, exactly?” Reiterating his mother’s message, he also includes the tirade from his father (clearly still a bit miffed about being brushed off and accused of being a ‘no good punk’), to which Guzma lets out another long sigh into his wide palm. “That old lady...I swear, they’ll never change.” He seems to muse on it for a bit, a sort of melancholic and fond look on his face, before scrunching his eyes closed with a frustrated growl. “This ain’t got nothing to do with me, it doesn’t change anythin’ I said.”

“What?! Of course it–”

“You heard my old man. He doesn’t care what I get up to. I’m just a ‘troublemaker’ and a ‘no good punk’ to him. My old lady can’t even accept that what she heard about me is true...stubborn old geezers, all reading off the same script, this is why I can’t stand old people.” With a long familiar sigh, he huffs. “So what if I ran away from home? Not like they wanted me there anyway. I ain’t gonna let you try ‘n’ call me out, neither. When’s the last time you were home and saw your family, huh?”

Looking to his side, he avoids the question. “W-Well–”

“That’s what I thought, punk. And you know they want you around. Don’t just wait around to talk to them until you’re some big deal. Stupid. Take advantage of the people you got, they ain’t gonna be there forever. Don’t take it for granted.”

He doesn’t have any good response to being chastised about that.

With his eyebrows pinched together in resigned frustration, he lets out another long sigh, the sound of someone who’s been very tired for a very long time. The sound of someone who’s self-admittedly given up on achieving anything beyond an average life. “You didn’t grow up here, in shitty old Alola, that’s the only reason you can stand it here. Well, I did. This...this stupid little region is full of stupid little rules that tourists and visitors like you never get to see, stuff that I–hell, that everyone born here, has had weighing ‘em down their whole damn lives. Alola’s a region that’s bound by ancient moldly old traditions that go way back, even further than anyone left alive on these garbage islands can remember. But just ‘cause they weren’t around when the rules were made don’t mean they don’t all still follow ‘em exactly–nah, ‘cause Alola is ruled by fear of change, or more like, fear of angering the tapus. All the old folk acting as the island kahunas or guiding kids on that stupid island challenge, and enforcing all the stupid little rules to follow, they’re all too scared of pissing off the tapus to do anything different with their lives than what the generation before ‘em did. So...when they get somebody like me or Plum or the others, who wanted to make something of ourselves and didn’t wanna follow the dumb rules, whaddaya think happens?” Guzma pauses with an angry puff of air, gently placing the clean glass he’s been polishing on the counter with a clink.
“We get thrown away like trash. Our parents toss us out, our so-called homies stop talking to us, and we’re left with nobody...nobody except each other. ‘Course, having a bunch of no-good-rule-breakers all hanging out together don’t sit right with them old geezers, so they push us even more. They call us names–punks, troublemakers, delinquents, criminals, thugs, and things I can’t even say out loud...you name it. It don’t matter if what they call us is true or not, as long as they can get their kids and grandkids to believe it, make sure they don’t get any ideas in their heads about disrupting the status quo or look what’ll happen. ‘You’ll become a washed-out outcast like big, bad Guzma, you know?’ And then every generation that comes afterward will follow the same damn cycle, again and again. Nothing ever changes, and nobody ever learns. And just so you know, I’ll never change, either. I’ll be damned if your boy ever changes who ***he*** is for anybody else. So, to answer your question why I never said anything, it’s ‘cause I missed my chance. If Alola is holding you back from what you wanna do and who you wanna be, you gotta hurry up and ditch it for someplace better. That’s what I told Hau, my master’s grandson, the kahuna. ‘Cause otherwise you’ll end up stuck here like me and my homies from Team Skull, living on the edge of society with no way to go forward, only back...or doing the best with what you got. And that’s what I do. My beats are who I am, and I’ve never fit in with Alola’s idea of ‘normal’, so my music won’t either. It doesn't matter anyway, makin’ music is just a way for me to complain, I never felt about it like you. So that’s why I don’t talk about it.”

Ryuki finishes the remainder of his now-gone-cold drink in the awkward, somber silence following the other man’s monologue, wordlessly sliding the mug across the counter when he finishes. He recalls Piers saying something similar about Galar’s traditions once, too. And he remembers thinking something along those lines about his home, once, as well. For what feels like a long stretch of time, Guzma doesn’t say or do anything beyond staring vacantly at his warped reflection in the porcelain cup, finally speaking up as he moves to drag the object towards him. “You know,” he mumbles. “If you ask me, you should do yourself a favour and get the hell outta here before this place crushes you, too. Don’t let it put out your fire. Trust me. Just cut out all this silly garbage holding you back, and claw your way to the top like you said you would. Alola is too small for you. I’ve seen that look on your face, when you’re on stage. When the spotlight comes down, I can see this gleam in your eye...like you know you have the power to change the whole world right at your fingertips. It’s still there, even if you’ve hit some roadblocks, and it’s harder to see now. You’re like me–you’ll never change for anybody, either. You know who you are.”

Suddenly looking up to meet his gaze, Guzma makes intense and unflinching eye contact with him, looking straight underneath the veil of his bangs to see the wavering expression underneath. “The winds of Alola are blowing again, bringing some new change. So what’s it gonna be? The only person keeping you from reaching your dreams is you. It’s now or never.”

He ends up leaving the café with a bitter taste in his mouth and a burning in his chest, like he really had drunk black coffee, after all.

The other man’s encouragement and cautioning warning never leaves him entirely—echoing in his head at night when he’s trying to sleep on his motel mattress, ringing in his ears with the feedback of the microphone as he’s performing for the same small crowd of people he always does (who would cheer for him whether or not they liked his music), when he’s out and about with people who never stopped reaching for the sky, or people that stopped trying ages ago—haunting him with every passing moment he spends still stagnant. His chest burns again with a determination he’d almost forgotten, a fire that he can never let go out, a conviction to remain true to his principles. To his headlong, rushing nature, consequences be damned. He can’t pretend anymore to be as patient as Piers, as careful as Charlie, as selfless as Plumeria, he can’t pretend to be anyone but himself. 

So when he receives a message from Toren asking him to return to Fula City for a favour, he’s more than ready to take the leap.

Chapter Text

He didn’t think Ryuki would accept.

If he was being entirely honest with himself, he has no idea what he expected. Whatever his unknown expectations had entailed, it definitely didn’t account for the other man to agree to his alleged favour right off the bat. And before Toren could provide the details of what the aforementioned favour even is, no less. It’s somewhat of a relief, not having to fess up on the details immediately, at least at first. But then he realizes that Ryuki has no clue what he’s getting into and is already on his way here, with no inkling what he signed up for, to meet up with Toren in person—and he goes “oh no oh no oh no oh no oh no he has to know before he gets here” and tells himself he’ll come clean right away, but then he thinks, but what if he hates me and thinks I’m a weirdo for not telling him in the first place? And then he gets too nervous to say anything at all, and before he knows it, it’s too late to mention it at all, because Ryuki’s texting him saying he’s landing in Fula soon with his gate number to meet him at the airport.
As a result of his previous travels due to work, the layout of Fula City’s (in his opinion, absurdly large) airport isn’t completely unfamiliar to him, so he manages to not get lost navigating through the throngs of people and the seemingly endlessly long corridors. Not that it appears to matter much, because when he gets there, the plane has landed and Ryuki’s not anywhere to be seen. It’d be a fairly severe understatement to say he’s a hard person to miss, so Toren’s 99% positive he isn’t simply overlooking him in the crowd; he checks his phone for any new messages, like a notice of a change in location or a separate place to meet up at, but there’s no new notifications so he slips the device back in his pocket. With no other option being presented to him, he decides to indulge that 1% of doubt and starts scouring through the mass of people with Stumble, looking around nervously like a mother who’s lost her overly excitable toddler at an overcrowded mall.

“Hey! Ren! Doctoren! Toto!”

He hears the missing rockstar’s voice from behind him and immediately whips his head around upon recognizing it, before catching up with his words and indignantly squawking, “Wh–Toto?!”

Standing there is Ryuki in his signature blindingly glossy fire-truck-red outfit, grinning with his mouthful of sharp teeth while toting the same wheeled matching red leather-studded luggage from before behind him, in addition to the Galar Gym dark-type sport travel bag and his trademark guitar case slung across his shoulders. Completely ignoring his noise of confused protest, the other man pulls him into an extremely brief embrace, before clapping his shoulder and leaning in close to his face with a curious expression as he points to his own eye. “Oh, you got it fixed?”

“Y‒” he struggles to confirm the question about the monocle, because he struggles to speak at all with the other man so close to his face, immediately stammering and recoiling in embarrassment from the proximity. “Y-Yes, I‒a month or so after y‒”

“Cool, cool,” his companion cuts him off in complete disregard of whatever else he was in the process of saying, lightly clapping his shoulder again while starting to walk away towards the outside exits in the direction Toren came from, seemingly completely unphased (if he even noticed at all) by the scientists’ awkward bashfulness. “Maaaan, I’m starving! It’s been a while since I’ve had the money to ride a plane instead of flyin’ on my babies, I forgot how lame those little snacks they give you are, if y’don’t pay more for some real grub.” Yawning, he turns on his heel to face Toren while continuing walking backwards, somehow miraculously managing to avoid colliding with anyone (but succeeding in making him anxious of the possibility, anyway). “Y’know any good places to eat ‘round here?”

“Um...I can think of one...”

And that’s how he ends up eating at a not-very-good open 24/7 family restaurant chain with Ryuki half past one in the morning on a Thursday, disregarding the fact he has work in approximately seven hours.

For the most part he simply sits there in silence with Stumble beside him while watching Ryuki wolf down a burger and fries, forlornly staring down at nothing in particular on the other’s plate while he silently begins to fill up with dread, not looking forward to inevitably having to explain the details of his requested favour. His company happens to look up at him in between shoveling his meal in his mouth, mistaking the direction of his gaze as hungry longing instead of fearful anticipation, extending a fry towards him and asking, “want some?”

“Oh...n-no, I’m fine, I’m not very hungry...”

“No way, man!” The refusal only seems to spur him on further, somewhat aggressively thrusting the french fry pinched between his fingers further towards Toren’s face, almost like he expects him to bite and eat it right from out of his hand and oh no oh no oh no that is what he expects me to do, isn’t it? “I’ve seen the kinda stuff you eat most of the time and what you keep in your place, and while this ain’t exactly rockin’ five-star top-tier quality, it’s at least real food. So c’mon, Ren, open up.”

“A-Aahhh... ” his entire body’s trembling as Ryuki presses forward to place the fry in between his teeth, only pulling his hand back once Toren takes the whole scrap into his mouth to chew it; he can barely manage to swallow with how dry his throat is, it feels like every part of him is on fire, struggling even to breathe through his mortification. Meanwhile, the other man just casually goes back to eating his meal like nothing happened, occasionally holding out another french fry for the sleep-deprived scientist to eat—who ends up opening his mouth automatically every time, resembling one of those electronic trash cans with the motion-activated flip lids, before mechanically chewing and swallowing like a robot attempting to be human (while Stumble dutifully sucks up any crumbs that slip past his lips and onto the table).

Then, while chewing on the end of his soda straw, Ryuki asks, “what kinda favour is it, anyway?”

Toren freezes.

It’s not like he didn’t know this was coming, because he did, he just didn’t think it would happen now. He’s not ready or prepared to explain, and at least half of that is because he still hasn’t recovered from Ryuki feeding him like...like they’re...like they’re a real cou—he can’t even finish the thought. But it doesn’t matter whether he’s ready to clarify or not, because the other is looking at him expectantly for an answer. And he has no choice but to deliver. So he opens his mouth, takes a deep breath in with his palm resting on his tuned-out chansey, and scrunches his eye closed as he grips his chest.

“My colleagues think you’remyboyfriend because I spilled all your pins in front of them and I got flustered and couldn’t speak up when they got the wrong idea so I used it to get out of being around people after work but now the company holiday party is coming up and they kept asking about my boyfriendthatIdon’thave so I said he would come and now I need you to bemyboyfriendforthisparty.”

After a long moment of silence following his very quickly spoken explanation (with barely any breath taken in between), Ryuki blinks dazedly, and says, “oh, okay. I can do that.”

Oh no, what I done?! Why didn’t I say something sooner? Now he’s going to hate me forever because I didn’t say anything! This is all my fault because I can’t speak up and talk to people and I was too afraid to avoid him hating me by speaking up! I’m so weird, and useless, and pathetic, think think think, I’ve got to think harder than anyone else how do I fix this, wait, “...h-huh?”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, nodding to himself in affirmation while he finishes off what’s left on his plate. “I can do that no problem, man. Your boy’s a star, after all. Acting? No big deal. I’ll be sure to put on a spirited performance they’ll never forget‒a real convincing one, of course. Y’can count on the great Ryuki!”

“...Oh,” he mutters dumbly, and blinks equally as stupidly and wide-eyed, and thinks, it was that simple?

This is perfectly normal and expected behaviour of him, which he has never quite gotten accustomed to, typically lost in his own head as he struggles to keep up with every way the topics change. He wonders if Ryuki talks incessantly solely out of reflex, or out of a desperate desire to avoid the silence—or if it’s just his assumption that this would be the case, unable to conceptualize why anyone would want to have a one-sided conversation with him of all people. While he’s lost in his musings, he trips on an uneven gap in the pavement and goes colliding face-first towards the concrete, closing his eyes to brace for impact before warm arms wrap around his chest and pull to steady him upright. “Whoa, be careful,” Ryuki’s deeper voice murmurs right beside his ear from the close proximity of the position, not having pulled back yet from his grip around the taller man’s rib cage, lightly ruffling his hair with his breath and causing Toren to involuntarily shiver.
He doesn’t need to see to know his face and ears must be burning, able to tell from just the red-hot heat he feels alone, and he thinks about how ridiculous he must look for how many times the other man has seen him fall over his own feet. But more than that, the realization that any time it’s been in front of him, Ryuki has never once failed to catch him sets his chest aflutter. His heart feels practically fit to burst with how hard it’s beating, and with the other man’s hands and arms placed where they are, he abruptly realizes with a panic that the rockstar might be able to hear it. Writhing and thrashing out of the hold in desperation to not be teased (even though he never has been, not by Ryuki, the instinctual fear overtakes him regardless), he wheezes pathetically in the middle of the street after being released, as Stumble clings to his legs and coos. “I-I’m very sorry!” His voice comes out as a pitiful near-squeal in his futile attempt to scrabble together scraps of dignity that he doesn’t have, fist balling up his shirt directly above the fast-paced squeezing vice of his heart, and squeaking with his back turned away in a silent plea not to be looked at. “I-I’m fine, th-thank you.”

It’s completely silent for a bit, save for Toren’s frantic inhales and his partner’s concerned coos as she pats at his legs. Eventually he hears the clearing of a throat, followed by the sound of the other speaking up. “It’s...It’s cool, man. Just take better care of yourself.”

He can’t help but turn around in response to the tone in the other’s voice, sounding almost dejected or confused, peering at his companion timidly out of the corner of his eye. When he looks, Ryuki is awkwardly rubbing the back of his head with an obviously strained smile on his face, looking for a moment almost like he feels rejected. Toren freezes up near immediately with his blood suddenly running cold, all the overwhelming warmth he felt instantly vanishing to be replaced with a pale-inducing chill. It barely lingers before he shakes it off to put his hands confidently on his hips, grinning like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “My bad, I was all up in your face, huh? Sorry, I know you don’t really dig or know how to deal with people, and I ain’t that great at knowin’ when to back off. Just lemme know if you need some space, yeah? You okay to walk on your own?” Even though the words are entirely reasonable (and would’ve been a relief to hear, earlier in their relationship), he can’t help but be struck at how uncharacteristic it is with the Ryuki he’s come to know.
A man who powers through everything, who busts through any boundary he puts up with graceless blunder, without any consideration for anyone who’s around him. It was always unfathomably rude, but he eventually knew he meant no harm by it, and to be suddenly thrust with this seemingly new version of the rockstar he hasn’t gotten used to—a more considerate, subdued alteration—leaves him floundering. Every change he’d seen so far from the past few months had been subtle enough he barely noticed, but this one sticks out to him like a sore thumb. In a way, he’d found comfort in Ryuki’s innate obliviousness. If he ignored the ways in which he made Toren uncomfortable, he could never get sick of him like his colleagues did before, discouraged by his over-the-top reactions and distress at simple touches. Having him now aware of his effect on the scientist makes him feel inexplicably unsettled, nervously drawing his hands to his chest as he swallows past the lump in his throat and mumbles “y-yes, I’m sorry.”

Ryuki laughs a little, in a lighthearted and breezy kind of unbothered way, and says “y’don’t have to say ‘sorry’, man,” but Toren doesn’t know what to think.

He rests rather restlessly that night, never once hearing the other’s signature deep-sleep-snoring in the midst of his tossing and turning, so he leaves for the pavilion with a terrible feeling in his gut. That day and the one after go by fairly quickly, with his time being primarily spent towards wrapping up any last minute loose ends from work, granting him hardly any time to interact with his house guest in between all his obligations and attending to his basic necessities. But when the weekend comes, that changes rather abruptly. Ryuki wakes him up (which is already odd enough in of itself, since he’s used to him normally slumbering well into the afternoon) with his face extremely far too close to Toren’s own, one hand resting on the mattress and the other yanking the blanket back, gleefully proclaiming, “wakey-wakey, the time for beddy-bye is over!” He doesn’t even have a chance to be flustered from seeing his face so close to his own before the rockstar immediately pulls back to give him room, and with how quickly he’s forced out of bed and urged towards the bathroom to brush his teeth, immediately being presented with breakfast in the form of two fruit bars being shoved into his hands as soon as he steps out. Fluttering around so hurriedly he’s practically running in circles, his company directs him to sit at the couch with Stumble before plopping down next to him with a notepad and a bizarre-looking novelty pen, making himself comfortable as he prepares to write something down. “All right! Let’s get to it!”

Ryuki soon explains that in order for this fake-boyfriend shtick to be believable, they have to come up with a mutually agreed upon story for how they became a couple, and then practice reciting it so they can respond in a timely manner when asked. The matter of how they met is already decided since there’s no reason to change it, so that just leaves figuring out everything else. But before they start that, his not-boyfriend-to-be says they need to answer some questions first, in case they’re impromptu quizzed about each other later. The inquiries start off normal enough:

• Full name. (“...You’re kidding me. You are kidding, right? Toren Chauncey Doctor. Your name is Dr. Doctor. You’ve gotta be messin’ with me, man.” Pause for silent revelation. “...You’re for real?! Seriously!?”)
• Age and birthday.
• Hometown, and where they grew up.
• Hobbies, likes and dislikes.
• Job or career, and plans for the future.

Etcetera, and so on. But as the questions proceed, they get progressively more embarrassing and personal: 

• Dating history. 
• Sexual orientation. 
• Types and preferences in romantic and sexual partners—

“I-Is this really necessary?!” he screeches while his chansey companion frantically attempts to get him to relax, but Ryuki just pouts and calmly whines “c’mon, Ren, if we’re gonna be ‘rockin’ together’, we should know stuff like this about each other!” He grumbles quietly in complaint, but answers nonetheless. No dating history, has never really given his sexuality much thought or consideration, and isn’t sure he has any specific type (but thinks to himself that he might have a bias for friendly and uplifting people, like a certain someone he knows).
His self-appointed interviewer doesn’t respond to any of his answers with anything other than murmurs of “got it” or “okay” or “huh, really?” And when he’s finished jotting everything down, he doesn’t waste any time in thrusting the notepad and pen into Toren’s hands, instantly beginning to list off his own answers without delay, while the scientist quickly starts scrambling to get everything down.

• Ryuki Ōguchi.
• 26 years old and born on June 9th (it doesn’t escape his notice that this date is an uncomfortably blatant innuendo).
• He grew up in Vermilion City in Kanto, and was born in Goldenrod in Johto.
• One ex-boyfriend, and other unspecified vaguely mentioned history. (“Piers? The...famous singer you told me about before?” he asks. The other man just nonchalantly responds, “yeah, him.”)
• In his words, “I dig men.”
• Prefers assertive and cocky attitudes, and people who go after what they want.

Toren struggles to keep up just with writing down everything the rockstar lists off in rapid succession, but when it gets to the other’s type, he halts the motion of the pen completely. Oh, no, he thinks. that’s not like me at all, before Ryuki yells at him for stopping. “Hey! Ren, are you listening?!?”
Once they’re both finished, he rips out their respective pages for their own personal reference, before getting to business on workshopping their shared history together. At some point, he accidentally remarks out loud how he’d thought Ryuki would’ve dragged him out of his house for this, instead of musing at it in his head like he’d meant to. “No way,” the other makes a noise of uncomfortable disgust, rubbing at his arms furiously even though they’re clothed and it’s plenty warm inside the apartment, petulantly sticking his tongue out in clear distaste. “Too cold. Your boy doesn’t do too hot in the cold,” he explains, before dorkily snickering at his own unintentional joke (though given his normal outfit, Toren has to wonder if he doesn’t do well in the heat, either). “Too hot...cold, get it?”

That’s cute, he thinks, before immediately having to resist tearing his hair out.

They spend the rest of that day and the next establishing their cover story. The circumstances of their meeting and the subsequent events that followed remain unchanged, but it’s after Ryuki first took him out for karaoke that the path starts to diverge. Since he told his co-workers about his supposed-boyfriend months ago, they have a fairly limited time frame to work within, since they met only a bit before the Wind Festival—even more so because it’s hard enough to believe Toren would manage to date someone in the first place given how timid he is, let alone someone he only met just about a month prior. They have to cram a lot into a relatively short span. As a result of this, there’s no possible way for them to come up with something that won’t clash with other peoples’ alibis regarding their locations, but as long as none of his colleagues happen to get in touch with anyone from Alola who knows the rockstar personally, it should work out. The story goes like this:

1.) When they went out that night that week before the Wind Festival, Ryuki “fell in love” with Toren’s voice immediately (he goes bright red at the wording chosen here, even though he knows full well it’s just a fabrication, trying not to think too hard about the expression Ryuki actually made at the time it’s just a lie it’s not the truth this is just a story we’re using don’t be weird about it), and drunkenly declared as such. This embarrassed Toren, as well as made him hyper-aware of the other, but because he was still staying in the apartment with him, he couldn’t exactly run away from the feelings.
2.) The events regarding the Wind Festival and so on largely proceeded the same, with the key difference being that when Ryuki left, he kissed his cheek before going on his way.
3.) They still started those singing lessons, but this time Toren already was a fan of the artists the rockstar started listing off, so they had a common interest to grow closer with. Even though the whole thing is a falsehood in of itself, he quietly hopes nobody asks him more about this topic in particular, because he’s horrible at improvising and would rather not have to try and memorize the discography of all these different musicians.
4.) Instead of finding out just now, he found out early on that Piers happened to be Ryuki’s ex-boyfriend and started feeling jealous about it, but mistook the origin of his jealousy as being envious that the redhead got to date the Piers, when in reality—
(He cuts off the other in exasperation. “D-Does it really need to be this complicated?” His company pouts, chiding him, “just roll with it, all right?”)
—when in reality, he was jealous that Piers got to date Ryuki, he just didn’t know it yet.
5.) Altering the sequence of events a little more, they decide to push up the specific date when Toren found out about the fact Ryuki set him up to meet Daisy and Bill a little, and conclude that he confessed first, because in his own words at the time, “this means...so much to me.” The made-up-bit being that he followed it all up with something along the lines of, “I-I think I like you, um, ro-romantic...ally...” and Ryuki returned his confession with his own feelings in turn. It embarrasses him to have something he actually, literally said be used semi-against him like this, even if it was rather affectionate in-context as well.
Following everything else, there isn't too many changes—they have to establish that Ryuki made more frequent visits to Fula in the interim months instead of only just now coming back, since Toren used the excuse of only being able to see his long-distance-rockstar-boyfriend at night because of his work shift during the day, all to get out of showing up for get-togethers with his co-workers. Even though the whole history they've crafted is just an elaborate ruse, but find parallels to the real-life equivalent events, wondering if everything could’ve gone like that if everything had worked out differently. And if he even would’ve wanted it to. But pondering hypotheticals and confusing himself is pointless, because it isn’t real, so he sucks up his reservations and keeps practicing.

By the time it finally rolls back around to Monday again, and he’s getting ready for work in the early hours of the morning while Ryuki is tossing and turning on the couch (he’ll have to ask if his guest is getting any sleep later, and see what he can do about it if not), he’s got their decided-upon story script playing in his head practically every moment he’s awake. It’s been so drilled into his head already that he’s more than likely got it memorized, but he knows more intimately than anyone how much he tends to fumble when put on the spot, so better safe than sorry. All through his work day he’s got the paper scrap laying on his lab table, rereading it over and over again while mumbling the words to himself in a mantra as he goes about his usual routine, almost spilling some of the chemicals several times with his attention divided between two tasks. He’s so absorbed in what he’s doing that he doesn’t notice in the slightest when one of his colleagues meanders up behind him and asks right beside his ear, “what are you doing?”
As would be typically expected from him, he screeches in a high-pitched shriek of surprise at being startled, nearly completely dropping the beaker (and almost knocking over a few others) in his hand in his panicked rush to slide the note sheet away from her before she can get the chance to read it. “N-Nothing!” She raises an eyebrow in response to his scrambling, appearing as if she wants to contest his extremely suspicious denial, but is gestured to back away by Stumble and called away by another one of their co-workers before getting the opportunity to, and he sighs in relief.

When he gets home, he wants nothing more than to eat one of whatever unappealing frozen or microwavable ready-made meals happen to be in his kitchen (if only to satiate the feeling of hunger), and then sink immediately into his bed. All he really wants is to get this week, and the subsequent party this Saturday, over with as soon as possible so that he can finally put all this stress behind him and relax until the new year. To his surprise, though, it already smells like cooked food when he reaches his apartment and starts to unlock the door. He supposes it shouldn’t be too surprising, after all, Ryuki’s staying with him and he’s got to eat too (and without a key, it makes sense he’d eat inside)—but he nevertheless finds himself envious of whatever meal the other man has because of how good it smells even through a closed door. Sighing as he turns the knob and pushes it open, he wishes that for once he’d be able to have a home-cooked dinner, instead of always having to resort to making whatever low effort instant meal he can find in his fridge. However, as he steps through the threshold and closes the door behind him and Stumble, he ends up greeted by something unexpected.

On his modestly-sized dining room table is a meal set for two; Ryuki is sitting at the far end facing him with his arms folded across his chest and his eyes seemingly closed due to his lack of reaction, lost in thought as he quietly hums to himself and taps his foot along to the beat from underneath the table, with what looks like a warm egg and rice dish laying untouched in front of him. And opposite to the rockstar, at the chair he’s currently standing behind, is an identically served dish—one that he can only presume is meant for him. Toren stands there in silence for a few more moments, taking it in and attempting to piece together what exactly he’s walked into (jumping through every possible hoop to make the most drastic mental leaps because it can’t possibly be the most simple answer), before making his presence known to the other by quietly speaking “um, I-I’m back.” His company jolts forward from his semi-precariously-tipped position in the chair at the noise, eyes presumably shooting open and banging his knee into the underside of the table, nearly knocking his dish over from the impact. Upon looking up to see the source of the sound, Ryuki immediately stops rubbing his knee in his rush to get up, banging it again and standing only partially lopsided while smiling at the scientist through his obvious pain.

“Welcome home!” At first it seems like the rockstar doesn’t quite know what to do with his hands, lingering awkwardly and stiffly at his sides like he wants to rest them on his hips, before spreading his arms wide in a grandiose welcoming gesture. “I made us dinner!”

“I’m...I’m home,” he answers unthinkingly, staring down at the meal made for two in total stupefaction. “You...you made this?”

The chef rubs the back of his head with a somewhat sheepish expression as he grins proudly, wrapping his other arm across his chest and fiddling with the metal embellishments on his outfit. “Guzma’s been teaching your boy some stuff while I’ve been in Alola, not that you know who that is, but he’s one of my best best buds–nothing superstar special, y’know...simple stuff. But since it’s made by the great Ryuki, y’can bet it was created through powerful flames of passion, with all my soul and spirit poured into makin’ it the most amazing meal you’ve ever had!” He grins with a wink while pointing at himself with his thumb, faltering only briefly. “I...haven’t tried it yet, but it’s gotta be good, made with love like mine!”

He’s so touched, he feels like he might cry.

“...Y-You did this for me?”

“That’s right! I wanted to pay you back for putting up w–for being there for me, and y’know, giving me a place to stay! So...I had one of my babies stay here and watch the place while I went shopping, and then I came back and made this. My bad, I didn’t make any for your baby, but I didn’t know if she could have anythin’ like this. I got some other stuff too, to try making for the rest of the week, since we both really gotta feed our muscles and bodies better–if this ain’t too bad, anyway.” Letting out a quick, nervous giggle, he crosses his arms as he bends his knees. “It’s my first time givin’ this a try, so I dunno if it’s great already, but you gotta start somewhere. Yeah? I’ll be great at it one way or another, though, ‘cause stars never give up! Hahahahaha! But it’s still a little hot, so be careful not to burn yourself!”

He’s so touched, he’s going to cry.

(“Oh man, does it look that bad?!” Ryuki shouts in a panic, to the other’s desperate hand waves, as his chansey happily chirps by his side.)

After furiously scrubbing at his face for a little under a minute and firmly insisting both that he’s fine and that the other man didn’t do anything wrong, they finally sit down to eat with Stumble plopping down on her designated cushion by the foot of the bed. Ryuki doesn’t start eating right away, peering up at the other for feedback when he thinks Toren isn’t looking—he’s still crying, a steady stream of happy tears he’s given up on trying to hold back, but quietly insists “it’s g-good, it’s really good” through comically large mouthfuls of his meal. Ryuki makes a face reminiscent to the one he did a long time ago when Toren called his pokémon’s nicknames cute, red-faced and looking away while trying not to smile, before turning back to him with a gleeful pleased grin. For someone who talks so much about himself and gives other people heartfelt compliments without thinking, he seems to sometimes momentarily flounder a bit when that sentiment is returned, a personality trait that has always reminded him of Callahan.
After being given the scientists’ reassurance on the quality of his cooking, Ryuki scarfs down his portion faster than the other can even see with his eye, spending the rest of the time watching Toren slowly catch up to him (a situation which pretty clearly parallels their post-midnight feast the other day). In a complete disregard of proper table manners, the rockstar has his elbow propped up on the table with his wrist folded against and supporting his occasionally bobbing head, yawning intermittently after finishing his meal. Watching the other man struggle to stay awake while sitting up reminds him of his earlier intention to ask Ryuki if he was getting any sleep, clearing his throat and tapping the wooden surface with the flat end of his fork to get the other’s notice. “No...no encoresss, snrrk‒” his head bobs abruptly, one second from having slipped and thunked against the table as he blearily blinks out of sync, wiping away a small line of droll with his hand. He groggily snaps to attention to see Toren looking at him, opening his mouth on a jaw-cracking yawn. “I mean no leftovers‒huh? What’s...what’s up?”

“ ... Um, have you been getting any sleep?”

“Whassat?” Ryuki mutters with a grunt, quickly followed by a cracking noise as he jerks his neck side to side a does a skitty sketch in his chair. “Am I‒oh, yeah, I’m...well, not really, but it’s fine. Don’t worry about it, man.”

“Is it...are you not comfortable...? You used to sleep all day, for a long time, but now you’ve been up early in the morning...”

“Oh, that’s just ‘cause I’ve been getting up with the sun...since I started workin’ at the Kantonian Gym, y’know, my schedule’s different.” Humming a bit, he easily dodges the first question, before reluctantly going back to it. “It’s just...have a lot on my mind, s’all.” Toren tries not to read too heavily into that. “Been all fired up lately, so it’s hard to sleep like a baby, even hearin’ the lullaby of the ocean waves.”

Kneading his lips with his teeth, he wrings his hands. “What about...your clothes? Isn’t it–I always wondered–aren’t they...hard to the touch? Do you not have clothes to rest in...?”

“Uh...” Strangely, this question seems to cause him to freeze for a second, tapping his claw against the table as he contemplates how to respond. “I...well, sure. But even if I had ‘em on, your boy’s too big to fit on that couch, anyway. Guess I got used to havin’ a bed?” He chuckles a bit, bashfully ruffling the back of his neck again, as he mumbles to himself. “Maybe my nightly routine helps me go beddy-bye more than I thought...”

“W-What was that?”

“Nothing, nothing! Listen, it’s no big deal. I’m always rarin’ to go and pumped up full of energy, so it’s not a problem! I got this.”

Out of desperation to present a solution before he can change the topic, Toren blurts the first thing that comes to mind.

“You can sleep in the bed with‒” he’s already a majority through the sentence before it occurs to him exactly what he’s suggesting, but by that point it’s already too late to take it back, so he grits his teeth and forces out the last word past his mortification. “...me...”

While the other man is clearly shocked enough into pausing slack-jawed and probably wide-eyed underneath his bangs, and seems after a moment to be conflicted as he sits in pensive silence, he blessedly doesn’t draw any attention to how incriminating that suggestion sounds. “Well...” Oh no, oh no, oh no , why did I say that, that’s so weird to suggest!? Okay okay okay, he’ll just say no, and then we’ll both say that this never happened! Easy-peasy. “I...don’t know. I mean...I snore, and I don’t stop rockin’ even in my sleep, so I’d probably get in your space without meanin’ to...I really, that’s nice of you to offer, man, but–” See? It’s fine. Everything’s fine. There’s no way he would agree to th–wait, WHAT?!

“...H-Huh?” His voice cracks—even though it’s obviously a lead-up into a rejection of his impulsive proposal, the fact he doesn’t outright refuse surprises Toren enough into getting out of his head, before sensing the opportunity to make up for his blunder earlier in the week. “N-No! It’s...it’s not like that!” The volume of his shout evidently startles the other into giving him his full attention, as Toren nervously steels himself and attempts to quell his loudly beating heart. He thinks of the last time he spoke up and clarified himself, how it didn’t turn out nearly as catastrophically as he’d imagined it in his head (it improved his life in every way, beyond anything he could have conceived to be possible), as his partner pokémon trots up to his side at his distress and encouragingly places a hand over his own. You can do this–pokémon power, star power, anything–just speak up, and he takes a deep breath in that stutters out in a sigh.
“You’re not...I mean, I don’t...I don’t mind, it doesn’t bother me, when you ‘get in my space’. I-I’m sorry...for before, I was just...you’re right, I don’t know how to deal with others. I don’t know how to speak, or act, in front of people when they gather around me...I’m always fidgeting, I easily get flustered, and I can’t always speak. B-But even if it seems like it, it doesn’t mean that I don’t want you near me...I don’t just...‘put up’ with you, I-I really like when you’re around.” His cheeks flush pink at the admittance, but he carries on with a squeeze of Stumble’s hand. “My co-workers...thought I hated them, because of how I am, and I thought they hated me because of how they spoke of me–I just...I don’t want you to believe that I think ill of you.” Quickly losing steam, he timidly and rapidly finishes in a rushed conclusion. “I-It’s okay if you still don’t want to! I only...wanted to tell you that.”

There’s a prolonged quiet where he refuses to look up and see the other man’s reaction, unable to repress the instinctual fear he’s crossed a boundary he shouldn’t have, before Ryuki speaks up again. “I...thanks, Ren, you really...you shine, when you break out of your shell like that.” It’s obvious he’s at a loss of what to say, looking both humbled and flattered with a soft smile on his face when Toren looks up, causing his palms to feel clammy and his cheeks to heat. “It’s just...it’s lame. Bein’ this worried about how I look in front of you. The clothes that I sleep in, what I do before beddy-bye–I’ve never shown anyone my off mode because it’s...uncool, y’know? It doesn’t fit in with my style.”

“You have an ‘off mode?”

For some reason, the information that Ryuki isn’t always the way he presents is genuinely shocking to him.

“Of course! I’d get real tired if I was always so soulful.”

He doesn’t have any sensible rebuttal to that, shaking off the initial surprise at the revelation to reassure the other man, trying to look firm in his conviction. “I-It’s fine. You’ve seen me embarrass myself so many times, you know I’m very...‘lame’ myself. There’s no need to worry. I don’t want you to feel like you have to hold yourself back around me...with your clothes, o-or anything. I-I can handle it. I won’t run away, and I won’t think differently of you, I swear.” Trying not to cringe, he squeezes out one last confession while he’s ahead. “You’ll always be cool to me, I...I really look up to you.”

“You really mean that?”

He nods.

For a few seconds that feel like an eternity, Ryuki presses his fingers against his chin and seems to contemplate his words heavily, before dropping his hand with an uncharacteristically stoic expression. “...Okay. But even my hardcore fans don’t get to know about stuff like this. What I’m like on my own time is a secret–so you can’t tell anybody, got it?”

He nods, more frantically this time.

“Give me a bit.”

Grabbing one of his various bags, Ryuki hurriedly rushes to the bathroom without further delay, leaving the scientist alone to clean up their dishes. The clank of the silverware and porcelain feels startlingly loud to him with his heartbeat thundering in his ears, the tension of being made to wait and the expectation of something unknown making his skin tingle. After he’s finished, he kicks his shoes off and hangs up his lab coat, sitting motionless at the foot of the bed as the minutes tick by. Ryuki remains in the bathroom for a long while, longer than he’s ever spent in there at one time (even during showers), the sound of the fan running intermittently between sounds of the tap water running. He’s not sure what he’s supposed to think, conjuring up all sorts of escalating scenarios in his mind, before the knob and lock clicks, and he jolts towards the sound of bare feet padding across the carpet towards him. In front of him is a sight almost unrecognizable to the man he’s come to know—his hair laying flat against his neck and face and leaving his face more easily seen even with his long bangs, wearing a full-body over-sized dragonite-themed onesie that covers him from head-to-toe unlike his usual style of clothing, sheepishly scratching his cheek with a blunt nail as he avoids his gaze. “Whaddaya think...? It’s lame, right?”

“It’s really cuuu–um, it’s c-cool.”

He doesn’t miss the way Ryuki lights up, his eyes glistening as he leans forward with his fists clenched and a wide smile on his face. “Really?”

Toren tries his hardest not to stutter. “R...Really. It’s...it’s good, how much you love your pokémon. A-And you look fine.”

“Yahoo!” Jumping excitedly with his arms above his head in a pose like performing jumping-jacks, the other man lunges at him before he can flinch backwards, throwing his arms around his neck in a quick, delighted hug before pulling back with a blinding grin. “Thanks, Ren! Even if it’s just you who thinks that, you got no idea how much I worry about lookin’ baby-faced and lame when I ain’t doin’ gigs.” He giggles a little in a higher pitch than Toren’s used to hearing from him, struck by the sudden realization that the other may intentionally lower his speaking register in front of others to seem more impressive.
It feels like a sucker punch, how fast the air leaves his lungs, as he freezes up seeing Ryuki’s large sparkling eyes for the first time in clarity right next to him. “Y’know, this was actually a good idea! Lettin’ you know more about your boy, and askin’ me to sleep with you–it’s good practice for gettin’ ya used to being touched, and letting you in on one of my secrets means we can feel closer, so it’ll be more believable when we tell people we’re rockin’ together!” Ryuki muses entirely to himself in the wake of the other’s half-baked proposal (which he never expected would come to fruition, let alone everything else that followed), before nodding decisively while slamming a closed fist against his open palm, and clapping Toren on the back. “Good idea, Ren!”

“...H-Huh?!”

And that’s how he ends up wide awake and staring at the ceiling later that night, with Ryuki spread in a staryu position snoring beside him, one arm sprawled across the scientists’ chest while a heel digs into his shin.

Ironically, he ends up being the one who doesn’t get any sleep for the rest of the week.

They get ready approximately an hour and a half early on the night of; the event has a formal dress code, like it has every year, and Toren wears the same unassuming brown suit that he wears every time. When he first got here, the other man didn’t have any clothing befitting the attire criteria, but after a brief shopping trip during the day while the scientist was at work, he managed to procure something. He wears it just like you’d expect him to—with fingerless gloves, the sleeves rolled back, the overcoat and tie done away with completely, and the shirt’s buttons undone about halfway to expose his chest. It’s not more bare skin than he normally shows, in fact it’s less of it, but he somehow looks even more provocative with a suit on. He swallows harshly, loosens his tie, and prays he won’t sweat visible stains into his jacket. After a conversation earlier in the week about having affectionate nicknames for one another to help sell the image, he’s been even more on edge, trying to accustom himself to saying it out loud without tripping over his tongue. “You could call me Ryu, like Piers does, or Yuki–” he hadn’t even let him finish before saying “t-that one,” while trying not to feel like he was itching at the thought of being compared to someone else.
When they finally arrive a bit later, Toren anxiously comes to a complete halt outside of the building, filled with sudden and all-encompassing dread at the possibility that he might screw up and give himself away as soon as he goes through the door. For the first time since he’s started going to this event every year, he left Stumble at home since he’s been provided company already in the form of Ryuki, a decision which he’s beginning to regret as his anxiety starts to build. While he’s getting lost in his nervous catastrophizing, he feels the soft sensation of leather and the coarse feeling of calloused skin brush up against him, as Ryuki grabs hold of his hand and intertwines their fingers. He instantly snaps his head up to look at the other, flustered and startled and confused, but is met by an encouragingly broad grin in contrast to his own conflicted expression. “You got this, Ren. You practiced all week for it. You’re a star, remember?” Ryuki squeezes his hand, looking at him with a genuine glint in his eyes, but meeting his gaze so intently and from such a short distance he can feel himself shiver. “We got this.”

“...I-I’m a star.”

“You’re a star!”

“I-I got this!”

“You got this!”

Breathing in with a deep inhale, he marches up to the doors with what little confidence he’s permitted to have, and walks through.

With everyone else already engaged in conversation, they’re allowed one brief moment of respite before his co-workers happen to catch sight of them, a moment which he uses to scan over the small crowd. It’s all the usual people, with Jason conversing in the upper left, and Daisy hanging out in the center—DAISY?!?! And Bill!? Nobody told me they would be here! Attempting to jerk away his hand in a panic, Ryuki mistakes his desperation for jitters and tightens his grip, but it doesn’t matter anyway, because she accidentally makes eye contact with him from across the room and quickly wraps up whatever conversation she was engaged in to make her way over to him. No matter how frantically he tugs his arm, the rockstar’s grasp is unrelenting, staring at him curiously from the corner of his eye as he tries in vain to free himself before Daisy reaches them.
“Toren, hi!” Her smile is just as friendly and warm as always, wrapping him in a light hug as a greeting (one he can only return with one hand), then pulling back shortly after and tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “So good to see you! How have you been?” Before he gets a chance to respond, the man beside him loudly clears his throat to remind her of his presence, even though Toren would rather have had her ignore his company altogether. “Oh, I’m so sorry, how rude of me!” She starts apologizing profusely for the social blunder, about to continue doing so until she (much to his chagrin) notices their intertwined hands, and raises an eyebrow after following her gaze back up Ryuki to meet his eyes. “And you might be...?”

Obliviously undeterred, he flashes her a broad grin while holding out his free hand to shake. “The name’s Ryuki! I’m Toren’s boyfriend!”

“Oh?” Daisy raises her other eyebrow while taking hold of his offered handshake, but stares directly at Toren the whole time, who frantically avoids making eye contact. “I’ve heard a fair bit about you, it’s good to finally meet you! I’m Daisy Oak.”

“Oh!” He watches as a metaphorical light bulb goes off above Ryuki’s head, snapping his fingers together as he points at the older woman. “So you’re Daisy!”

“That’s me!” She giggles with a tilt of her head, performing a small curtsy. “I’d love to chat some more, but it looks like you two might have company soon,” as soon as she mentions it, he notices—his co-workers’ curious stares from all across the room, eyeing the both of them like starving pyroars. “I’ll catch up later, okay? It was lovely to meet you!” Daisy doesn’t waste any time in making her hasty escape; he almost wants to beg her not to leave him to the unrelenting storm that awaits him with his colleagues, but then she winks at him with a smirk and mouths ‘good luck’ and he realizes, oh no, she knows.

He doesn’t have any time to wallow in his misery, however, because as soon as she’s gone, the swarm comes.

They’re immediately descended upon by his co-workers. If he was to describe the experience, he’d liken it to being immersed in a flood of ninjask in the summer, buzzing and humming incessantly from all sides. It threatens to completely overwhelm him nearly immediately even with just three other people (Jason maintains a respectful distance) surrounding them, the sensory overload of several people excitedly speaking at once from varying direction almost becoming far too much for him to handle—but Ryuki tightens his clasp and squeezes, running a calloused thumb across the back of Toren’s hand, and he feels like he can breathe again. The rockstar hardly reacts at all to the rapidfire questioning, if he’s even phased whatsoever, answering everything at his own leisure while taking it all in stride. “The name’s Ryuki! I’m a star of the rock and rollin’ world, I sell CDs of my music but I prefer performing live‒the great Ryuki is an experience, ya dig? And I also sell merch so lemme know if you wanna get hooked up with some blazingly brilliant badges to brag about yours truly, and no, I ain’t world famous yet. But if y’all wanna be my superstar fans, you can help bring your boy to overseas stardom yourself! OHHH YEAAAH!!!” The rate at which questions are posed to him and the ensuing speed at which the redhead answers them is dizzying to hear, Toren can barely keep track of the conversation with how quickly it progresses from one topic to the next.
In a strange sort of way, he’s almost disappointed—all that time spent practicing his lines and exactly how to answer if asked certain questions, and not only are they exclusively posing any and all inquiries towards his fake-boyfriend, but he can’t even manage to get a word in edgewise with how fast they’re going. And not just that, but none of the questions they’re even asking seem to have a relation to their status as a supposed-couple, all being personal inquiries about Ryuki’s life rather than anything else. Eventually, the intensity of the interrogation dies down to one question at a time, with their curiosity over all the little details about Toren’s supposed-lover being sated. At first, pretty standard queries they prepared for (all of them are directed towards the more outgoing of the two, a fact which Toren is both grateful for and exasperated wondering why he even bothered trying to remember things in the first place): how they met, how they became couple, how long they’ve been together, and so on. But then, of all people, Jason speaks up. “What do you like most about Toren?” It only takes him a moment to register oh no that’s not a question we wrote down and begin to fret, hoping the terror doesn’t show on his face as he desperately tries to think up a way to get out of this without giving himself away.

“What, just that, that’s what you wanna know? Hahaha, I can give you that, no problem!” While he’s absorbed in the throes of panicking, Ryuki responds breezily—utterly carefree and nonchalant, as if he doesn’t have a worry in the world—as he lets go of the Toren’s hand to slip an arm around his waist and firmly pull him in close, an action that leaves him completely breathless with his chest aching. “What’s not to fall in love about when it comes to Ren?! He’s real cool and smart, a super nice guy, real cute when he gets all fired up, shines like no other when he speaks up, I respect how much he cares about other people even when he can’t talk to ‘em, really loves his pokémon, he’s got a bangin’ beautiful singing voice deserving the title of bein’ a star–”

He keeps going for quite a while, listing qualities on and on, but Toren can barely hear through the cotton feeling in his ears, so red and hot he feels like he might pass out at any moment. Once he’s finally finished, Jason nods once, slowly and solemnly in approval. “It sounds like you really care about him.”

“You got that right!” He says it with such confidence and sincerity that briefly, Toren can almost fool himself into believing he really means it with all the additional connotations, flashing a grin and a thumbs up.

“Do you ever have trouble hearing him? You two seem...very different.”

Another one speaks soon after, looking at him with an almost reluctant expression like she’s afraid to ask it, knowing his history with them surrounding his inability to express himself. He’s far too distracted to get caught up in the sensitivity of it, and more than anything, he’s curious himself for the answer. In all the time he’s known him, despite his propensity for cutting people off and not waiting for an answer, Ryuki’s never once seemed to get frustrated with him like everyone else inevitably does. Barely giving it any time to mull over, he tilts his head as if it’s something to be confused by, before answering simply. “Why would I? As long as I wait for him, he always gets there on his own. Just ‘cause I’m loud doesn’t mean I don’t know when to listen. And I’ve got exceptional hearing! Doesn’t matter if he whispers or shouts, I’ll always hear anything he’s got to say. I always have. Ain’t that right, baby?”

Being directly addressed, it takes him a moment to realize the pet-name refers to him until he sees Ryuki’s eyes looking up into his own with an imploring gaze, one that makes his whole body feel ticklish and burning. He can’t look away. “Y-Yeah...Y-Yuki.”

The crowd lingers around a little longer, asking some more lingering inquiries that the scientist is all but useless for even if he wanted to answer them, before eventually dissipating and going about their business around the rest of the room. He’s still too stunned to speak or blink out of his stupefied state even with their absence, only stirred into motion by the light squeeze around his torso where the other’s arm still remains slung, looking slightly down to the side to see the shorter man gazing back up at him with a grin. He winks, as if to say I did good, huh?

“Told ya we could do it. Never underestimate the great Ryuki,” he murmurs under his breath, eyes twinkling and sparkling with mirth, as the lights of the room glint off the shine of his teeth.

He called me ‘baby’ earlier, Toren belatedly realizes. I want him to do that again.

Oh, he thinks, hyperaware of the burning touch around his waist and the heat of his face. Oh no.

Chapter Text

To absolutely no one’s surprise, Toren doesn’t have any experience in the way of romance.

“Callahaaaan, this is terribleee...” he whines through his inebriated stupor, pathetically crying into the marble countertop of the bar, practically feeling glued to it with the miniature puddle-pool of drool and tears underneath his face causing him to stick to the slab.

“There, there...cheer up, pal.”

After the party yesterday, when Toren returned home he had a message waiting in his inbox, an invitation to meet up again sometime soon from none other than the older man himself. It feels like it’s been months (and it probably has been) since the two of them have actually had an extended conversation instead of Callahan shoving his niece into Toren’s hands for another babysitting gig before promptly hurrying off without explanation. When the proposal of going out for drinks was suggested, he was needless to say hesitant to agree knowing how embarrassing he gets when he’s drinking, both more uninhibited than usual and far more prone to revealing information he’d much rather keep secret. Ultimately the temptation to be in the company of someone he feels he wouldn’t have to censor himself around, and vent about another disaster he’s gotten himself into, outweighed the potential of getting himself into a worse disaster by drinking.
At this point they’ve both seen each other at perhaps some of the worst lows of their respective lives, notably during the Wind Festival debacle, a particular incident that they both worsened significantly—as cautious as he tends to be with how he comes across, for fear of being hated, this is less of a concern when it comes to Callahan. He’s made himself a fool in front of him more than enough for one lifetime, and he’s seen the other man practically broken at the thought his niece didn’t want to speak with him. Even with this strange circumstance, he still prefers to maintain a respectable distance, tentative to call attention to the nature of any of his relationships. But that all went out the window once he got drunk, spilling his guts about everything (including his budding emotions) that’s happened and is weighing on his mind, all without needing much of a push to get started. He brought the suitcase full of badges, too, resting it on the bar stool beside him as he wails into his arms.

“...It could be worse,” his company murmurs into his drink after a moment of silence.

“ How? How could it be worse?”

“You...you could’ve‒” the older man cuts himself off, before speaking again but so quietly in a mumble it’s practically inaudible, awkwardly averting his eyes off to the side.

“Huh? I can’t hear you.”

For a brief second, it looks like the other might expand further on whatever his thought happened to be, but then his brow creases and he sighs heavily while swishing the ice in his glass. “...Nah, it’s nothing.”

Toren regards him silently for a short period of time, studying the signs of stress written all across his face and the bizarrely withdrawn way he’s conducting himself, before the uninhibited urge to fill the empty space wins out over what little restraint he still has. “What’ve you been doing when you have me watch Kellie, any‒anyway?”

The question looks to be the very last one that Callahan wanted to hear, wincing with a pained grin-bordering-on-grimace while rubbing the back of his head. “Well, y’see...” He sighs again, mumbling “might as well tell you” under his breath, before running a hand down his face with a groan. “Okay, okay, lemme put it like this.”

Clearing his throat, he begins to regale him with one of his characteristically embellished tales, dramatically endowed to make him seem like the hero of some made-up story. It’s somewhat hard to follow along with when he’s already beyond tipsy, struggling enough to keep his head up let alone follow along with a convoluted story, but he gathers the gist of it—encountering a “world-renowned” police officer looking for some fugitives of a former criminal organization while he was doing his day job (being a travelling entertainer, dressed in a clown get-up, like the peddlers and jugglers often found on the streets of Castelia), he offered to “employ his services” while bragging about how he single-handedly took down an affiliate sub-section of Team Rocket in Fula City all by himself, and has been seeking out these aforementioned fugitives with this eccentric agent for the past few months. It doesn’t quite click until he manages to parse through the other’s flowery and dramaticized language exactly what he’s admitting to, suddenly jolting up in his seat in shock with an absolutely scandalized expression.

“You LIED to an International Police agent?! Callahan!!! ”

“ SHHH!!! Shut up! Keep your voice down...!” The older man immediately makes a shushing motion with one finger to his lips, lunging to slap his other hand over Toren’s mouth (albeit too late to prevent everyone in the bar from hearing and eyeing them curiously) while sheepishly grinning at the rest of the patrons and trying to play it off as a nonsensical inebriated outburst. The scientist stares at him with an incredulous expression, his mouth and words completely muffled by the width of Callahan’s hand, as the other frantically scrambles to throw off any attention directed towards them—completely avoiding looking at him until everyone else returns to their business, and he moves his hand with a heavy sigh to take a strong swig of his drink. It takes a bit longer before his company seems to remember he’s even there, too preoccupied with staring down at his glass before he realizes there’s a gaze on him, and glances at Toren’s face briefly before skittishly looking away and grumbling, “don’t look at me like that.”
The younger of the two lets out an exasperated cry in response, ruffling his hair in distress as he’s prone to doing when a situation feels especially hopeless. He knows full well that no matter how much he lectures the other man it won’t change anything (and what’s done has already been done), but with how drunk he is, he chooses to do it anyway. “ Callahaaaan, ” he whines out the man’s name in a pleading tone, pressing forward to keep the conversation low and held just between the two of them, imploring his companion with a firmly locked gaze while the other firmly refuses to look at him. “You can’t just lie to someone in the International Police. I’m...I’m pretty sure that’s a crime. You...you could get a report filed and investigated and–and arrested for that!” Toren watches as the brunette flinches from the weight of that implication, gritting his teeth in a grimace before taking yet another aggressively long and practically a rapid inhale of his scotch, forcefully but quietly setting his glass down so as not to make a scene.

“You think I don’t know that?” He whispers furiously, occasionally glancing at the doctor out of the corner of his eye, otherwise staring wide-eyed down at the counter with an expression of pure dread. “Of course I know that. And I wasn’t lying...just...creative liberties! But even if it was a bit of a lie, I can’t fess up to anything ‘cause they might throw me in the slammer. Can you imagine? Me, not being around for Kellie and Mia? Can you imagine what they’d say about me to Kellie at school? ‘Haw-haw, your uncle’s a big dumb liar who tried to trick an agent of the law while dressed up like a clown, he’s an ugly little crown-criminal so they sent him to super-clown-jail for big stupid worthless weakling clowns! ’ Can you imagine the‒the utter brutality? The mortification? Elementary school kids are ruthless! I’d be a laughing stock! It’s hopeless! I’ve already betrayed her once, if I disappointed her like that again, Kellie would hate me for the rest of her life!”

“Oookay, I think you’re being, just...just a liiittle too much. I know I worry a lot but from what you said, the policeman seems fine? It’s...possible nothing bad would happen. And I think you should say it sooner rather than later, so you’ll be in less trouble. I...would know. You should tell him.”

“Are you kidding me?! No! No, no, a million times no! I can’t risk that!”

Toren frowns a little, upset at the idea of keeping this information secret. “Then...I will.”

“Absolutely not!” For what feels like the first time since they’ve been here, Callahan finally whips his head fully around to stare the scientist dead in the eye, panic and desperate irritation written all across his face. “You won’t say a thing. In fact, you’ll do any favours I ask from you from here on out, no matter what.”

“Huh? Wh‒ Why ...is that?”

“Because...” The other man starts, reaching into his vest to pull out a rolled up sheet of paper, slowly unraveling it to present to his companion. “...I have something of yours that you don’t want to get into the wrong hands.”

In front of him, is his drawing of Ryuki. The one he left at Mia’s house without realizing.

Instantly lunging for the sketch in the other man’s hand, Callahan leans back coolly in his stool in anticipation of the sudden motion, stretching his arm just out of reach while tsking, “aht, aht, aht!”

“P-Please, can I have that back?!”

Callahan snickers a little, a laugh with all the smugness of knowing he’s won packed inside of it, waggling the pointer finger of his free hand at the clumsily plastered doctor-scientist like he’s chastising a baby lillipup for chewing up the living room rug. “Uh-uh! If you don’t want me to hand this over to Ryuki and tell him all about your new feeeeliiings, then you’ll agree not to snitch. And help me out with whatever I ask, whenever I ask.”

“You...you wouldn’t, would you?”

“Try me, doctor, I got nothin’ to lose.”

There’s a long pause while he frantically searches the older man’s face for any sign of bluffing, any give or indication he’s joking, anything that could possibly be used to let him escape this nightmare—but for once, it unfortunately would appear he’s being entirely truthful. Letting out a high keening noise of despair at being backed into a corner, Toren stares down the other man briefly in a desperate bid to get him to relent, before groaning in resignation with a “auuuugghhh...fine. ” His companion smirks proudly at the surrender, silently gloating at the win in a way that only serves to upset the doctor even more, downing the remainder of his drink with an intoxicated hiccup. “Is this why you kept asking me to look after Kellie?” He asks with a pout, now avoiding looking at the other man himself. “How come you...y’never asked Risa?”
His drinking buddy nods in confirmation at the first question while mid-sip, smacking his lips and letting out a content sigh as he swallows the burning liquor. “Bingo. Mia works full time, so when Kellie gets home from school, I gotta be there to watch her. But a lot of the work I’ve been doin’ with Looker has been after school hours, so...needed someone else to fill that gap for me,” Callahan stops speaking to rub at the back of his head, scratching his cheek and looking away with a semi-guilty expression. “I didn’t ask Risa ‘cause if I ended up gettin’ caught, I didn’t wanna jeopardize her future and reputation at fashion school or running or whatever it is she’s doing by gettin’ her all caught up in my mess. Also...if she knew, she’d kill me. Better to keep her out of it, y’know?”

He lets out another despairing whine. “Oh, but when it’s me, it’s fine?”

They continue drinking late into the night, up until the early hours of the morning, getting so wasted he can barely walk (in fact having to rely on leaning heavily against Stumble to remain upright and ensure he even gets home at all). It takes him so long to even manage to get his key in the slot correctly, let alone unlock the door, that eventually Ryuki hears him fumbling around in the hallway and cuts the process short by opening the door for him. “Hey, man,” he says slowly, peering at the green-haired man with a curious sort of concern in his eyes. Uninhibited and uncoordinated as he’s currently so drunk he can hardly see, Toren stands wobbily upwards before flinging himself directly into the rockstar’s arms with complete reckless abandon, smushing his cheek up against the other man’s chest and scrambling his arms to clumsily attempt to draw the redhead into a close embrace.
“Whoa...!” His guest makes an involuntary sound of surprise at the scientist’s expectedly bold move, cautiously returning the hug to awkwardly pat his back. “You...you smell like‒are you drunk? ” Raising his head in response to the other’s voice, he ends up with his face separated by merely inches from Ryuki’s own, breathing heavily and only confirming the rockstar’s suspicion by fanning his alcohol-laden breath directly in front of the shorter man’s nose. It’s evident he was getting ready for bed given the pajamas he’s wearing, his hair laying down flat and framing his head, the small remnants of a torn face mask having left a white strip on his cheek. Ever since that first night, he’s stopped being as reserved about himself, showing Toren more of what he’s like when he’s alone. It hasn’t been helping him with his predicament, more endeared with everything he sees. He smells good, like the copious products he puts in his hair and on his skin, wafting a sweet and fresh scent.
From this close up, he can see the reddening blush spreading across Ryuki’s cheeks from the proximity, the confused and almost expectant glimmer in his large hazel eyes. He’s so cute, he thinks, what does he think about me? He wonders if he ran his hand through the redhead’s hair, if it would feel soft without the product he usually puts in it to make it stick up and point outward, limp and damp from a shower. Would he let me? He wonders if he gently caressed the side of his face and tilted up his chin, if the skin on his face would feel as soft as it looks, unlike the rough texture of his guitar-calloused fingers. Would he want me to? He wonders if his lips would be just as pleasant to the touch, if his breath would smell as nice as the rest of him, fresh and sweet. I wonder what it feels like? Staring at his mouth with single-minded drunk determination, he starts to lean in as if to make his imaginations reality, thinking I think I’m going to kiss him, and he—

He blacks out.

Following all the excessive questioning at the party about the intimate details of their supposed relationship, and the scientists’ awkward and withdrawn silence for the entire duration of the conversation and even the walk home afterwards, the last thing he expected when the other man went out by himself the next evening was for him to come back plastered. He discovers rather quickly that Toren is a lot more touchy-feely and far less reserved when he’s drunk, clinging to Ryuki like he’s the sole thing keeping him afloat (and he more than likely is, if the way his legs are shaking is any indication). And for a brief moment, he genuinely believes that Toren might be trying to kiss him, before realizing how ridiculous that would be. Looking at him, it’s clear that his eyes are glassy and heavily lidded with the oncoming of sleep, barely able to support himself and keep his head up. It doesn’t take much for him to come to the obvious conclusion that the other man’s not actually trying to do anything, simply unable to accurately judge the distance between them in this state, his trajectory more of an accident than anything. Right before he manages to make contact, the heavily inebriated man immediately falls unconscious directly into his arms, causing Ryuki to stagger backwards from the sudden and unexpected weight as he struggles to keep the other from falling unceremoniously to the floor. Despite his taller stature, he’s rather lightweight, not needing to exert any excessive physical effort as he supports him with his shoulder and drags Toren’s unconscious body to the bed. Stumble hovers about behind him in confusion and mild distress as he pulls the blankets over him, patting her reassuringly to indicate he has it handled, before collapsing against the mattress with a huff.
His heart hammers in his chest, but for more reasons than just the mild exercise—though he resolved to put it out of his mind and pretend it wasn’t there, the yearning for an affectionate touch and a doting companion never left him, even after he fully gave up on chasing after it. Ryuki knows logically that this was an accident (he didn’t mean anything by it, he was wasted), but the mere taste of intimacy in the form of a short embrace spurred on by a drunken stupor was enough to make his longing hit full force again. It feels sort of pathetic; he’s well aware they don’t have that kind of relationship, and he’s never thought of the other man like that before either, nor has Toren ever indicated any interest. They’re friends, he’s never thought of them as anything more than that, and he doesn’t plan on changing that. Letting something as miniscule as this rattle him is frustrating, sighing with an aggressive huff as he turns on his side to stare at the other’s back. Just like with everything else in his life he rushes into, he’s always been the type to fall in love easily, a big heart in his chest that loves just as deeply as it desires to be loved by others. It’s second nature to him, to want and be wanted, and having gone this long without seeking out an outlet for that love has felt miserable. You can’t pick and choose what or who you want, he knows that, and he would never want to make anyone else feel like he wants them simply because they’re there. But it was easier to tell himself that when he wasn’t in the position of sharing a bed with anyone else.

Staring so intently at Toren’s back he could burn a hole through his shirt, he goes through all the motions of trying to convince himself out of doing or thinking anything reckless. As easy as it is for him to fall in love, it’s never been with someone he’s known well, the key being that it’s always been at first sight. An admiration for a singer he respected that blossomed into a crush and then more, shallow longing for someone else who looked like him, and for someone who looked handsome and endearing when he was wanting—he’s never had feelings develop naturally over time. Hard and fast, it’s how he’s always been. Whatever this hypothetical that’s nagging him is, it isn’t that. Thinking about it any further will just confuse him and muddle his thoughts. Closing his eyes, he decides to forget this incident and put it behind him. “...Yuki...” And his eyes shoot back open. For a moment he thinks he must’ve imagined it, only able to hear the soft sound of Toren’s breathing, before it happens again. A soft “Ryuki,” through the other man’s lips, in between distraught noises and shaky breathing as he starts to twitch. From behind him, he can’t immediately tell what’s going on without being able to see his face, before he realizes after a few moments that he must be having a nightmare. It must involve him to some capacity, if the calling out of his name is any indication, something that makes his fingers twitch and his chest ache in sympathy.
Listening motionless to his laboured breathing and sleep-talking for another minute, he doesn’t know what to do—he can’t just leave him be, but he can’t wake him up either, and he wouldn’t be able to sleep knowing someone was crying for him right beside him. Pressing a hesitant palm against the other’s back, he tries to reason to himself that breaching this contact might be necessary to soothe him, and it’s not an excuse just because he’s touch-starved. It’s not as if he doesn’t touch Toren, or that he isn’t a physically affectionate person, but it feels very different and intimate in the dark of night when one of them is in the throes of sleep. Or maybe he’s only overthinking it because of what just happened, and he probably is, so he huffs and puts it aside. He said it would be good practice to get Toren used to being touched, even if the party has passed by now, it’s not as if that’s likely to be the last time he’ll ever be relevant to the other’s co-workers. Keeping up pretenses should be fine. And more importantly, he should be his friend, and help him if he’s struggling. It doesn’t have to mean anything beyond what he says it does. It’s what any star would do. It can’t hurt, right? Gingerly crawling underneath the covers, for a moment Ryuki only stares at the other man’s back with his chest thumping erratically like a stadium crowd, before slowly and carefully wrapping his arms around the taller man’s torso in a cradled embrace. Right? Resting his own head on the back of the other’s shoulders, he waits for his breathing to settle and his whimpers to die down, soothed by the steady thrum of his heartbeat as Ryuki sighs in relief before succumbing to a peaceful slumber.

That next morning they find themselves in a more entangled cuddling position than even what Ryuki started, limbs wrapped up in one another like a twisted and tangled cloth and facing one another with his head buried somewhere between the other man’s shoulder and neck. When he wakes up, Toren is already awake and utterly frozen in what looks like abject horror, too petrified to even move—he feels guilty for putting him in this position, even if he tried to justify it (and even if the other man insists he doesn’t mind it when he’s in his space), and even if he didn’t think they’d end up in quite such a compromising spot. He’s always been clingy in his sleep, he should’ve kept to himself, there’s some friends he has that probably wouldn’t mind something like this but he’s not one of them. He shouldn’t blur the lines. Awkwardly separating himself, he tries to keep his cool and explain himself to keep Toren from freaking out any further, brushing it off with a simple “it happens.”
Toren apologizes profusely, more clearly mortified by his own out-of-character behaviour from last night than anything else, surprisingly quickly moving past their initial entanglement. It’s a little disappointing that he feels the need to vehemently express his condolences for touching him, insisting that he “doesn’t know” what he was “thinking doing that,” before Ryuki reminds himself that it’s just because he feels like he’s breached a boundary. After what happened with Plumeria, he’s been trying to be better about them himself, it’s redundant to feel disappointed—someone this timid would never do anything like that under normal circumstances, he’s not implying anything about how he feels about you by apologizing (he already told you that it was a misunderstanding before, he doesn’t think you’re too much), and you need to be better. Don’t get ahead of yourself like you always do, don’t let this make you think of him differently, stop thinking about it. You have other, bigger priorities. So he takes in a deep breath and grins, patting Toren’s shoulder, and says “it’s no big deal, man, s’all cool.” And that’s the end of that.

He tries not to think too hard about it.

After organizing with the gym to take more days off on an impromptu vacation, Ryuki decides to spend the rest of the holidays here in Unova with Toren. This time of year always makes him feel nostalgic, missing his family and everyone back home more intensely than usual, leaving an uncomfortable ache in his heart. With his location always changing, they can’t send him well-wishing cards or gifts like he knows they would otherwise, hanging onto his only correspondence through the phone. Though it always makes him feel strange to talk with them when he has nothing new to show for himself, he could never bring himself to go completely no-contact until he does, sending them yearly sentiments before the year ends. At least they all have each other in his absence, and that makes him feel better. They never blame him, even if he knows they’d wish he’d come home. Eventually, he knows that he will, he can only hope it’ll be someday soon. But while his friends and family all have each other, Toren doesn’t have anybody to keep him company.
He has friends, but they’re all mostly older and settled down in families they’ve already got obligations to celebrate the festivities with. And it’d be odd to spend such a special time of the year with his co-workers, especially when they’re under the impression he’s got a boyfriend he can spend it with—and what kind of partner would strand their beloved alone for one of the most couple-oriented events of the season? He’d hate to give off that kind of impression. Even if it’s all fake, the great Ryuki is not a neglectful lover. There’s all of that, but if he was being mostly truthful with himself, he just doesn’t want to be anywhere near Alola at the moment. After what Guzma said to him it’s like he’s got this metaphorical itch in his brain, this nagging feeling like he’s got to do something, anything to prevent his fate from getting sealed like the other man said his was. And if that something happens to be running away until he can formulate a cohesive plan of action, then so be it.

So he resolves to stay in Fula City until the end of the year.

With this being the second time Ryuki’s stayed over, and this time for an even more extended period of time than the last, they get around to acquiring a second key to the apartment for the rockstar to keep in his possession. They’re just friends, well and truly nothing more than that, and it’s not like the gift is a gesture of anything when they talked about it beforehand as being more of a convenience than anything—but Ryuki still can’t help but feel sort of giddy. Like he’s been chosen, deemed worthy and loved enough to have unlimited access to someone else’s home; it’s a first for him, to experience the sort of inherent trust that’s required for someone to give you that kind of power, to enter their lives and leave whenever you fancy. Even when he was with Piers long-term, he never received another house key (albeit that was because the other man never bothered to lock the door in the first place, already living amongst the sort of so-called hooligans people would expect to break into homes to begin with), so this sort of development feels special. For Toren to like him enough to give him the means to consider the humble apartment as his home, too—it’s endearing, it’s touching, but it’s not a big deal. It’s for a good reason. You really gotta stop gettin’ fired up over stuff like this. You know he ain’t mean it like that. So uncool, man. He tries really really hard not to think about it.

Both of them end up with excess amounts of free time with the party squared away and a whole month to do things with, time which Ryuki often spends exploring and dragging the doctor out of his apartment probably more than he’d like, determined to keep him company more frequently than leaving him alone (and knowing full well he’d never leave the house otherwise). Every time he prowls the streets of Fula City, it’s made abundantly clear to him that they’re in the midst of the season of merrymaking—from the festive lights decorating the trees down the boulevard strips, all the couples and families strolling while holding hands, to the catchy holiday tunes playing over the speakers inside every single store. He ends up getting the same song stuck in his head that he does every year, mumble-singing it under his breath every now and again until it ends up stuck in Toren’s head too. Since the city’s busier from the mild influx of tourists with the winter season, there’s plenty of activities and entertainment to be had all over the place. Public ice skating rinks, snowboarding and ski set-ups on the big hills bordering Fula (to which he discovers those skylifts have a two-fold purpose in the winter), the still-in-operation miniature amusement park on the detached island where Toren works, and more. Any of the activities related to snow or ice are completely new to Ryuki given that he usually flees to Alola or some other region with a warmer climate during the winter, highly averse to the cold and unwilling to be seen in public without either his signature outfit on or another ensemble befitting his image, most of which are not very protective against the elements given his propensity towards showing skin.
While he still refuses to wear anything outside of his usual style out in the open (and often suffers for it), he figures that he might as well experiment with different ventures while he’s here. Toren is just as inexperienced in any of these hobbies as Ryuki, being as big of a homebody as he is, so he insists that they only attempt anything out in the company of more skilled skiers and skaters to avoid getting themselves horribly injured. Ryuki evidently doesn’t know anyone around this area, let alone anyone who qualifies to fit that criteria, which leaves the task completely to Toren. So they end up inviting Callahan and his family to hang out with them. As per Ryuki’s request, the first thing they do is hit the slopes, all five of them crammed together on one of the lifts like packed wishiwashis, with Kellie sitting in her mother’s lap chatting away excitedly and Toren trembling in fear from the height while still desperately attempting to match her enthusiasm. When they reach the summit they both have to borrow gear and snowsuits to go down the hills, and though Ryuki gripes and grumbles to himself about how “uncool” he looks in it, it’s admittedly a relief for him to actually feel completely warm for once. Kellie is just as new to skiing and snowboarding as they are, and with Mia and Callahan being the only two people mildly experienced with the sport, Mia obviously intends to guide her own daughter. The hill they plan to start on is one of the described ‘kiddie slopes’, which already from the name holds absolutely no interest to him. No challenge. Toren decides to join them, as he was already nervous about trying anything dangerous anyway, and the three of them head off—leaving just him and Callahan.

“So,” the older man starts, awkwardly shuffling a little bit. “...Where d’ya wanna start?”

Being the self-proclaimed daredevil he is, Ryuki immediately sets his eyes on the most perilous one.

Marked with a difficulty level of double black diamond, it’s an extremely steep hill, with the track ominously named Articuno’s Boneyard. And with a title like that, he can’t resist the urge to try it. Beside him, Callahan looks down at the hard dip with no small amount of apprehension on his face. “Are you sure about th‒WH ‒ RYUKI?! ”

Ryuki doesn’t even wait for him to finish before taking off and propelling down the hill.

As he starts to pick up speed and momentum, he laughs maniacally in delight and from hopped-up adrenaline, zooming down the course faster than he can keep track of his surroundings. But the farther along he gets, the more rocks and trees that start to crop up, with him going simply far too fast to deftly avoid them—and his excited laughter gradually turns into screaming. He can’t determine whether it’s fear or exhilaration driving him once the situation starts to get more dicey, yelling at the top of his lungs as he’s prone to do, as the wind whips and lashes at his cheeks. Looking ahead, the path then suddenly seems to plummet straight down, like the edge of a cliff plunging directly into the center of the earth. He realizes suddenly that he’s headed directly for it. Ryuki has never had great self-preservation instincts, and more than enough hubris to tip the scales into the territory of having a seeming death wish, but after what happened with the Ultra Beast he’s not sure he wants to risk another potential medical emergency. The outcome turned out fine before, but he notably wasn’t alone, and he had the assured assistance of medical personnel (who offered to treat him for free, no less). And dealing with the concerns of his friends would be impossible to avoid when he’s in a group this time. This isn’t a conundrum he has to contemplate for very long, as while he isn’t paying attention, he gracelessly crashes into a tree resting at the base of the cliff. Without any time to brace himself for the high-speed impact, it nearly sends him keeling over as he lets out a strangled “oof” and collides with it, the force causing a bunch of snow on the branches to shake off and dump on his head.
Gathering his bearings in the wake of his unexpected stop, it takes a second for him to register the pain in his nose from hitting the tree headlong because of the blistering cold, patting his face down uselessly with thick mittens that don’t give him any indication of the damage. He can still breathe fine, but he feels something warm trickling down his lip, and licks it without thinking—blood—and desperately hopes he didn’t break anything. Another issue presents itself, which is how the hell am I gonna get out of this? He was supposed to wait for Callahan and he didn’t, and while he’s sure the older man is still coming after him, there’s no guarantee he’s going to be found any time soon. At least not before his already weak and slippery grip against the bark gives way, and he descends into wherever this chasm leads to. It would be better to prepare himself by going down willingly, than falling unexpectedly without bracing himself. As he’s thinking to himself and weighing his options, he witnesses something unusual. A bit of a distance away from him is another skier barreling down the hill, and at first he opens his mouth to yell at them to signal his location, but then he looks a bit closer and—is that...an old lady? Absolutely stupefied by witnessing this hunched over, definitely grandma-shaped figure deftly weave through the obstacles on the course, he completely forgets to call out like he’d intended to. Starting to panic to himself a bit, thinking this old coot’s going to meet their maker because there’s no way someone that decrepit could land whatever steep drop lies beyond, the stranger flies up over the edge—and his jaw drops, watching them perform a triple flip mid-air before disappearing beyond the cliff.

And it’s at this exact moment that he hears snow kicking up from behind him, as Callahan skids to a halt at his back. “Hey, what’s your deal?! I thought you got yourself killed! You got any idea what kinda fuss the doctor would kick up with me if you got hurt? Are you okay? Wait, you’re bleed–”

“Did you see that?!?!”

“See what?”

He definitely saw something. Surely, he can’t have imagined that. It was totally real, right? Right?

“...Nah, nevermind.”

By the time the two of them return back to the top of the slope (they continued further down at Ryuki’s vehement insistence to finish what he started, despite Callahan’s skepticism, and his apparent nosebleed), the other three are already there, having been waiting for them to get back for the past thirty minutes. As soon as they approach and he sees the dried up streaks of red still above the rockstar’s lip, Toren quickly starts looking over him with an uncharacteristic seriousness lacking his usual nervousness, checking to see that he didn’t get injured in another reckless stunt. While it’s interesting to see him in a more confident state as he intensely moves Ryuki’s jaw from side to side to examine him for bruises, he nonchalantly brushes off his concern in an attempt to move on from his blunder being the topic of conversation, eager to try it again despite what should be his better judgment. Toren isn’t having it—and neither are the rest of them. At the scientist’s doggedly persistent behest, they all strip themselves of their loaned gear and hop back on one of the lifts to make their way back down the mountain, heading off towards one of the cities’ outdoor public rinks as soon as they touch ground.

The park, just like the stand at the ski slopes, offers rentals for skating gear. Helmets, protective pads for knees and elbows, purchasable winter socks, and the skates themselves. All four of them have to once again borrow what they need, with Kellie being all suited up in a helmet and knee pads for maximum safety. Toren does the same, with it being recommended for beginners as a cautionary measure. But if there’s one trait Ryuki has that he’s kept since his childhood, it’s his blatant disregard for his own safety and penchant for impulsivity, exacerbated by his stubborn nature.
While he opted not to wear his concert ensemble today, knowing he wouldn’t be performing, a vast majority of his outdoor clothes are still what one could call hostile—wearing an outfit he bought the majority of in the gloomy and often chilly region of Galar—leather pants lined with metal spikes on both outer sides, a thick matching motorcycle jacket, the cut-off sleeves of a punk vest paired with a medium sleeved torn top depicting the stylized cover of his favourite Koffing and the Toxics album underneath, fingerless gloves with a glossy finish, and a studded black collar. All together the outfit is warmer than most of his clothes, given the climate that most of the clothes were manufactured and sold under (genuine leather like this is rather thick and stuffy, most of his has a patent texture and is therefore thinner), but it’s still mostly meant to be a statement piece over anything functional. Even if he wanted to, he couldn’t wear the elbow and knee pads with the obtrusive spikes on his leather pants and jacket, and the way he styles his hair along with the choker make it impossible to wear a helmet. It would look extraordinarily “lame” in any case, so he kicks off his boots to put on the skates, and breathes on his exposed frost-bitten fingers to try and warm them up while ignoring the way his thin shirt rides up to expose the skin on his torso.

Unlike the sky slopes, there’s no skating rink considered to be a higher difficulty; it’s all just one large and open, completely public area for all ages and skaters of varying experience. His first impression is that it seems extremely boring in comparison to the obviously exciting prospect of going fast down a precipitous plunge, a family activity with no particularly dangerous or risky allure, but since he’s already here he may as well make the most of it. At the very least, he wasn’t forced to don some ridiculously puffy gear for his protection. Much like the other sport, this is completely unfamiliar to him, standing outside of the rink as he watches everyone else glide around gracefully—but Ryuki is nothing if not the master of winging it, the very definition of the devil-may-care slogan ‘act first, think later’, so he does what he does best. He acts. Charging ahead completely unassisted onto slippery ice with blades strapped to his feet that he has no idea how to use isn’t exactly recommended, but he would rather learn on his own terms from trial and practice, and he can’t do that by staying on the sidelines. While he immediately starts flailing like a magikarp out of water, he stays standing upright on his own two feet out of sheer determination if nothing else. He’s not really moving yet so much as unintentionally leisurely gliding across the ice, and moving seems to be the actual hard part. He starts out slow, or at least tries to, inching one foot forward quickly followed by the other. But the thing about ice skating is that a little movement appears to go a long way, so that brief moment where his legs were apart nearly turns into an impromptu split before he corrects the distance, and he ultimately ends up moving at a much higher velocity than initially intended. He isn’t actually going that fast objectively, but for someone who hasn’t even learned how to brake yet, it’s far too much speed than he knows what to do with.
While this didn’t bother him when he was skiing, the risk of running into other people wasn’t something he had to consider, surrounded on all sides by children more than half his size that could be seriously hurt by a grown man barreling into them. He ends up thrashing about more wildly than he already was, flapping his arms frantically like a baby pidgey learning to fly in a desperate bid to maintain his balance and gain enough wind resistance to slow down, as he recklessly drifts across the rink while helplessly spinning in circles. It’s similar to what he imagines being stuck in quicksand would be like—the more he struggles, the worse it gets. He only picks up more and more momentum the harder he tries to stop it without falling over, zipping across the ice like one of those plastic balls in an arcade machine with ejecting levers, while everyone who’s capable of doing so quickly clears the way before he can collide with them. For his part, he tries his best not to turn it into a game of bumper cars, rapidly ping-ponging across the arena as he occasionally swerves to avoid knocking anyone over. It’s a very fast and very hasty lesson in learning how to quickly skate on ice, a crash-course that he hopes won’t result in another literal crash. While he is quickly learning through this conundrum, how he’s meant to stop eludes him (something he struggles with in all aspects of life), twisting his body every which way just to see what happens. He’s so preoccupied by figuring this out that he doesn’t notice he’s headed straight-on towards Toren until he’s too late to move out of the way, who is standing between Mia with Kellie and Callahan while he attempts to stabilize his equilibrium. Just like Ryuki hasn’t figured out how to brake, and he hasn’t figured out how to steer, either.

“Ren, watch out!”

In the split second before they clash into one another, the rockstar screws his eyes shut tight and braces himself this time for impact with the opportunity to do so. And the impact does come in the form of a harsh thud and resounding grunt as they slam into each other, and he does indeed feel his feet pick up off the ground as his sensation of gravity completely shifts, but he never hits the ground. Cautiously blinking one eye open and then the other, he finds himself suspended in mid-air with the other man’s mildly alarmed face very close to his own—and in an unexpected twist of fate, realizes he’s in the exact same position he’s caught Toren in a multitude of times before. “A-Are you okay?!” He blinks noctowlishly instead of replying right away, too stunned by the situation to really acknowledge anything else, his mind whirring while he gradually regains his bearings. The shock of being entirely physically supported by the other man momentarily knocks every other thought clean out of his head, thoroughly shocked that the scientist is strong enough to keep him from falling all on his own. After a moment, he abruptly comes to awareness—of the other’s arms wrapped around the small of his back and pulling him in close, the super intimate proximity of their faces where he can see every fractal of light reflecting in the other’s iris past his monocle, the chill and minty fresh smell of breath on his face, and his arms folded up in half against Toren’s chest where his hands pressed up against his chest can feel the unexpected lean muscular definition there—and his resolve from before not to think about it crumbles in an instant.
“I’m...fine, thanks.” His voice just barely rises above a whisper as he finds himself unable to tear his eyes away, all at once overwhelmed, embarrassed, and feeling himself starting to swoon a little. As distracted as he is, he forgets that they’re in public until Callahan to their side says “let me help” and Toren must have forgotten as well, because upon hearing him speak up shrieks in surprise and suddenly squirms and lets go in an action reminiscent of the other day. The taller man already had a somewhat precarious hold on him from the strain of trying to simultaneously keep his balance standing up, so with the unexpected shock and writhing he completely cedes his grip, before realizing his mistake and frantically lunging forward to try and grab Ryuki as they both lose their footing and topple unceremoniously to the ground. Without a helmet, he firmly thunks his head against the cold and hard ground during his descent, yelping with a grimace as the other man falls roughly on top of him and knocks whatever remaining air he had out of his chest. Callahan quickly helps them both up and leads them off the rink to sit at a park bench while they recover from the fall and recollect themselves, as Mia and Kellie look on in concerned shock, watching all the other people skate gracefully and sail right by. Given his padding, it’s very evident that Toren wasn’t injured or hurt in any way, but he remains nervously seated regardless as he fidgets and Ryuki nurses his head—they sit in silence for a few minutes, with the other man getting increasingly jumpy and tense, clearly guilty and upset by what transpired, until he finally gets fed up with watching him fret. “... What? What is it?”

Shrieking again in surprise at being addressed, Toren jumps backward on the bench facing him with surprise, as he winces from the volume irritating his headache. “I-I’m very sorry...!” Quickly jumping up in front of him (nearly falling again wearing the skates), he bows in half in a grandiose expression of apology, hands rigid at his sides. “W-What I mean is that I’m sorry for dropping you, a-and falling on you! I hope you can forgive me, and that we can kiss–k-kiss and make up! I-It’s a saying! Not really kiss, I don’t–I didn’t mean that! P-Please forgive me!”

And just like that, he runs off, with the same speed of a wild chansey fleeing.

Much of what he said Ryuki wasn’t even able to process, preoccupied with fighting off an intense migraine not made any better by the other’s frantic shouting, even with his voice being still incredibly soft when raised. Eventually the others make their way to where he is, and Ryuki declines the offer to join them, more than enough finished with being made into a fool and hurting himself for today. “Are you sure?” they ask. “I’m sure,” he says.
For the next twenty minutes or so, he busies himself with watching them, with Mia gently guiding Kellie with one hand and Toren with the other, all the while as Callahan drifts in circles around them cracking jokes. The more he stays still and seated, the more apparent the weather becomes to him and the colder he gets, no longer warmed by the friction of his fast-paced movement. Zipping up his jacket and shoving his hands in his pockets staves off most of the shivers, as Callahan splits from the others to skid to a halt in front of him, sighing deeply as he turns around and sprawls out on the empty side of the public bench. “Yo.”

Not in the mood or state to offer much for conversation, Ryuki just grumbles back an unenthusiastic, “hey.”

The older man doesn’t say anything in response to that, and the two of them sit in semi-comfortable silence for a couple minutes—only partially comfortable because he definitely doesn’t feel like talking (and therefore appreciates the fact that the other man is minding his business) but he’s still not as comfortable as he’d like to be, missing the warmth of Alola, but stuck thinking over the way things spiraled out of control for him there, and how his bad luck streak seems to be following him here. And only for a couple of minutes, because after a little while Callahan speaks up once he notices the other’s shaking a bit from the corner of his eye. “You chilly, rockstar? You can take my jacket.”

“Nah, I’m fine. Don’t make yourself chilly for me, old man.”

Callahan only rolls his eyes a bit at the mildly derogatory nickname, deigning it not worthy of giving a verbal response as he wordlessly shrugs off his puffy, fur-lined coat and shoves it into the rockstar’s hands. “Weren’t you listening? I told you–” as much as he tries to be stubborn and reject the offer, the older man isn’t having it, firmly keeping his hand pressing the garment against him until he slips his arms into the sleeves in a huff. Callahan crosses his arms in apparent satisfaction when he leans up against the bench and spreads his legs wide in a rude and inconsiderate motion of making himself more comfortable, taking up most of the space on the seat, but turns away from him with a heavy exhale to give the rockstar some much-desired privacy by refusing to look at him directly. Scratching his nose idly, he disturbs the silence again. “What’s up with you, anyway?”
At first he pretends not to hear the question and acts like it’s rhetorical, jutting his lip out in a pout and adamantly gazing in the direction opposite to where his companion is sitting, staring firmly at nothing in particular while he ignores him. He isn’t sure how to interpret the inquiry even if he gave any thought toward answering, wondering what he means by asking that. This only works for a couple seconds, though, before the older man turns back to look at him again with an annoyed expression on his face. “I was asking you something, y’know.” Ryuki sighs a little, unable to dodge answering now that he’s been called out on it, but still avoidant nonetheless when he responds, “I dunno what you’re talkin’ about.” It’s the simplest reply that he can think of to smoothly convey that he either doesn’t want to talk about or doesn’t know what he means, and that this chat should be over. He prefers that this line of questioning would end here, but Callahan either doesn’t pick up on that cue or purposefully ignores it entirely (he’s leaning towards the latter).

The older man grumbles incoherently in irritation before leaning back with his hands in his pockets and looks at Ryuki out of the corner of his eye, who stubbornly remains facing away, feeling the other’s gaze burning holes in the back of his head. “Look, pal, I’m not trying to be in your business–I know we don’t really know each other that well, I’m just...lookin’ out for the doc’s friend. Y’know, that was a pretty rough fall, and I’ve seen the doc hit concrete stairs before. If your head ain’t alright, we can go see a doctor.” When he doesn’t say anything in response, just barely shifting as he stays resolutely turned in the opposite direction of his company, Callahan lets out a long sigh and speaks up again in a much softer tone. “Listen, I’m not trying to lie to you, or trick you or anything–I know I didn’t give off the most trustworthy first impression. I don’t know you like the doc does, but I can tell something’s up. I know you’re a ‘hardcore rockstar’ and a ‘daredevil’ or whatever, but there’s gotta be a limit to how crazy you can be. You’ve been off the whole day. Can’t sit still, not sayin’ much, getting yourself hurt. What’s the rush? You’re not even as loud as you were before. You don’t have to open up to a worthless guy like me if ya don’t want, but I’m listening, if you can’t talk to the doc about it. You don’t gotta worry about looking strong in front of a weak liar like me.”

“...I...” He starts to speak almost reflexively because of the sincerity in the other’s voice, guilty at having written him off so insistently when all he wanted to do was help (another track record of his), but the words get stuck in his throat. There’s a lot that he wants to say, so many emotions and insecurities and fears plaguing his mind that he can’t get rid of, but when he opens his mouth nothing comes out. Pride gets in the way, the insistence that there’s nothing wrong beyond what he’s putting in his own way and even if there was, he can always persevere on his own—he’s a star and stars never give up, admitting he’s struggling feels like he’s admitting defeat, like he’s letting people down. He doesn’t know how to take sympathy from anyone without flashing back to his adolescence hearing barking harsh laughter at his expense, unable to rely on anyone but his team in the limited capacity they can support him. He has to be strong. “I...I’m fine, man. Really. Everybody’s got problems, it’s not a big deal. My head just hurts. My bad for givin’ you a hard time, thought you were trying to fire me up again.”

Callahan lets out a little puff of air, likely disappointed at the unspoken rejection but not outwardly expressing as such, saying somberly “you shouldn’t lie to yourself so much, it’ll become a habit” while he begins standing up in preparation to leave the redhead to his own devices. Letting the conversation end on that note doesn’t sit well with him, rattled by that statement as he thinks of how many times he’s instinctively pushed people away because of his reluctance to admit when he doesn’t know what he’s doing.

“I’m...I’m...just going through a tough time, s’all.”

Blinking in surprise at the rockstar piping up, the older man pauses in his motion to get up, half-hovering over the bench for a moment until he decides to sit back down. “Yeah? How come?”

“Just...” He makes an uncharacteristically irritated noise by clicking his tongue against his teeth, struggling to find a way to express everything weighing down on him, before throwing out his arms in a gesture of exasperation, as it all explodes out of him in a sudden rush. “Everything! Nothing’s been going my way! Not skiing, not skating, not singing! Everybody’s cheering for me, and that’s more than some people get, so it feels like I shouldn’t even be havin’ problems at all! And I wasn’t until other people started saying I should stop rushing headlong into everything ‘cause they’re worried about me, but then someone else said he really respects me for bein’ able to do that and that I should keep trying so I don’t end up like him–I don’t wanna let anybody down, but how am I gonna pursue my dreams and be there for everybody else, too?! I don’t wanna quit, I can’t stand doin’ nothing like this, but I can’t keep scraping by when nobody’s buying my music because I have pokémon to look after! I gotta stay strong and keep the fire burning for them, for my family and my friends, for everybody–but it always feels like time is movin’ on without me, and no matter what I do I just...I just want to–”

“Hey, hey,” the soft tone of the other man’s voice accompanied by a hand on his shoulder draws Ryuki out of his frustration-fueled tirade, having gotten so unconsciously worked up from the force of his emotions that he finds himself blinking through bleary eyes. He quickly rubs his face with his hands in an effort to dispel the tears before they even get a chance to fall, facing away and pretending like nothing happened to preserve whatever dignity he can. Callahan doesn’t say anything, simply watching him to make sure he’s alright before removing his hand to prop his elbows up on top of the bench and recline backwards, immersing them in temporary silence while he seemingly collects his thoughts. “Y’know...I’ve always wanted to be an actor.”
Ryuki makes a small noise of confusion at the abrupt change of topic but the older man pays him no mind as he continues. “It’s rough out there for anyone in showbiz‒it’s a real competitive business, after all. I’ve had to live with my baby sister and mooch off her for years ‘cause I don’t make enough on my own. It’s embarrassing. And it’s even more embarrassing that my main paying gig is being a street performer, dressed like a clown, especially when some bratty kids with too much time on their hands like to mess up my routine for laughs. It can be really hard to get through the day, and sometimes I just wanna give up and find some nice paying office job instead. Sure, it’d be boring, but at least it’d pay better and wouldn’t be as hard, right? And I know if I did, I would have less to worry about. My family would.” Callahan laughs a little, a sad sort of disappointed little sound. “But...if I did that, I’d be giving up on my dream. All these years I’ve spent bein’ a burden to Mia would be for nothing. I’d really feel like a worthless weakling, making up a lie that I’m happy and running away. And she wouldn’t want that, either. I understand, I really do. Trust me.”
They stay seated together in silence as the last of the other man’s words hang in the air between them, contemplative as he lets the message sink in, before the other slowly breathes in and speaks once more. “Your family and your friends...they don’t think about you the way you do. Take it from somebody like me. They wouldn’t think any less of you for having a rough time. My family doesn’t. It’s when you lie and hide stuff that everything falls apart. I didn’t wanna disappoint Kellie, my niece. But I lied and she found out, and I betrayed her trust–didn’t think I had the right to see her anymore ‘cause she got sick because of me. But I decided that all on my own. She didn’t feel that way, even if she said she hated me...kids are like that, and people say stuff they don’t mean when they’re mad. You gotta stop trying to make everyone happy. You can’t do it. It’s impossible, trust me. You’re just gonna make yourself crazy. You should think about yourself, your dreams, what you want. That’s the important thing. You owe it to yourself to keep trying , not anybody else. And listen...you’re young. I’ve been doing this all my life, and trust me, time isn’t going anywhere. Sure, it moves on whether or not you’re ready, but you got more of it than you think. Too much, maybe. Not everything can go your way. It happens. In this life, you’re gonna look stupid sometimes. You don’t know what you’re doing. You can’t help it. But it doesn’t matter. Nobody knows what they’re doing. Everyone looks stupid sometimes. Just keep trying, and trust your friends, your partners, your pokémon. Together, we’re unbeatable. So,” before continuing with the rest of his sentence, Callahan stands up in front of the redhead, grinning broadly with an outstretched hand. “Let's try again. Together.”

Ryuki hesitates, but only for a moment, allowing himself to be pulled back up.

He’s still supremely clumsy starting out again, but this time he has the more experienced man helping to keep him steady. Guiding him. It takes a while before he’s capable of moving on his own two legs without needing a crutch to stop him from spinning out of control, but eventually it happens, and he’s so excited he skates after Toren to grab his hand and pull him into a twirl—laughing uproariously at the confused embarrassment on the scientist’s face, their first interaction after his blundering apology. As it starts to get closer towards sunset, they stop in order to prowl the streets in search of somewhere to eat for dinner, chatting amongst each other idly. While they’re passing by the window of one of the shops, he sees a flyer pressed up against the glass. Something advertising a holiday concert, a contest scenario looking for volunteers. He has to rush forward to keep up with the rest of the group, so he doesn’t get the chance to look over it more, but he keeps the location in mind for later.

By the time the day is over and they’ve parted ways from the others to return to Toren’s apartment, Ryuki’s practically already unconscious while still walking on two feet, satisfied with how the day eventually progressed but more than ready to progress onto the next one. Specifically, ready to hit the bed face-first and sleep for a minimum of ten hours. And that’s exactly what he does. The next morning he wakes up neither sprawled haphazardly across the bed nor embracing the taller man, and instead he opens his eyes to Toren’s arms firmly wrapped around him. Rather than cuddling him, it would feel more accurate to say that the green-haired man is restraining him, as if he pulled him close in his sleep to prevent Ryuki from hogging the blanket or accidentally whacking him in the face. It’s a bit surprising to find himself awake before the other— he must’ve been really tired, he muses. The gangly scientist is almost like a completely different person when he’s unconscious, face gone lax and utterly free of worry in his sleep, showcasing how handsome he is when he isn’t fretting over something or flinching away from being seen. Long eyelashes, smooth skin, soft and fluffy hair, lips glistening as he breathes in shallowly like when he leaned on him and looked down at his Ryuki’s own, his unexpectedly strong arms keeping him standing—

Quit it already, you need to stop thinkin’ about this.

Face burning, Ryuki does his best to slip away without waking up Toren, quietly shutting the front door behind him as he lets the crisp winter air hit him full force. During his walk, he once again passes that same flyer from yesterday, left up on display. He mutters to himself, reading it over. “Grand prize is...an all expenses-paid trip to...Pasio, huh?” After a moment of deliberation, he peels one of the taped corners before yanking it off entirely, folding it and slipping it underneath the breast of his jacket. “Who knows? Maybe I’ve just found my next big thing.”