Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Steven first meets Burgh’s traveling theater group when they literally crash through his ceiling.

Of course, he’s become familiar with the work of her troupe’s writer, Shauntal, over the past two months of his temporary (maybe, hopefully) residency at the Hotel du Roi. This acquaintanceship had come from the papers that tended to flutter through his open balcony window onto his floor, which—rather than being wadded up and discarded in the trash like a normal person would—were simply flung whole into the Lumiose City air, like falling leaves in autumn. Steven has no clue why Shauntal does this, and he’d normally have concerns about waste paper on the street, but the nature of the wind meant that all the pages almost inevitably blew in through his window when she dropped them, and Steven tends to have the window open at all times unless rain was blowing directly into his room. 

Steven likes the wind, which can smell sweet or earthy depending on the day, and the past two months have been very pleasant in terms of weather, allowing him to keep his hotel room smelling fresh. Through the nature of his family, Steven has stayed in more than a few five star hotels over his twenty-five years of life, but he thinks that the Hotel du Roi—which caters primarily to poor artisans and tourists pinching francs—is his favorite yet. It’s older and a bit clatty at the edges, but clean, well-kept, and well-loved, with ivy that climbs the outer walls, a balcony with a wrought iron railing, and stucco instead of paint. The bed is comfortable, the bathtub spacious, the water hot, and the sheets and towels clean. Knowing that he has steel type pokemon, AZ had even been kind enough to arrange both the biggest room and the one with the most floor reinforcement, which allows Metagross to spend his afternoons with Aron perched atop his back, dozing contently in the sun as the geologist fiddles with his rocks and pecks away at the typewriter.

Steven misses Hoenn terribly, and his father–the man who had firmly but lovingly shoved him onto the steamship for his own sake–with all of his heart, but he found the bright side of the situation to be almost brilliant in its luminosity. He’d always wanted to travel independently and explore the world, and Kalos was a fantastic place to start, given both its strong cultural ties to Hoenn and its thrilling societal changes. Apparently, something called the Victini Revolution is underway, which—from his preliminary observations—meant a great deal of art, an emphasis on both traditional and eclectic beauty, a great deal of public sensuality, and the consumption of green type of alcohol which probably tastes like it smells, which is paint thinner—and while Steven was definitely not the type for such loosey-zangoosey joie de vivre, he can intellectually appreciate the celebration of the concepts of freedom, beauty, truth, and love, and the energy of the crowded streets is infectious. Normally Steven’s ears and head buzz with unpleasant static when things are too loud—or quiet—but this type of happy chatter and music has him humming his own tunes whenever he steps out.

There’s a joy to it, really: living on his own, without the burden of his family name dragging behind him like a ball and chain, even if the circumstances are far from ideal. Steven still hopes for a quick enough resolution, but the Lumiose Museum of Science and Technology would be more than happy to keep him on as their resident geologist until the end of time, given Steven’s expertise in the field and his knack of finding unique mineral specimens, especially in Glittering Cave; and he has enough sources of income to manage his own affairs for as long as possible. He may have to get an apartment if his exile lasts too long, but AZ says he’s an ideal guest in spite of the rock chips in his bedsheets, and he can stay for as long as he’d like and as long as he can pay. There are plenty of caves and mountains to explore and a rich, unique geological history to uncover, along with all of the new pokemon he can meet.

Steven, really, can’t ask for more in such an unideal situation.

True, it’s lonely, sometimes; but he has his pokemon, and his new colleagues at the museum (though they, unsurprisingly, shy away when he gets on a tear about rocks or steel types), and Diantha, who visits to check on both AZ and him whenever her busy schedule allows. Cynthia also stops by whenever she’s in the city for her own work or to see her paramour—or just to see her ‘gem’ and make sure he’s okay. It’s not as often as when he was in Hoenn, simply given the increased distance to Sinnoh, but it’s a reminder that he’s loved, and it allows him and his father to pass messages between each other.

Plus, there’s his new friend.

Well, he thinks they’re friends, and there’s a swooping sensation in his stomach and a flutter in his chest that suggest that maybe, for the first time in his life, he may want a friend to become something…not a friend. In fact, the day he meets Phoebe’s troupe, he’s actually at his typewriter waffling about whether or not he should confide in his father about such silly things at a time like this.

Then again, he’s been doing several silly things as of late, so what’s another? At least it’s a bit less silly than the way he’s been rewriting Shauntal’s discarded story. Steven is a bit of a writer, but only for research purposes; he still gets surprisingly brisk royalty checks from Sedimentary Minerals: Striata of History, even though he’d published right after he obtained his doctorate degree five years past. He also doesn’t like the idea of plagiarism, so he tries not to pull absolutely directly from her tossed pages, and he’s not even going to even consider publishing them!

It’s just that…well, on nights when he can’t sleep over the rushing of the blood in his ears and the anxious pounding of his heart, when even the faint light through his curtains is overstimulating, it’s calming. He’s never written for fun before, and Shauntal’s work…

Well, it’s. Pleasant. Truly. She’s got an excellent grasp of language and turns of phrase that can send both pleasant and unpleasant shivers down one’s spine. It’s just that Steven isn’t a fan of gothic ghost type-inclined romance thrillers at baseline, and the bodice-ripping aspects make him very, very glad the pages fly into his room and not onto some unsuspecting child’s head as they walk down the Rue Vernal hand-in-hand with their parents. However, it seems Shauntal is trying to write a screenplay; and given the different iterations Steven has seen over the course of the past two months, it keeps getting rejected.

Maybe it’s a bit of a challenge to himself—to try something new in his strange, new world. To gently erode in accordance with the changing tide. Either way, over the past two weeks, he’s taken bits and pieces of the elements of Shauntal’s discarded papers and written his own…play? Outline? It’s silly, and it’s not good; it’s a love story, and he’s never been in love.

Well, until now. Maybe. Maybe that’s the other reason he’s written this play. Maybe it’s a way to process just what’s happening to him.

Either way, the manuscript is done, and the only person he’s going to show it to is his new friend during their usual meeting on the banks of the Seine in the late-early hours of tomorrow. He tied the papers neatly with twine and tucked them into the deep inner pocket of his long coat, along with a few pieces of polished topaz; maybe he’s being polite, but it seems that his friend likes the gemstones he brings him when he returns from his geology ventures. Even if he is just being polite, however, Steven is still grateful. That’s why he’s bringing him a new gift with the usual rocks, albeit a silly one. It’s just that he has nothing else to give. Not right now. No other way to thank him for…

To tell him…

Well, everything. No matter how he feels about Steven in return. Steven just wants to make him happy in the corners of his eyes where he always seems sad.


With his ultimate task completed, and nothing left to do but idle away the hours before his judgement, Steven finds himself at his desk, stimming with his rings as he ponders just what to tell his father about the new situation on top of the existing situation–layers upon layers upon layers upon layers. It’s in the midst of these almost indolent musings when Steven hears a thud, then another, followed by a strange creaking and groaning coming from the floor above him. The noise rouses Metagross from his slumber on the rug, and both he and his master look up at the ceiling, then at each other.



“ Maybe a pipe?” Steven posits. Metagross narrows his eyes and thrums in disagreement, making the man chuckle. “ No, you’re right; that’s no busted pipe. I suppose I should fetch Monsieur, AZ, shouldn’t I? Better safe than sorry.”



Just as Steven climbs to his feet, however, the ceiling gives one last mighty groan before breaking open, and he finds himself yelping and hurriedly shielding his face with his arms as plaster, paper, and powder rain down upon him, along with two young women and a large pokemon, who land squarely on Metagross’s back with a clang that makes Steven wince.

Fortunately for Metagross, his sturdiness is exceptional even for his species, and he only looks startled as he stands up and shakes the plaster off his limbs and the humans and now-fainted pokemon off of his back, sending them tumbling to the floor in an awkward pile of bruised limbs, ripped clothing, and fur. Steven brushes the plaster dust off of his hair and sneezes once, twice, before brushing off his shoulders.

Well.

Alright then.

What exactly does one do when two girls and a conkeldurr fall through your ceiling at random? Steven tends to be quite skilled at battle and crisis improvisation, but he has to admit that he finds himself baffled by the current situation. Even Metagross seems to be flummoxed–in spite of his lack of a defined face–leaving master and pokemon to exchange equally mystified looks as the dust finally clears.

“ Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow…”

It’s the red-haired girl’s whimpering in pain that finally galvanizes Steven into action, because obviously, it’s not like these people intended to crash through the ceiling. Surely. Probably. Steven decides not to think about it too hard and focuses on checking the red-haired girl for injuries, then the purple-haired girl, followed by scrambling through the plaster to look for her glasses as both she and the redhead stagger to their feet and brush each other off. The purple-haired girl looks stunned and dusty, while the vibrant red-head looks mortified and on the verge of panic.

“ Ohmygosh, ohmygosh, ohmygosh, ohmygosh!” The redhead digs her hands into the bases of her tall pigtails and jumps repeatedly between her feet as she surveys the wreckage of Steven’s room. “ I am so, so, so, so, so, so, so sorry! We’ll totally clean up, I promise, and—and we’ll put a plank or something over the ceiling until it can be repaired, but you’ll still probably hear us at night, but we won’t keep you up!” She whirls on her startled friend. “ Shauntal, Chandelure knows hypnosis, right?! Maybe we can just…knock everyone out after six until the floor is fixed so we don’t disturb his sleep?!”

Steven’s eyes widen. So she’s the writer whose pages have bedecked his balcony since his arrival. He’s suddenly very self-conscious about his own, Shauntal-inspired work burning a hole in his coat pocket. 

“ Oh, no, please, don’t worry! It was an accident!” Steven’s quick to smile and usher her, sniffling, to sit on the bed. Then, he hands Shauntal her glasses, which are dusted with plaster but free of permanent damage. “ We’ll talk to AZ and get it sorted out! It’s an old building, you know! These sorts of things happen!”

The writer sneezes and wipes off her glasses with the most dust-free part of her dress she can find. “ Do people fall through the ceilings of old buildings all the time?”

Steven thinks. Cocks his head. “ I don’t know, actually. This is the oldest hotel I’ve ever stayed in.”

“ Oh.” The writer puts on her glasses and blinks a few times to clear her vision. Her relief at the glass being unharmed is palpable, and after she enjoys a good sag-and-sigh, she reaches out a delicate hand for Steven to take. “ My name is Shauntal, and this is Flannery. I guess we’re your upstairs neighbors.”

” Steven–” He catches himself just in time. “ Steven Tsuwabuki. I’m from the Deep East. AZ mentioned a theater troupe was staying upstairs. It’s a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance.”

With a sweet smile, the geologist brings Shauntal’s hand up to his mouth and gives it a kiss before letting it drop. Flannery squeals and Shauntal looks like she’s about to float back up from the hole she helped make.

“ Your Kalosian’s impeccable.” Shauntal places her kissed hand to her cheek and all but swoons, making Steven flush and reach for his stim rings. “ And you’re a well-dressed gentleman, just like a protagonist from a Stephanie Steele serial…”

Flannery grabs one of Steven’s pillows and throws it at Shauntal, smacking her in the face. “ Ohmygosh, I’m already embarrassed enough, so don’t embarrass him!”

Spin, spin, spin. “ It’s quite alright.”

” It’s not alright!” Flannery shrieks, looking like she’s going to pull the hair out of her head. “ We broke a hole in your ceiling and it’s all Marshal’s stupid fault!”

” Marshal?”

“ We’re going to go to jail!!” Flannery all but wails. “ I’m too young to go to jail!”

Steven is now starting to get a headache. Mercifully, Shauntal plops down next to her friend on the bed and rubs her back, and Steven finally notices that, one, the collar of Flannery’s dress has ripped and the garment is now drooping down her chest, and two, she’s clearly about to have a panic attack. Without thinking, he grabs his suit coat from the back of his desk chair and drapes it over her, and she startles as he buttons it up. At least it breaks her out of her hyperventilating.

“ Your dress is ripped.” Steven explains. “ You can give it back to me after you change.”

Flannery’s face brightens like the sun peaking through the clouds. “ Ohmygosh, thank you so, so much. You are probably the nicest person in the world, Monsieur Tsuwabuki!” 

It takes a moment to remember that, oh, right, Mr. Tsuwabuki is me, and he’s just about to answer when a loud thundering reaches his ears, crashing down the stars and then down the hallway towards his room. Steven stands up and turns to the door as a large, muscular man with dark skin suddenly slams it open, making him wince.

Thank the Aurans he likes leaving it cracked for the draft. Steven doesn’t want to have to beg AZ for both a new ceiling and a door.

” Conkles! Are you okay?!”

“ You’re worried about him?!” Shauntal splutters in outrage as the man—presumably Marshal—charges over to the unconscious pokemon with even more force than he’d thundered down the hall, dropping to his knees and gathering his friend into his arms. It would be heartwarming if Steven wasn’t now terrified that they’d bring the floor down. “ You can buy a potion for him down the street! We’d have to go to the godsdamned hospital!”

“ You’re fine if you’re bitching!” Marshal snits back, hefting the conkeldurr into his arms. A glass bottle is held out to him, and he looks up to see Steven holding out the potion with a small smile on his face, which softens his own in turn. “ Thanks. Not sure why you’re being so nice, since we literally broke through your ceiling…”

“ It’s not like you intended to do it.” Steven says simply, handing over the potion before stepping back to watch Marshal apply it to his pokemon. Metagross, still a bit dusty, trundles over to stand at his master’s side, and Steven tuts before reaching into his pocket and pulling out his polishing cloth. “ Besides, you can’t leave my room if he’s passed out, now can you? I’d have to step over him all night!”

This actually earns a smile from the gruff man (and giggles from Shauntal and Flannery, who are now spooned up together like sisters as they watch the show. Once Conkeldurr rouses and sits up, Marshal gives him a few scratches behind his neck before calling him back into his Pokeball. Wooden, Steven notes as he clips it back onto his belt; and a cheap, generic brand at that.

“ Thanks again. Marshal.”

“ Steven.” Steven may be on the shorter end of average height, but he’s spent a good portion of his life hauling around rocks of various sizes and shapes, and Marshal lets out an appreciative whistle as the gentleman grabs his hand and hefts him up. “ Wasn’t expecting to meet you like this, but I probably should’ve introduced myself sooner.”

Marshal snorts. “ Here I thought you looked like the humorless type. What’s a well-dressed lad like you doing in a place like this? I don’t have to be Valerie to see that you’re wearing tailored clothes!”

“ And you can just hand out potions to random strangers that fall from your ceiling!” Shauntal coos and stands up, avoiding Flannery’s grabby hands as she scampers over to the now flustered geologist. She reaches out and pinches a corner of his dress shirt, ‘ooo’-ing at the texture as she rubs it between her fingers. “ This is made from bamboo, too. Imported from Kanto. I know, because animal fabrics make my skin break out in hives, so I have to wear natural fibers. Bamboo weave is quite a pretty penny outside of the region, however.”

Steven flushes an even brighter red but makes no move to pull away. He doesn’t want to be rude, after all, and he supposes they have a right to be curious. Right? “ Ah, I just…prefer formal clothes, I guess. Even nice ones. I’ll even go caving in a dress shirt and pants if I’m pressed.”

At this point, Flannery’s curiosity is piqued to the point where it’s overriding her shamefacedness over the whole affair, and she holds Steven’s jacket around herself as she stands up and pads over to get a good look herself. Rather than his clothing, however, she goes for his hand, making a little surprised noise as she examines his fingers before rubbing the skin of his wrists.

“ So soft!” She breathes in awe. “ Even with the callouses! And you smell like Bellossom-brand soap! I’d cut off my arm to just get one bar of that soap!”

Okay, Steven’s changed his mind; the floor can open up beneath him any time now. “ I have a few bars if you’d like to have one.”

Shauntal gasps and Flannery jerks back in shock, letting go of his hand.

“ A few?!” Flannery shrieks, clapping her hands against her cheeks. “ And you’re just offering one to me?! Just like that?! Ohmygosh, you are, like, the fanciest person I have ever, ever met, and my grandpa has little soaps just for guests back in Kanto! Where did you come from?!”

Steven immediately sets about spinning his rings and finds himself unable to meet Marshal’s gaze as he studies him with a stern frown and arms akimbo. Sensing his master’s distress, Metagross takes a few clanging steps closely, sensing his master’s distress, Metagross clangs forward a few more steps, only for Steven to hold out his hand and quietly shush him.

“ Oh, wow, we’re being so, so rude.” Flannery’s embarrassment—and molten-hot face—have returned en force. “ It’s just…people like you don’t even come to this part of the city unless it’s to visit the Moulin Rouge!”

Steven cocks an eyebrow, and she hurriedly clarifies. “ Rich people, I mean.” She grabs Shauntal’s hand before it can examine Steven’s dress pants like she had his shirt. “ Well, rich people with good blood, you know? The kind that use that artificial sandalwood soap that smells as authentic as a sudowoodo. Not Bellossom-brand.”

“ Old rich versus nouveau?” Marshal queries, the Kalosian word falling clumsily from his tongue. Flannery nods and, again, snatches Shauntal’s hand before it can make any decisions she’ll regret.

“ Yeah! Sorry, that’s super, super obnoxious, I know.”

As Steven spins and listens, his nervousness melts away, and he can’t help but find himself charmed by all of them. Even Marshal, who looks like he’s torn between learning more and trying to break Steven’s spine over his knee.

” A bit, but I do super obnoxious things all the time,” Steven says gaily, rewarded by the tension leaving Flannery’s shoulders and a smile blooming on her face. “ And that’s very observant of you, actually. It’s just…the soap I’ve always used. I’m far from home, so it’s a matter of comfort.”

” So you don’t feel so homesick.” Shauntal breaths. Steven nods. “ How very sentimental of you. Sentimental and dashing. Do you know how to ride rapidashes, too? Sculpt sugar cubes?”

Before Steven can feel tempted to jump out the window, again, a droll yet refined voice mercifully offers him solace from the still-open door. “ I see you’re facing the Giggling Inquisition—and after they made a mess of your room to boot. I’m terribly sorry for the trouble, Mister…”

“ Tsuwabuki.” Steven looks over to see a tall, slender man in a nicely cut suit of his own standing at the doorway, with slicked-back black hair and an apologetic smile that could also probably cut steel. Next to him stands an older man with sandy-blond hair, hooded-eyed and slouched, with his right hand scratching the back of his head and his left arm wrapped around the middle of an Alolan meowth. “ Steven Tsuwabuki, from the Deep East.”

“ Well, that’s delightfully vague and specific all at once.” The man with a sharpedo smile gives a little bow before walking forward to shake Steven’s hand properly. “ Sorry for dropping in like this–”



Shauntal groans and Flannery yell at him to ‘go to jail instead of us!’.

“--but, see, they’re obsessed with making set pieces, and without enough human equipment, pokemon capable of construction are vital…though, obviously…” He casts his eyes up to the gaping hole in the ceiling, where a wide-eyed young woman and three Alolan meowth are peering down at them. “...they require precision. And a bit of a lighter touch.”

“ If it’s anything like teaching an aron how to hit rocks without causing a cave-in, I empathize.” Any reasonable person wouldn’t trust this person more than he can throw them; Steven, however, has always been too trusting for his own good, and he sees a man with good manners and a sly, almost coy look in his eye. Simple traits. He reaches out to shake his hand without hesitation. “ Also, you may want to tell Flannery that I don’t think AZ will be calling the police.”

The man barks out a laugh. “ What would they even do right across the street from the Moulin Rouge?” He shakes Steven’s hand with surprising vigor and an interesting twist. It almost reminds the geologist of how some people would check for cards hidden up sleeves. “ The name’s Grimsley. This man here is my partner in crime and various other pursuits, Nanu.”



Nanu rolls his eyes up towards the hole in the ceiling. “ Yeah. Sorry ‘bout all this. I’m worried that the meowth will start falling through if we don’t get it boarded up tonight…or at least covered with something.”



Steven looks up again, and sure enough, even more Alolan meowth are peering down. Does this troupe and their menagerie of pokemon occupy the entire upper floor? “ I suppose I’ll have to find another place to sleep tonight.”


“ I think I heard AZ earlier today saying the hotel’s booked out.” Flannery says with a nervous chuckle. “ Um…we’re going to be out tonight, so you can sleep in our rooms if you want!”



Steven thinks all pokemon are perfect in their own way (though, in his very biased opinion, steel types are the most perfect of all), but the thought of sharing a strange, slept-in bed with at least five meowth jumping all over him makes the geologist shudder. “ I’ll simply go find another room for tonight. It shouldn’t be too much of an–”



“ Why don’t we bring him with us?”



The new voice comes from the hole, and Steven looks up with the others to see a girl with dark skin, short brown hair strewn with large red flowers, and a beatific smile peering down with the now seven Alolan meowth. 

“ What’s that, Phoebe?” Nanu calls up. Phoebe grins.

“ Why don’t we bring him with us to the Moulin Rouge tonight? It’s the least we can do to make it up to him…and it would give Monsieur AZ more time to patch up the hole in the ceiling. Maybe it’ll be covered by the time we get back!”

Nanu makes an annoyed ‘tch’. “ First off, it’s not like we’re going to spend the whole night with our thumbs up our asses watching the cancan dancers; we actually have a job to do! Second off, we aren’t even sure if Burgh was able to set something up–”



“ Oh, yeeeeeeeeeee of little faith!”

As if summoned by Nanu’s grousing, a tall, waifishly thin man with fluffy brown hair and clad in what can only be called Victini-style clothing, completed with a weathered, patchwork top hat, sweeps in with his arms extended. Grimsley and the girls snicker while Nanu and Marshal roll their eyes.

Steven, however, is a bit charmed by the man’s overall dramatic and eccentric demeanor and dress. Being able to be so open about what you believe in and feel—including through your clothing choices—is a thrilling novelty to a man who’s sat through a lifetime of etiquette lessons and cotillion.

“ You must be Burgh,” Steven says pleasantly, walking forward to shake his hand. “ Steven Tsuwabuki. It’s a pleasure.”

“ A pleasure, mon ami.” Burgh’s Kalosian is strong and a bit exaggerated, but his smile is warm and his handshake is enthusiastic and genuine. “ Allow me to apologize most profusely for the trouble my little group has brought down upon your head–literally.”



As Steven greets Burgh, Monsieur AZ–the enigmatic proprietor of the Hotel du Roi–lumbers in after him, craning his massive body beneath the door frame to fit and sending and sending a shrieking Flannery beneath the bed to hide. It’s certainly true that a man of AZ’s size can be quite intimidating; but while Steven can’t help but feel like a dwarf whenever he’s in his presence there’s something about his tired smile and soft, mournful eyes that sets the geologist at ease. His precious partner pokemon–an exceedingly rare tri-color Floette that he dotes upon with utmost tenderness–is seated demurely upon her master’s shoulder, and she gives a little whistle of awe as she and a bemused AZ glance up at the hole, watching as bits of plaster and wood continue to rain down upon the floor with every creak and groan.

“ Why is Flannery hiding like a gengar licked her head?” Burgh queries. Grimsley sighs dramatically and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“ She thinks AZ’s going to call the police to send her to jail for breaking the ceiling. I’ll go fish her out. My sincere apologies, Monsieur AZ.”

AZ smiles in that myopic way of his and waves his hand dismissively as Floette trills from her perch. “ It happens. Old buildings and all. I won’t start charging you rent or anything like that. Really, I should’ve had it reinforced years ago.”



The members of the theater troupe sigh in almost comedic relief, making AZ’s chuckle under his breath as he lopes a few more steps inside.



“ Unfortunately…” The massive man extends an equally long arm to actually touch part of the ceiling. Steven’s not sure if he feels envious or a bit disturbed. “ It’s probably going to take all night to get it covered and safe enough to live on while I call for a builder. As much as I hate to say it, Monsieur Tsuwabuki…”

Steven sighs sadly. “ I’ll find another place for tonight. Don’t worry.”

“ Nooooo! He’s coming with us!”

Steven startles as Phoebe, the girl from upstairs, darts around AZ and scampers over to Steven. Now that he’s dropped Burgh’s hand, she’s free to take both of the geologist’s in her own and swings them lightly between them as she giggles.

Steven can’t help but smile as well. “ Am I?”

“ Yes! Of course! You’re perfect!” Phoebe coos. “ I was watching talk with the others from upstairs, and I think you’re exactly the ambassador we need to get our foot in the door!”

Steven keeps smiling, for a moment, before her words finally register in his brain and it falls off his face, leaving only pure befuddlement behind. “ Am…ambassador?”

Burgh has now turned to Phoebe and is in the process of talking about him as if he’s not just a few feet in front of him. “ Oh? Is he?”

Phoebe nods enthusiastically. “ His Kalosian’s impeccable, he’s well-mannered, well-dressed, and kind! He oozes manners—real, high-class manners! And he’s handsome but also looks completely normal! Not Victini at all, but still very, very nice!”

Burgh’s eyebrows creep towards his hairline. “ Is that right?”

Shauntal taps over to Steven as Flannery—having been fished out from under the bed by Grimsley—is quietly soothed by the sly man as she grips the hem of Steven’s suit jacket and kneads it in her fingers. In spite of his growing discomfort, Steven’s stomach squeezes in pangs of sympathy, and he decides to let her keep the jacket if she so desires. It’s not like Steven doesn’t have a few spares—and the money, still, to have another made if need be. 

“ No, Phoebe’s completely correct!” The writer coos. “ Monsieur Tsuwabuki is pleasant and endearingly charming, and he has very soft but strong hands. Those are the hands that can make a man swoon!”

Shauntal takes one of Steven’s hands and actually hold is out for Burgh to take and inspect–which he does, intently, turning it this way and holding it up to the light with an attention that reminds Steven of how he examines evolution stones for purity. It makes him want to apologize to every single rock and fossil he’s ever met.

“ He does have decent bone structure.” Burgh finally remarks, leaning back to full standing, and Steven takes the opportunity to yank his hand free as politely as possible. “ Sturdy yet petite; well-maintained skin; hair trimmed to be messy but in a paradoxically neat manner; large, bright eyes; glowing complexion; and excellent posture. I can’t imagine the Emerald wouldn’t be somewhat charmed by him.”



Steven blinks. The Emerald? 

“ See?” Shauntal actually hops up and down on the balls of her feet in her eubilation. “ Handsome and refined–there’s no Even his handshake is poised. I bet he rides rapidsahes.”

Steven flushes all the way up to his ears. “ I do not, actually, ride rapidashes.”

Shauntal sags momentarily in disappointment before perking up. “ But! You must play the piano or violin, correct?! Anyone who’s been taught such good manners has to know at least one of those instruments!”

All five sets of eyes in the room swivel to look at him, and even AZ seems to be patiently waiting behind him. Steven swallows and, once again, really wishes the floor would give in.

“ I play both, actually.” He squeaks. 

Nanu and Marshal smirk at him while Flannery, Phoebe, and Shauntal giggle.

Grimsley, on the other hand, gives him a look. A knowing look. A certain twist of his lips sends tendrils of anxiety licking up the walls of Steven’s stomach, because he’s looking at him like he knows. He’s looking at Steven like he knows what his real last name is, and Steven can’t shake the feeling that he’s seen this man somewhere before, which would probably make him start to panic if he wasn’t also overwhelmed and very, very confused.

Maybe he’s just reading too much into it. After all, he’s never been fantastic at social cues, Arceus knows.

“ Well, well, well!” Burgh places his hands on his hips and gives Steven his own good up-and-down review. Then again. He comes up closer, leaning way too far into the geologist’s personal bubble, and studies his face as if he’s determining the size of his pores. Steven, somehow, does not shove him away, though the spinning of his rings has picked up tenfold. “ You know, it might work. Do we have time to alter a tuxedo for him?” He shakes his head before anyone can open their mouths. “ No, of course we do; if Valerie can’t do it, then no one can!”

Steven’s brain, once more, grinds to a halt. Tuxedo?!

Well, whatever is happening, it seems to thrill the younger members of the group are thrilled by the turn of events (and are also automatically assuming Steven’s agreement), because Flannery jumps up and sprints over to give Steven a big, enthusiastic hug. The geologist squawks in alarm and freezes up, not knowing what to do with his arms.

” Flannery, now who’s being rude?” Shauntal, mercifully, detaches her friend's arms from around Steven’s body and gently pulls her back. “ You’re scaring him off more than one of my novels would!”

” Oh, sorry!” It’s Flannery’s turn to flush beet red. “ I’m so, so sorry, Mister Tsuwabuki. I’m just…really happy you’re doing this for us!”

Oh, now Steven feels bad, so he walks forward and gives Flannery a very quick and very awkward hug. When he pulls back, the teenager practically has stars sparkling in her eyes, and Shauntal gives a dreamy sigh that suggests she herself is imagining being embraced by him. He pretends, very strongly, to not notice.

“ Please, call me Steven,” he says cordially, earning two gasps of delight from the women and a wisp of a smile from Marshal. “ But…it’s just that…”

Shauntal’s face falls. “ What’s wrong?”

“ Well…”

Steven turns around and stares pleadingly at AZ and Nanu. Floette chirps in concern.

“ What am I doing for you, exactly?”

The situation is, apparently, as follows: The artist only known as Burgh—famous enough to be a semi-household name amongst the haute couture visual art enthusiasts of Lumiose and the other grand, blossoming cities dotted in all the regions of the world—as well as to go only by his first name without anyone looking at him too strangely. However, eventually he grew bored of oil and watercolor and acrylic and charcoal and what-ever, so the eccentric artisan decided to try his hand at another creative passion of his: acting. Or, rather, forming his own theater troupe devoted entirely to Victini-style performances and plays. So he sold his trendy Castelia City flat, ended his artistic contracts, bartered all of his possessions, and set out to Lumiose City—the heart of the Victini Movement—to start anew.

Or, rather, to emerge from his cocoon as a never-before-seen vivillon, Burgh narrates as Steven is standing in the middle of their ‘costume room’ (apparently, as he had suspected, the troupe really does occupy most of the floor above), being measured by the airy but kind costume designer named Valerie for his tuxedo. The artist punctuates this statement by draping himself dramatically over the nearby chaise lounge and throwing his arm over his eyes, which makes Nanu roll his so far back that Steven wonders if he can see his brain.

Unsurprisingly, life has a way of catching up to even the most talented of artists, and Burgh found himself in sore need of actors without the reputation to attract anyone but working men and women hoping for a new life and a leg up in the world. It wasn’t that he was without any early success; Valerie, a boutique and fringe fashion designer, had agreed to act as his costume designer so long as she has complete ‘artistic liberty’ (which has produced interesting results, given the tortured expressions on Nanu and Grimsley’s faces); Brassius, a sculptor and friend of Burgh’s, was eager to try his hand at acting; and Grimsley, a man descended from old money—

(A revelation that has Steven’s heart hammering in his chest, because now he thinks he knows why Grimsley looks familiar, and now he knows why Grimsley was looking at him so curiously and knowingly earlier; because somewhere, at some gala or exhibition or business event, they’d likely crossed paths; and he knows, he knows, he knows—)

—and Marshal was a dock worker who had answered Burgh’s ad in the paper for a set designer, not knowing how to do anything but general construction but willing to learn for steady meals and a roof over his head, regardless of the size or regularity of the paychecks. However, more actors and actresses were sorely needed, which is when Nanu, a native of the Archipelago of Alola, of all places, ushered in a gaggle of bright eyed, hardscrabble young adults he’d been watching over for the past few months, whose eyes were full of bright lights and big dreams and whose pockets were empty with anything but desperation; and it was Nanu wanting to save them from the consequences of said desperation that led him to Burgh’s floor at the Hotel du Roi. 

Shauntal was a somewhat frail woman (to the point of, supposedly, being deathtouched) born to an old noble family that fell into ruin, who was a talented writer but also seemingly unable of writing anything accessible enough to the public to be published outside of a few occasional short stories in occult and ghost-type oriented prints, which was not enough to sustain anyone in Lumiose. Flannery was a talented fire-type pokemon trainer native to Cinnabar Island in Kanto, who had been traveling from region-to-region to make a name for herself at one of the new pokemon gyms under the banner of the IPL, only to find that any available league jobs were snapped up long before she could even apply. She had run out of money by the time she reached Lumiose and happened upon Nanu, and while she could not school her face to save her life—let alone act out a role—she had an eye for set design and a surprising knack for stage management’.. Finally, young Phoebe had come to Lumiose from Alola herself to care for her ailing grandmother, and after she passed, she found herself airily adrift until also being snapped up by the strange man from Alola. She, at least, could act.

Thus, Burg finally had a cast and crew—even an eager and willing screenwriter—but while assembling the troupe had been tricky enough, getting a foot in the door in the actual theater circuit was another. Stages from big to small, rich to poor, had rejected them for a variety of reasons, with the most common ones being Shauntal’s ‘eccentric’ and ‘eclectic’ scripts and the group’s overall lack of experience (or, really, anyone that’s actually worked in show business prior). Fortunately for the group, Burgh’s old friend AZ was willing to put them up indefinitely in exchange for them helping out around the hotel with various chores and maintenance—

(The irony, Steven thinks.)

—and, again, fortunately, the hotel happened to be situated right across the street from the famous and infamous Moulin Rouge.

” Is it that big of a deal?” Steven queries as Valerie pin-tucks the various seams of his loaned tuxedo (and takes in the sleeves. And the hem. And the pants legs. The original owner, after all, is significantly taller than him). Even with Valerie moving him this way and that while she works (all while keeping his arms, which have long since fallen asleep and are progressing to the point where they might just fall out of his shoulder sockets whether he likes it or not, outstretched or above his head at almost all times). “ The Moulin Rouge, I mean?”

Marshal laughs until he’s snorting his drink out of his nose while Flannery and Shauntal boggle at him. Even Burgh and Grimsley look bemused.

“ Sure is, kid.” Nanu, at least, doesn’t seem interested in making Steven melt through the wooden boards. At least this section of the floor was intact. “ Not only is it the biggest night club and cabaret hall in Lumiose, but it’s where the cancan dance was born.”

” The one based off of the mating dances of the oricorio and flamigo species?”

The question actually earns Steven a wisp of a smile from the older man. “ You know your pokemon, don’t you? Yep, that’s the one, though the average person doesn’t give two hoothoots how they came up with it. All they care about is how high the legs can kick and how much they can see when they do.”

It takes Steven a moment to catch the innuendo, but the playful wiggle of Nanu’s eyebrows makes things click, and Steven finds himself flushing and dropping his arms to stim with his rings. Valarie gives a disapproving cluck of her tongue but patiently waits for him to self soothe before popping them up, up, up, not much longer, Monsieur Tsuwabuki, s’il vous plait.

Grimsley goes on to say that the reason it’s fortunate that they happened to be situated directly across from the night club is that its proprietor, Rose Quintrell, purportedly has big dreams that go beyond having it remain a cancan hall. ‘Chairman’ Rose, as he was called by his staff due to his business-minded approach to all aspects of life, seized upon the nascent Victini boom and the desire for a salacious watering hole in one of the more ‘proper’ sections of Lumiose when he built the establishment a decade ago. More upscale than a brothel but far seedier than a traditional dance hall, the entire establishment projected an image that was equal parts glamorous and tacky, with entirely electric lighting, large, flashing signs, loud colors, and eccentric decorations from around the world. The most distinct features, however, are the titular large red windmill, as well as an equally gigantic ‘statue’ of a copperajah—one that, like the nightclub itself, threads the space between gorgeous and gaudy.

Apparently, copperajah is Chairman Rose’s favorite pokemon, and he has no intention of letting anyone forget it.

“ Rose is looking for a benefactor with deep enough pockets to transform the Moulin Rouge into a proper theater.” Marshal gruffs. “ The trick to it is not only finding someone with that much money willing to stake their wealth and reputation on a cancan hall of all things, but getting performers to actually work there.”

Steven nods. “ That’s where you all come in…ideally, I mean.”

Nanu huffs out a laugh and throws Burgh’s legs off the edge of the chaise lounge so he can plop down himself, ignoring the artist’s grousing as no less than three Alolan meowth immediately jump onto his lap, forming a very fuzzy and awkward purring pile. “ Ideally, yeah, but getting the bastard to notice us was enough of a chore; now we have to convince him we’re worth enough snuff to put onto his potential stage.”

“ Honestly, having an act ready to perform would help convince any future investor that it’s worth the hassle,” Grimsley adds with a shrug. “ The problem is that he doesn’t seem to think we’re a legitimate theater troupe.”

Marshal snorts. “ As if there are any actual famous troupes knocking down the door to call dibs on his nightclub.”

“ Rose has standards of some kind, it seems.” With another heavy sigh, Burgh forces himself to finally sit up properly on the chaise lounge, glaring daggers at Nanu as one of his smaller meowth climbs up his shirt before leaping to perch atop his head. “ The problems we have with him are multifold. First of all, for a man who makes money off of the Victini ethos and style, he doesn’t quite like those that embody it terribly much.”

“ Which means that Burgh repels him like oil repels water.” Valerie demurs as she marks up the back of the suit coat with white chalk. “ And Rose is even less fond of the gothic ethos, which makes poor Brassius even more off-putting than Burgh. He would laugh me out of the building if I tried to engage him in business of all things. I’m wretched at business."

Steven hums thoughtfully. “ What about Grimsley or Nanu?”

Nanu barks out a laugh, waking the meowth dozing atop his head, who repays him with a very weak fury swipe slap to his face with its trimmed claws. “ Ow, geeze, sorry. Yeah, no, I’m not capable of impressing the fucking mailman, let alone the Chairman. And Grim here–”

“--made him angry.” Grimsley sighs and shrugs in a way that indicates he’s not terribly pressed about his failure. “ And has racked up a bit of debt at the blackjack table. And roulette wheel. And baccarat. And–”



“ You’ve made your point.” Steven winces. “ Okay, so, you’ve arranged some sort of meeting with Chairman Rose and you want me to be your representative, then?”

At that, Nanu, Grimsley, and Valerie share a look, while Marshal growls and spits without spittle out the open window.

“ That’s another problem.” The burly man huffs. “ We’ve rammed our heads against the door so many times that Rose doesn’t even give us the time of day anymore. He’ll literally pretend Burgh doesn’t exist when he’s standing right in front of him.”



Burgh rolls his eyes. “ Bourgeoise lechonk.”



“ A bourgeoise lechonk we still desperately need.” Valerie says simply, making a few final marks on the coat before tucking the chalk back into one of her voluminous kimono sleeves. “ I think he’s the only chance we have left in Lumiose to stand on a real stage, and we don’t have the money to go anywhere else. Thank you for your patience, Monsieur Tsuwabuki. Please allow me to undress you so the markings don’t get smudged and the pins aren’t displaced.”

“ Of course, Mademoiselle Valerie.”

Valerie slips Steven back behind the screen and starts undressing him with a gentleness more suited for spinarak gossamer. Steven, however, is an old hat at tailor etiquette, so he knows to relax his arms and let the seamstress do most of the work. She then turns away to give him privacy so he can step out of the pants and back into his own clothing.

By the time Steven emerges, Grimsley has taken Burgh’s place on the chaise lounge, and the two of them are conversing quietly as the Alolan meowth climb and crawl over them like very fleshy jungle gyms. Burgh is now looking out the window with a very artistic melancholy expression while Marshal has disappeared entirely.

“ He’s gone to assist AZ in cleaning up your room.” Burgh informs Steven. “ He says it’s the least he can do since it was his pokemon that caused the floor to cave in.”

“ Oh. That’s very kind of him. I’ll have to thank him properly next time we cross paths.”

As Valerie flits and flutters over her well-loved, pedal-propelled sewing machine, Steven settles himself on a formerly ornate and now threadbare ottoman to wait, knowing full well that he may be yanked up again for more alterations. As he spins his rings and tries to ignore Grimsley and Nanu having a very private discussion (with the younger man’s hand rubbing the older’s thigh in a way that leaves no guessing to what the former had meant by ‘partner in crime and other things’), taking a moment to breath and hum under his breath as he finally, finally gets a chance to straighten his own mess of a mind.

” So if I’m not speaking to Rose,” Steven says after a long pause of warm light, purring, and the rumblings of AZ and Marshal beneath their feet. “ Who am I speaking to tonight, then?”

Burgh shifts to look at Steven from where he’s now perched on the windowsill and smiles like the meowth that ate the cream.

” Why, the Enchanting Emerald, of course.”

Steven blinks. 

“ Who?”

“ You,” Grimsley drawls as he adjusts Steven’s tie in the privacy of his and Nanu’s private room, “ are probably the only person in the city who doesn’t know who the Enchanting Emerald is—nevermind that you literally live directly across the street from the Moulin Rouge. What rock did AZ fish you out from under?”

Steven tries not to raise his hackles at one of his new ‘friends’ and simply gives a strained smile. “ That’s my problem, I guess. Rocks are my trade—geology—and I work at the museum, so I don’t spend much of my time in my room unless it’s waking hours or downtime.”

Grimsley pauses in fussing with the collar of Steven’s tuxedo jacket and pulls back to give him a quick up-and-down with languid eyes. Once he’s satisfied, he looks to the door to make sure it’s bolted, then over the geologist’s shoulder to confirm that the windows are shut. Steven feels ice water flowing through his veins.

“ Given your reputation of preferring caves and pokemon to people,” Grimsley drawls, taking a step back. “ I’m not surprised you’re a solitary man…”

He smiles slyly.

” Champion Steven Stone.”

Steven’s breath catches so painfully in his chest that it sends him stumbling backward a step. Just like that, his heart is hammering loudly and quickly enough to make his ears pulse, and he finds himself instinctively reaching for Metagross’s Pokeball on his waist.

Seeing that, Grimsley’s eyes narrow, and he reaches out to catch Steven’s wrist before he can hit the trigger. It’s a firm grip, but not violent, and he meets the champion’s wide, petrified eyes with a surprisingly sympathetic look of his own, complete with a sympathetic, non-sarcastic smile. Is he attempting to be reassuring? 

“ Easy, easy,” Grimsley murmurs, and Steven’s trembling ebbs from coarse to fine as he further loosens his grip on his wrist. “ I’ve told Nanu, but no one else.  Not even Burgh. I’m guessing Monsieur AZ is aware, however—especially with how frequently Champion Hawthorne visits.”

When he lets go, Steven hesitates, then returns Metagross’s pokeball to its clip. He hums loudly to drown out the whooshing of the blood in his ears and spins his rings as he rocks back and forth on his heels. He knows he looks strange, he knows he looks strange, he knows he looks strange; but if he doesn’t do something to stim then he’ll turn into a nonverbal mess on a night when talking is, apparently, the goal.

Grimsley, surprisingly, waits patiently for the heir to regain his composure and shush the loud aching thoughts rocketing through his brain. He steps back until he’s leaning against the wall and pulls a coin out of his pocket to flip as he watches, and waits, and waits, his eyes never once leaving Steven’s undulating form.

The gambler’s eyes are dark and almost inscrutable—but they’re not unkind. That, more than anything, is enough of a reassurance to allow Steven to settle himself down. Eventually, the rocking stills, and he releases his rings to rub at his face, which has broken out in a thick layer of sweat in the span of however many minutes he’d been resisting an impending spiral.

“ Are you trying to blackmail me?” He finally rasps out. “ To get me to do what you want at the Moulin Rouge?”

Grimsley tuts, and just like that, his casual patronizing air has returned. He flips the coin with one hand while reaching into his pocket with the other, and when he finds a handkerchief, he throws it for Steven to catch.

“ Believe it or not,” Grimsley says as Steven wipes his face, “ I wasn’t going to do anything of the sort.”

” Then why tell me you know in the first place?!”

Grimsley shrugs, and all of the sudden, he looks a bit unsure. Almost unsteady. He pockets his coin and crosses his arms over his chest and gazes out the window. Unlike Steven’s room, his and Nanu’s personal quarters is located on the opposite side of the Hotel du Roi, the red windmill and massive copperajah are not visible. Rather, the view is that of Lumiose’s Montmartre district in its early-twilight glory, including a glimpse of the Seine in the distance and a faint snatch of Prism Tower as it becomes awash with light. Steven’s heart is still stuttering a bit in his chest, so he risks going over and racking open the window, inhaling the smells of smoke and baking bread and allowing yet more tension to seep from his shoulders.

” Let’s just say I know what it’s like to lay low.” Grimsley finished. “ You probably don’t remember me, but we’ve met once before—briefly—at the World’s Fair two years ago in Wyndon. Family name’s Astor.”

” Astor…” Steven’s eyes widen, then crease with sympathy. “ Oh. So you’re—“

” The youngest Astor son who murdered his older brother out of jealousy and stole away in the night shortly after said World’s Fair?” Grimsley shrugs helplessly. “ I didn’t do it, by the way—not that my family or the Galarian government care. The only reason my parents haven’t gone to Interpol is due to wanting to save face. Not many people outside of certain circles know about me or my family outside of Galar.”

” Ah.” Steven really, really, really, really hopes that Grimsley is telling the truth that he is not, in fact, a murderer. The death of the Astor heir had certainly caused a bit of a dust-up in the upper echelons of the world. He can’t help but remember his grandfather grumbling about how ‘some parents need to learn to control their offspring’ and feels his stomach twist into a knot. “ I’m the opposite, I suppose, because I did everything they say I did.”

Grimsley’s expression softens. “ I know.”

” I stand by it all.”

” You did your job.” Grimsley pulls out the coin again and twirls it between his fingers. “ You chose being a champion and your region over your narcissistic cunt of a grandfather. Your father?”

” Safe. Cleaning up the damage as best he can. Worried about me. Helped me get out of Hoenn before.” It’s Steven’s turn to shrug sadly as his chest throbs with homesickness. “ The way Father thinks, Devon does too much business with Kalos for Grandfather to risk causing a scandal if he ever figures out I’m here. However, until he dies or is forced out…”

The gambler sighs. “ Heads or tails?”

” Heads.”

Grimsley flips the coin high in the air, catches it, and slaps it on the back of his left hand. He uncovers it with his right and whistles. “ You’re a lucky man so far, Champion Stone. Archibald going to croak anytime soon?”

Steven sits heavily on the room’s fading chaise lounge and puts his head in his hands. “ Perfect health, sadly.”

” That is always the problem with these old rich bastards.” Grimsley tuts. “ They can pay for all the best doctors and treatments and generally want to stay alive out of spite towards the living—and I don’t think the world of business has ever met a more spiteful man than Archibald Stone. What about your father? I can’t imagine he’s sitting on his hands allowing his son’s life to be threatened by his own father.”

” Father’s doing what he can as safely as he can. He’s been dreaming of wresting control from Archibald since before I was born, but the command structure of Devon is complex and convoluted.”

“ And if he’s found out…”

Steven drops his hands and smiles grimly at his fellow fallen bourgeoise. “ Grandfather put a hit on me when I exposed him and gave Interpol grounds to start an investigation. Imagine how he’d react if his own son tried to strip his legacy from him and failed? Father would have no recourse. I’d rather offer myself to Archibald on a silver platter then let him get hurt…or worse.”

“ I’m guessing Hoenn’s league’s hands are tied.”

“ One of the Elite Four is acting champion for now. They already said I’ll remain the Top Champion until I come back or die—whichever comes first. As the chairwoman told me, they don’t bow to bullies, even bullies like Archibald Stone and the Devon Conglomerate.”

“ And you don’t regret it?” Flip, flip, flip. “ Heads or tails?”

“ I only regret the grief it’s caused my father and sideways sister. Otherwise…I don’t regret a damn thing. I’d do it again. I’d do it hundreds of times, even if it really does get me killed. Tails.”

Flip. Catch. Smack. Another appreciative whistle.

” Lucky again. You’re a good son.” Flip, flip, flip. “ And a good man. You have conviction. Gumption. You’re not afraid to throw your money and privilege away for the sake of others. I like that in a human.”

“ You talk like I’m in the poorhouse.” Steven smirk grows a bit less painful. “ I’m not destitute, Grimsley. Father managed to shove some money into an overseas account without Grandfather noticing before he sent me away. It won’t last forever, but it’s enough for me to live comfortably for quite a long time. I also have an actual job as an actual scientist, and enough lingering royalties from a geology book I published while getting my doctorate to not have to worry much about anything so long as I’m smart.”

” It’s rare for an old rich heir to be able to make his own way in the world. It’s respectable. How’s budgeting coming along?”

” It’s a learning experience, but…Bellossom soap and tailored suits aside, I really don’t want for anything. I have my stones and my pokemon and the ability to wander and explore a new region. I have a clean room with a comfortable bed and a nice breeze that comes through the window because of that red windmill. I miss my friends, my father, and my home, but…”

Steven shrugs.

“ There are so, so many people so worse off than I am in the world. How can I complain about being simply content in good conscience—even if I sometimes wonder if I’ll ever feel joy again.”

Grimsley raises an eyebrow. “ What about happiness? Something between contentment and joy?”

‘I feel happy when I’m with him’ is what Steven doesn’t say. Instead, he simply remembers the manuscript in his coat pocket and shrugs.

“ Well, I have the sneaking suspicion that my gamble on you is going to pay off.” Grimsley snatches the coin out of the air between two fingers and gives it a spin on his index before catching it again. “ Though, that’s the thing about bets—sometimes you have to wait until all the chips are down and the last hands are played before you know you’ve truly won.”

Steven cocks his head. “ What are you talking about?”

Grimsley sighs and shakes his head before gesturing at Steven with the coin between his fingers.

” Don’t worry about it. Listen, Steven, I counted on the fact—when Phoebe suggested you act in our stead—that you were a good man that doesn’t hide his kindness. Everything you’ve said and done up until now is more than enough proof that you were a good gamble as a human being. Now I just have to see if you’re a good gamble for us.”

“ Which means…”

Grimsley suddenly looks defeated, and his gaze trains back to the window, even as he continues to idly spin and flip the coin.

” The troupe’s out of money.” Grimsley says softly. “ Burgh’s burned through it all, and I’m almost out of the money I’d saved before my inheritance had been cut off. If Monsieur AZ hadn’t been generous enough to let us live here in exchange for shooing purrloins off the roof, we’d be on the street, and less than pleasant things happen on the street—including to young women.”

Steven can only imagine. “ You don’t have any money but you gamble it anyway?”

” Okay, let me clarify something: we have not put on a single performance that’s made any money. Ever. Since Burgh decided to hitch his wagon to a mudsdale that he didn’t even know could trot, let alone run. Unfortunately I lose more than I win, but when I do win, it’s enough to buy clothing. Props. Enough food and niceties for the girls to not realize we’re hanging by a thread.”

A leaden weight of guilt sinks into the pit of Steven’s stomach.

” I’m sorry,” he murmurs, suddenly too embarrassed to look at Grimsley. He settles for staring out the window himself as the first notes of an accordion filter up from the street. “ I shouldn’t assume…the only gambling I’ve ever seen before involved men with more money than sense. I’m still…learning about the world outside of my birthright.”

Grimsley’s brow creases with sympathy as he turns his head to stare at the shamefaced man, spinning his rings and flushing pink from mortification. He whistles until Steven is forced to look at him to get him to shut up and gives him a smirk and a wink.

” You’ll get there. I’ve been on the run almost two years and I’m still getting my sea legs when it comes to living in the world beyond the coiffures.” He pockets his coin and stretches his arms above his head before letting them fall to his sides. “ My point isn’t to make you guilty. My point is to drive home the fact that tonight, this meeting with the Enchanting Emerald, is likely our last chance. If he won’t hear us out, then there will be no one left with the power to make anything happen that will.”

“ And what if I fail?” Steven gulps. “ I’ll do it—of course I’ll do it—but I’m not…you’ve met me. You know about my reputation. I’m terrible at social events, Grimsley. I ramble about rocks or steel types or archeology and drive everyone within listening distance noibatty. I don’t know how or when to speak or shut up. I can’t even make eye contact with who I’m talking to half the time.”

” Can you talk to wealthy and powerful men and women without patronizing them for being bourgeoise lechonks?”

” Well…yes.”

“ Can you convincingly flatter wealthy and powerful men and women?”

“ Yes…”

” Do you have basic table manners and etiquette?”

” I certainly hope so!”

” And have you gambled so much money out of the Moulin Rouge’s purse that they will physically remove you from the baccarat table whether you like it or not?

“ They do?”

Grimsley laughs, and laughs, and laughs, and braces his hands on his thighs with a wheeze before standing tall, regarding Steven with an expression that’s almost fond. Steven’s not used to most people outside of his scant inner circle laughing at him in a way that isn’t patronizing. Or disdainful. A strange sense of courage warms his chest. 

” Then you’ll have a better chance than all of us.” Grimsley snickers, using his index finger to flick away a few stray tears of mirth clinging to his eyelashes. “ Are you ready to go?”

Steven still isn’t quite sure what he’s doing, and he’s sure it shows on his face, but he braces his hands on the bed and stands up to face the unknown just as he had more than two months ago. Grimsley pushes himself off the wall and beckons for him to follow.

” Alors, allons-y. Brassius is waiting for us at the club, and Burgh and the others have gone on ahead. I’ll tell you about Mikuri on the way.”

Mikuri, Grimsley explains as he and Steven leave the room, head down the wooden staircase that creaks just a little too much to call it innocent aging, and wave to AZ from where he’s lounging with his feet kicked up on the reception desk reading the daily paper, is the stage name of the proverbial jewel of the Moulin Rouge—hence how he’s come to be known city-wide as ‘the Enchanting Emerald’. Prostitutes in Lumiose, ranging from the low-hanging whores to the persnickety courtesans, are a dime a dozen in any section of the city. Yet anyone who is not a child and has not lived under rocks—

Grimsley elbows Steven in the side as they linger under the gas street lamp outside of the hotel.

—knows that he is a cut above even the pleasure servants of the oldest of the city’s blood. His beauty is near otherworldly, his poise impeccable, his every movement elegant, and every action performed with an unreal grace. Every turn of his head and wandering of his gaze is deliberate, and he operates with an air of superiority and confidence that only makes one long for him more, not less. The Moulin Rouge is known worldwide for its cancan dancers, of course, but everyone who both lives and plays in Lumiose knows that Mikuri is the establishment’s true star attraction. 

” It’s not even a matter of lust—though, that certainly helps.” Grimsley chuckles as he lights up a cigarette. He offers it to Steven, which earns him a disapproving glare, so he shrugs and puts it to his lips. “ Even those who aren’t attracted to him love to watch him perform. It’s his beauty, his grace, his flexibility, his sheer presence, the way he moves and flows like water—“

“ You said you and Nanu were married.”

“ Common law, long story, but just because I’m committed doesn’t mean I’m blind.” Grimsley waves his cigarette dismissively at a dubious Steven before taking a drag and blowing out a smoke ring. “ Besides, I’d say a good portion of his clientele—and those that come to watch him every night—are married. Even the men and women who aren’t attracted to him can’t help but feel strongly, if only because they admire him, or long to be like him—in beauty, athleticism, or grace.” 

Steven still feels quite dubious, only it’s not about Grimsley’s everything at this moment. “ If he’s so wonderful, what’s he doing in a place like the Moulin Rouge? It seems he’s talented enough to be a dancer, or actor, or…who knows what else.”

“ Very clever, too, from what I’ve heard. The one who keeps the other performers in line and tucked protectively under his influence.” Another puff, another blow. “ Though, I have it on dubious but extremely passionate authority that at least half of the other dancers—figurative or literal—despise him. Some to the point where they’ll try to sabotage his outfits or poison his food. I heard a particularly spiteful prostitute even tried to set fire to the copperajah a year ago.”

Steven cocks his head to the side. “ Why would they do that if they were jealous of Mikuri?”

“ Oh, that’s because he lives in the copperajah.” Grimsley laughs out smoke at the befuddled look on Steven’s face. “ You know, for such a handsome sort of man, you’re quite adorable when you’re confused. The copperajah functions as his home away from the stage, both for sake of safety and privacy. It’s where he takes his…clients, after all, some of whom have reputations that would be extremely painful to lose.”

Steven glances up at the giant copperajah across the street and notices, for the first time, that there seems to be a large window where the decorative gem would be, along with a little sitting area up top in the area where a seat would be. He puts a hand to his chin and hums.

” It must be lonely,” he murmurs, “ to be up there all by yourself.”

Grimsley takes a drag and shrugs. “ I don’t know what there’s to be lonely about; there are plenty of movers and shakers with big pockets who are more than willing to spend the night with him.”

Steven narrows his eyes. “ So when you say you’ve arranged a meeting between myself and him…”

“ Brassius has a friend on the inside who’s arranged for you to have a private meeting with Mikuri in the copperajah as soon as he’s done with tonight’s act. Said meeting can be whatever you want it to be, so long as you convince him to convince Rose to have our play headline his future theater. I don’t care if you lie with him or play bridge with him or simply roll his spheals around on on the floor like pétanque balls—just convince him that Shauntal’s script is better than it sounds, that any future theater needs an actual production to put on, and that we are very respectable performers that can help him become one himself, so he doesn’t have to spend the rest of his youth as a high-class whore. It’s not like he has many more options than we do.”

Once again, there’s quite a for Steven to process, but he—being the regional league champion that he is (albeit in exile)—can’t help but find himself stuck on one particular detail.

“ Spheals? He has spheals? How many?”

Grimsley sighs and shakes his head in bemusement. “ How did I know…oh, nevermind; let’s get going before we’re late to the party. Play your cards right, and you’ll find out about the spheals yourself.”

With one last puff and blow, Grimsley stubs out his cigarette beneath his polished leather shoe and bounds across the street, beckoning Steven to join him in the mass of boisterous, finely dressed men and women swarming the entrance to the Moulin Rouge like so many wishiwashi. With a sigh, some carding of his hands through his hair, and one last look at the dark, lonely statue, Steven scampers after Grimsley before he loses sight of him completely.

There are three things that set Steven’s sensory triggers off like no other stimuli in the world: huge crowds with no manners; loud cacophonies that no longer sound like music or human speech; and too many bright lights that are not linked to pokemon attacks or basic illumination.

The Moulin Rouge encapsulates all three of them, and if Steven didn’t have an important job to do, he’d probably just lie down on the nearest flat surface and wait for death.

The outside is beautiful. Surprisingly pleasant, actually, in spite of the heady smells of too much perfume and cologne in the air, elbows and ruffles and laughing far too close to his ears as he desperately clings to the site of Grimsley like a man would cling to a life preserver in a raging storm at sea. Yet there is a surprising amount of lush greenery, and along with the electric lights strewn along the neatly stoned foot paths, there are colorful paper lanterns and fairy lights strung from pole to pole and twined in the branches of the trees. It had rained the day before, and the smells of pertichor and verdantly serve as a soothing anchor, along with the sights and sounds of chittering illumise and glowing volbeat as they flitter between the bushes and trees, peeking at the humans coming and going through the gaps in the leaves.

One little illumise even lands on Steven’s shoulder, and—after he strokes its antennae and coos at it for a time—decides to make itself home in the breast pocket of the champion’s long coat and promptly dozes off, vibrating pleasantly against his chest through the layers of fabric. Steven strokes it idly through his pocket as he watches Grimsley chatting up a few well-dressed women in front of them as if he’s known them his whole life, and as he looks up through the twinkling, rustling canopy above them, he wonders if maybe his original fears were overblown.

With the crowd broken into pieces by the different paths winding through the greenery and around the windmill and copperajah, the throng of men and women face only a slight bottleneck as they pass through the glass front doors and through an entry way lined with red velvet and yet more halogen lights. Given what he’s seen so far, Steven knows that the owner must have a fine little army of voltorb and electrode in the basement, otherwise the electric bill would eat him out of house and home.

Steven also knows, now that he’s in the main building proper, that his initial fears were completely founded and he should stop doubting his intuition when it’s always right. 

The large signs declaring ‘NO OUTSIDE POKEMON ALLOWED’  are actually the least offputting part of the night club itself; Steven’s lived his whole life in a world where only pokemon of a certain species, demeanor, and pedigree are allowed and only in select cases, and the clientele of the club are the type that can not only afford capture balls, but those made of glass and metal rather than hollowed apricorns. Illumise, fortunately, is tiny enough and so deeply tucked into Steven’s coat pocket that she’s missed completely, and the champion gives a look to the man who attempts to take his coat from him, preferring to carry it carefully over his arm rather than risking losing it in the miasma of fur, lace, and leather of the coat room, stowaway and precious manuscript or no. 

It’s still a shame, because pokemon are always a welcome distraction, so there’s no escape from the fragrance and sweat and smell of tobacco that assault his nose, or the glare of the lights, and he has to put all of his etiquette lessons to use to keep from grimacing or wrinkling his nose. Thank the Weather Lords for the stim rings his mother made for him during her life; and thank the little Illumise, who thrums with microscopic wing beats even when she sleeps, keeping the geologist from completely losing himself in the everything. 

Something must show on his face, however, because Grimsley gives him a sympathetic smile before grabbing him by the elbow and pulling him towards the entrance of the main theater, framed with red velvet curtains with golden tassels and hand-painted wooden signs advertising the main acts.

Steven catches sight of one—and freezes, staring, gobsmacked. The world falls away, and if it weren’t for the painful tug on his arm as Grimsley is jerked by his sudden lack of forward momentum, the champion might forget he was in a body at all.

” Steven?”

It’s hard to hear Grimsley over the buzzing in his brain—as if the sign had somehow kicked up an entire nest of combee in his head—but he focuses on the vibrations of Illumise through his coat and up his other arm, and he focuses on how dry his mouth suddenly feels. He swallows.

” That’s…Mikuri?”

Confused, Grimsley follows Steven’s saucer-wide gaze towards the sign, and he can’t help but smile even as annoyed patrons shove past them in annoyance through the doors. The sounds of the band finishing its warm up indicate that the show is about to start.

” That it is.” Grimsley smarms, giving Steven a few pats on the shoulder. “ Told you he was the gem of this city, didn’t I? If you’re this charmed by a picture, then wait until you see him in the flesh. His hair is even greener. Some people even wax poetic about how it looks like it’s made of spun emerald.”

Steven doesn’t move. He almost doesn’t seem to breathe. Grimsley frowns and gives his shoulder a shake.

“ Everything okay?”

” I…I…I had no…I had no idea…”

” Steven.”

” All this time? All this time? Here?”

“ Steven.”

“ Why not just … wouldn’t have minded. … Fear? Embarrassment? … have cared.”

Grimsley feels the champion actually start to shiver under his hand as he rambles almost completely intelligibly beneath his breath; and he’s just about to ask if he’s feeling nervous or ill—because no one who’s struck with sudden lust acts like they’re about to face a firing squad—when Steven’s body snaps like a rubber band, and the gambler squeaks and stumbles as he’s suddenly the one being grabbed and tugged.

“ You’ll have to show me where you usually sit.” Grimsley startles, again, as Steven’s voice has gone from genial and nervous to clipped and pressed. “ We’ll have a good view of the show, right?”

“ Yeah. Brassius got us one of the VIP tables—where Mikuri’s prospective clients are usually set up.”

“ Good.” Another hard, jerking tug as Steven actually forces his way through a pair of stupidly voluminous skirts, not even bothering to excuse himself or apologize. The complete and utter change in demeanor would spook Grimsley if he weren’t so fascinated by its possible cause.

It can’t just be Steven finally seeing the kind of beauty that will await him in bed tonight, can it? Because, all of the sudden, Steven seems like he’s on a mission, and it has nothing to do with plays or pleasure. Maybe the only thing to do is to let the chips fall where they land and see just where his bet takes him.

Little does Grimsley know—and won’t know until much later—how unprepared he is for the hand about to be dealt.

It’s quite fortunate that Steven now has a fire lit under his feet and burning through his veins, because being in the main dance hall would otherwise have been enough to knock the words out of him for a few minutes, if not hours.

Even before the orchestra kicks up, it’s loud, and jarring, and bright, and there’s already a sheen of tobacco smoke in the air that makes his nostrils flare in protest. Much like any large theater, there are several floors of red-painted balconies above them devoted to actual seating. On the ground floor, there’s a row of black-covered chairs surrounding the stage and the large surrounding dance floor, and a row of box seating is built into the flanking walls, bedecked with more red velvet and tassels. Each individual box does away with separate chairs by having velvet-covered swablu-cushioned seating built into the sides around a central wooden table, topped with lit votives and stained with years of spilled drinks.

Two of the VIP boxes are closest to the dance floor, and it’s to one of them that Grimsley leads Steven, sitting him down beside Valerie and Marshal and across from Nanu and a dark-haired, brooding, sunken-eyed artist type sipping a glass of absinthe. He looks decidedly melancholic, but Steven thinks that it may just sort of be his default expression, so he doesn’t take offense.

Really, though, Steven barely gives him a passing glance; because the moment he sits down, his eyes are repeatedly scanning the room and the dance floor and the stage, again and again and again, looking for someone. Something.

Looking for him.

“ Brassius, this is Steven Tsuwabuki.” Grimsley slides in next to Nanu, who puts an arm around his waist without any shame and pulls him close. “ Our ace-in-the-hole with Mikuri. Steven, this is Brassius—the sculptor from Artazon City in Paldea we told you about. Where’s Burgh?”

“ Oh, wooing and fishing for patrons, as always.” Valarie says, stirring her drink with a little Alolan-style umbrella. Brassius sighs.

Grimsley rolls his eyes. “ Did Hassel not show up?”

“ His steamer was supposed to have arrived yesterday.” Brassius says mournfully, knocking back the shot of absinthe before pouring himself another from the bottle at the table. “ We made these plans months ago.”

“ Yeah, well, maybe he realized when he set foot in Lumiose that you wanted him to meet you at a cancan club of all places.” Nanu, as always, is a beacon of positivity. “ Couldn’t you have met your college buddy at, like, a literal art museum? Since he’s also an artist?”

“ We do art for a living, Nanu! This meeting is supposed to be about love.”

“ Maybe you shouldn’t have also offered him the chance for love from someone else for just a couple of poke.”

The men continue to grumble, but Steven tunes them out, his eyes darting from the curtain, to the entrances, to the emergency exits, to the dance floor, only to repeat. He lays his coat carefully over his lap and anxiously grips the fabric.

“—ven. Seven.”

“ Oh?” Realizing Valerie’s speaking to him, Steven reluctantly turns his attention to the seamstress, who’s smiling gently. “ I’m sorry; I didn’t hear you.”

“ I could tell.” She giggles. “ Would you like something to drink?”

“ Just water, thank you.” 

“ Are you sure? You can try my pink applin if you want. It’s quite sweet and pleasant.”

“ Thank you, but I’m alright. I’m not much of a drinker.”

Back Steven goes to scanning the room, and by now, everyone else at the table has noticed and are exchanging looks of bemusement and confusion. Nanu snorts.

“ Can’t believe you have all of those manners and class and choose to be boring about it.” He uses his free hand to grab his own gin on the rocks and knocks back half of it to make a point. An unseen point, obviously, which makes him tch. “ Okay, what comfey scent caught his nose between the hotel and here?”

“ Oh, leave him alone, pumpkaboo.” Grimsley smirks at Steven and rests his head on Nanu’s shoulder. “ He saw one of the signs depicting Mikuri and has been half speechless ever since.”

“ Ooooohhhhhh.” Nanu’s eyebrows waggle. Steven continues to pretend he doesn’t exist. “ Well, if an art print taped to a board has gotten him so hot and bothered, then he’ll probably spontaneously combust when the real thing comes down from the ceiling.”

That draws Steven’s attention. “ The ceiling?”

“ Yeah. It’s part of his big entrance most days.” Nanu frowns at the strangely concerned look on Steven’s face. “ That somehow a problem? You don’t have to go up there too, you know, if you’re some kinda whimpod about heights.”

“ It’s not me. It’s just…”

Steven sighs, shakes his head, and goes back to his searching. Nanu groans and flings a cloth napkin dramatically over his face, which Grimsley seizes and uses to swat him fondly.

“ Like I said, leave him be. He’s just got one job and it’s obvious that he’s going to do it well.”

“ Shhh!” Valerie chides. “ The lights just dimmed! The show’s about to start!”

Sure enough, the band bursts to life the moment she finishes her sentence, and the crowd erupts in cheers, hoots, and hollers as what can only be a gaggle of cancan dancers bursts from the red curtains onto the stage and from the side entrances towards the dance floor. Steven has heard of cancan dancers, of course, and he’s even watched some of them making their way home from the club early in the morning, sitting on his balcony after a sleepless night. Sometimes they’ve changed into street clothes, but other times they’ve simply thrown their coats and shawls over their voluminous, frilled skirts, sequins, and feathers, and Steven always smiles when he hears the tap-tap-tapping of their dance shoes on the cobblestones and their tired but infectious chattering, likening the women to a flock of all the different oricorio variants returning to the nest. Sometimes they even see him, and he always gives them a smile and wave, which earns him waves, fatigued but cheery greetings, and laughter. Sometimes they even make the occasional half-joke that they’re ’off the clock, shiny, but offer us a cuppa next time and we’ll have another discussion!’

“ Is Mikuri a cancan dancer?” Steven asks curiously, seeing a few stray, beautiful men in their own unique uniforms mingling with the female dancers. None are who he’s looking for, however, and he’s not sure if he’s relieved or frustrated.

“ Nah, he does his own thing.” Nanu says, having to speak a little louder over the music as well as the countless patrons waving money at the dancers while loudly begging for attention. A few of them are pulled onto the floor, but most of them are ignored or simply granted coy winks, which elicit whistles and cries of protest. “ It’s pretty impressive, too—it’s almost like sensual gymnastics. Reminds me of the human half of pokemon coordination acts, only Mikuri’s the only one being judged, and there’s a lot more skin than would be legal in a contest costume.”

“ It’s tasteful skin.” Valerie remarks. Nanu gives her a look. “ It’s true. He always looks sparkling and elegant—never tacky or shameless. I would love the chance to design a few outfits for his performances one day.”

“ If being a whore’s fashion designer is your dream job, then by all means, flag that Cosgrove woman down to apply, because no one else would touch that with an Exeggutor’s whole neck.” Nanu leans forward to grab his drink but freezes at the blistering look of disapproval Steven gives him from across the table. It even makes him gulp before his sangfroid laziness returns. “ Look, no offense to the gals and guys on the floor, but it is what it is.”

“ I don’t know what you mean by it ‘being what it is’, actually.” Steven places his hands flat on the table and leans over his glass over water at Nanu, who actually shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “ I can’t tell if you’re full of shame over a group of people making a living or are simply jealous that they’re doing a better job of it than you ever could.”

Grimsley’s head shoots up from Nanu’s shoulder. Valerie gasps. Marshal nearly chokes on his mouthful of beer. Even despondent Brassius looks up from his mournful drinking to watch the proverbial fireworks going off. 

Nanu gapes at Steven for a moment, clearly speechless, before growling and moving to stand.

“ Listen here, you snot-nosed, pasty-skinned, milk-mouthed little—“

“ No!” Grimsley grabs the side of Nanu’s jacket and forcibly sits him back down. “ Enough. Enough of this. We’re all on the same side. Let’s just come to the quick conclusion that both of your opinions are valid and get back to business.”

“ Don’t put words in my mouth.” Steven’s eyes narrow, not only thinking of who he may see in the coming visits, but the cheerful girls that laugh their way down the street, makeup smudged and wincing on their sore feet, and talk about how they’ll actually be able to afford to make some proper dinners or pay back last month’s rent thanks to their clients’ tips. “ Especially words I would never say. Because I don’t think Nanu is valid at all. In fact, I think he’s being a bastard, and I’d choose the company of a cancan dancer over him in a heartbeat. I suspect most people would.”

Another gasp, this time excited, accompanied by the excited opening and closing of a little wooden and paper umbrella. Brassius gives a low whistle and Marshal makes a very pathetic attempt at muffling his laughter.

Nanu, however, is far less than pleased. “ I don’t know what you think you know about the world, kid, but let me wake you up to something important—!”

“ Don’t tell him anything!” Now Brassius is grabbing the other side of Nanu’s coat to help Grimsley keep him in his seat. “ Just…don’t tell him anything! Let it go! This is too important to squabble like children over the morality of men and women of the night!”

It’s clearly a plea directed at Steven more than Nanu, and the exiled heir decides to let it go, satisfied by Nanu’s anger-reddened face and his trembling hands clenching the edge of the table hard enough to splinter. He picks up his glass of water, cradles it like a glass of sherry, and turns his attention to the dancing without another word. A moment later, he feels a strong hand on his shoulder, and he looks up to see Marshal reaching across Valerie to him.

“ Nice one, fancy pants.” He grins and gives Steven another strong clap on the shoulder before pulling back. Steven blinks a few times before managing a smile back. “ Nanu’s just a jaded old prick. Grims calls him ‘an acquired taste’, but don’t let him fool you; he can be an even worse bastard when it comes down to it. Don’t mind him too much.”

“ Thanks, Marshal, but I’ll mind him if I want.”

The geologist only then realizes that Nanu and Grimsley are nowhere to be seen, and Brassius has taken it upon himself to kick his legs up on their abandoned seats, swirling his glass of green fairy as he, too, enjoys the spins and kicks. 

“ They went to take a walk to help Nanu cool off.” Valerie explains. “ I can’t wait to tell the girls about the show within the show that they missed. Flannery and Shauntal will be swooning all over you for days after.”

Steven winces. “ Please don’t.”

The seamstress giggles, covering her mouth with her voluminous right sleeve, and Steven quickly turns his body so that he’s fully facing the dance floor before he bursts into flames from embarrassment. Unfortunately, he soon becomes strikingly aware of what Nanu meant when he talked about ‘how high you can kick and what you can see when they do’, so Steven resigns himself to having red cheeks and burning ears for the rest of the night.

The majority of the dancers entertain the audience on the floor, pulling select patrons into their morass to offer them personal attention, which can range from excited whirling and twirling to literally rubbing them up and down with their bodies. He notices that the patrons they target with this ‘special’ attention tend to have the largest wads of money and are the nicest dressed. He even sees a few of the girls coyly lead away their chosen lords and ladies off the stage and into a few side doors he hadn’t noticed prior, which are covered by a large red curtain and guarded by rough men and women. He wonders if they’ll make enough to afford something nice tomorrow.

On stage, however, the cancan dancers are actually dancing for the sake of their craft—at least, for now. Their dresses are of higher quality silks and satins, their petticoats are whiter, their shoes have no scuffs, and their jewelry glitters in a way that tells Steven it’s the real deal, rather than the costume jewelry adoring the dancers on the floor. In an attempt to avoid looking at their undergarments, Steven instead focuses on the gems they wear, trying to determine type, cut, purity, and carat from a distance. It’s a surprisingly fun little activity—one that settles his nerves and slows the now constant spinning of his rings.

It even allows him to pay some attention to Valerie as she murmurs facts and gossip into his ear. For example, Rose’s last name is technically Quintrell, but everyone out of earshot calls him Rose Turner because he had it changed to sound more high class after the Moulin Rouge made it big. Oleana is his personal assistant, as well as the club’s overall manager, and she rarely leaves Rose’s shadow when he makes rounds. Rumor has it that her gaze can freeze you even faster than a freeze dry from a froslass. The girls on stage are Rose’s personal favorites and are called his ‘Diamond Diancies’. There are a few male and masculine-presenting dancers, but they aren’t allowed to cancan, and simply act as support during the numbers. None of them are ever included in the special group. Guess it shows where Rose’s general inclinations lie. It’s why Oleana resents every single one of the Diancies.

It’s nice. And pleasant. And he even asks Valerie a few questions to prove that he’s listening—but he’s still not really paying attention. He’s trying to determine if the lead dancer on stage knows that she’s wearing zirconia in her hair instead of diamonds and waiting, waiting, waiting. He feels like he waits the whole night, even though he knows, logically, that only up to an hour has passed.

Then, with no forewarning, the dance hall seems to stop in time. The dancers lower their feet in unison. The patrons fall silent. Every member of the band simultaneously stops playing. Most of the lights aside from the runners and those that adorn the entrances and exits are then cut, and Steven suddenly realizes the wisdom of having lit candles on the table. Marshal puts down his drink and Brassius cranes his head to look towards the ceiling.

“ Steven, it’s time!” Valerie grabs his shoulder and gives it a shake. “ Mikuri’s performance! Are you ready?!”

No. “ Yes.”

Behind him, he can feel someone sitting on the other side of the wall shift and turn their body to get a better look, but his attention is soon directed towards the ceiling with everyone else, where iridescent glitter begins to rain from nowhere onto the crowd below.

“ It’s an illusion.” Brassius breathes. “ Try to touch it. Rumor has it that Mikuri has one of his own pokemon conjure it themselves.”

“ They’re right. This is an aurora beam.” Steven reaches out and leans forward in his seat to catch some of the shimmering, ice cold fragments before they evaporate on contact with the ground. They light briefly upon his palm, pleasantly cool, before disintegrating into glittering dust. “ Likely separated into fragments by a psychic-type move just before completely solidifying into ice to allow for the preservation of the aurora as they fall.” He blows the ice dust off his hand and watches in newfound awe as yet more rain down, much to the appreciative cooing of the audience. “ Yet solid enough to keep them from melting before they hit the ground. It’s a remarkable enough act of coordination if multiple pokemon are doing it, but I don’t feel two different types of energy on the bits. This is only one pokemon. A very powerful one. Probably champion grade.”

Steven glances over his shoulder to see Valerie, Marshal, and Brassius studying him intently. Well, Brassius is studying him intently; Marshal just seems impressed and Valerie awed by his knowledge.

“ You sound like you have a champion’s knowledge of pokemon yourself.” Brassius remarks softly. 

Steven shrugs and turns back to the sparkling room. Strangely, even though such a comment would have made his stomach crawl with durants a few hours ago, he can’t seem to find it in himself to care.

No, there is only one thing the exiled champion cares about at this moment; and when large spotlights are turned on and trained at the ceiling, he finds himself rising to his feet and taking a small step out of the box to get a better view.

“ That’s him!” Brassius breathes. “ The Enchanting Emerald.”

Steven knows. 

He sees, he knows, and he sucks in a breath as the world drops out from beneath him.

It is you.

They’d met by chance during Steven’s first week in Lumiose, just a scant few breaths before dawn, on the infamous Pont des Arts where citizens and tourists alike attach padlocks to the rails before tossing the keys into the river in an attempt to make their love last forever. It had been raining only an hour earlier, but it was the perfect time for Steven to wander the city, since it was late enough that the night life had gone to bed but early enough that the day workers were still asleep. He’d been so nervous about being seen, noticed, known in Lumiose that he’d stuck to those surreal hours for his exploration. He’d even been afraid to seek out the natural history museum in hopes of obtaining work, despite the director being fond of his work and more than eager to meet him in person.

It had been halfway across the bridge, Steven’s hands tucked in his coat pockets and Metagross trundling along next to him, that he saw someone grabbing and leaning forward on the railing overlooking the pitch black water of the Seine. Steven hadn’t known who or what he was looking at, at first, and had even rubbed his eyes a few times to make sure he wasn’t dreaming—because even illuminated only by the bridge’s dim gas lamps, they seemed too beautiful to be real. Tall, lithe, and graceful even when standing, wearing a loose, tucked-in silk blouse and loose linen pants, with the glossiest dark green hair Steven had ever seen pulled back in a messy bun and an elegant face that would look at home on an antiquated marble statue. He’d actually stopped in his tracks, briefly forgetting to breathe, and briefly convinced that maybe he was looking at a ghost, because no carbon-based being could be so lovely. 

Something about them caught Steven’s eye, however, and not in a pleasant way—because the stranger’s dignified face looked almost empty; and those green, almond-shaped, almost serpentine eyes were staring out into nothing. It alarmed him enough that Steven began to walk forward to check on him, waving for Metagross to wait.

That walk became a run, then a frantic sprint, as—almost as if they were being compelled by an unknown force—the stranger lurched forward and began to fall over the railing. Steven just barely managed to reach them in time to grab the back of their shirt and yank them back—

—only to promptly fall over the railing himself from the momentum.

Steven doesn’t remember hitting the water; what he does remember is lying, sodden and breathless, on the bank of the Seine, with the equally dripping wet stranger looking down at him in a panic. His emerald green hair–now loose and disheveled–was somehow even glossier when wet, and when relief softened those jewel-like eyes and brought a graceful curve to those thin lips, Steven found himself voicing his earlier thoughts on the bridge.

“ You are a mermaid, then.”

The stranger’s eyes widened in shock, but before Steven could regain his bearings enough to be embarrassed, he’d thrown his head back and laughed. He laughed, and laughed, and laughed, and Steven could only lay there and study this beautiful, beautiful being as he first laughed from what sounded like relief, then humor, and then cracking with an emotion that sounded like his eyes looked on the bridge. When he regained himself, the stranger was all but beaming down at him, and his long, graceful hand came up to stroke Steven’s dripping hair from his face.

“ I’m used to being called a siren,” the stranger—man—admitted in an accent that immediately brought to mind memories of a city-state within a meteor strike’s caldera that he’d visited during his champion challenge. It was an accent he never thought he’d hear again. “ Or a sea witch. You’re the first person who’s ever called me something pretty like a mermaid.” 

Steven frowned and pushed himself up as Metagross—who’d been standing sentinel over his master and rescuer—pressed into his side. He laid his head on his partner’s rebuffing body and gave him a few soothing pats to prove he was alright.

“ They shouldn’t be calling anyone from Sootopolis a sea witch or siren,” he murmured, finding himself strangely delighted as the man was struck dumb once again. “ Though, I guess that’s not a commonly-known taboo outside of Hoenn…and I guess I shouldn’t have called you a mermaid, either. I apologize.”

“ No, no, please…” Something cracked in the stranger’s voice, and though the gas lamps made it hard to study his savior in great detail, the champion still noticed the wobble of his lips before mashing them flat. Still, his hand shook when he reached to take one of Steven’s in his own, and the champion had the grace to pretend not to notice. “ A mermaid is…different. Something beautiful. Elegant. Magical. I never expected to be called one—especially by someone with a mainland accent. I don’t think I mind it.”

Steven couldn’t help but smile. “ I can call you it again, if you’d like..”

And he had. Many times since, he had. 

Soaking wet and chilled as they were, the pair sat on the bank of the Seine and talked until the sun had risen soundly, at which point the stranger announced that he had to return to his home before anyone ‘got all up in their garters’ about his being absent. In those hours, however, Steven learned a great deal. He learned the man’s name was Wallace, that he and his family had left the caldera when he was just a child in an attempt to find more work, and they’d left him behind to continue on their travels when he was a teenager and had found consistent employment. They were back in Sootopolis, now, and he sent them money as often as he could. 

“ I work in entertainment.” Wallace said simply. “ Of a sort.”

Steven hadn’t pushed, and Wallace, grateful, had also not pushed when Steven told him he’d had to leave mainland Hoenn for certain reasons and would be spending the foreseeable future in Lumiose. They’d talked about Mt. Chimney, and the caldera, and Rustboro City’s recent expansion, and Wallace had asked countless questions about what Sootopolis had been like when he’d drifted through ‘on business’. Steven had been happy to regale him with as much as he could.

“ Why were you letting yourself fall over the railing?” Steven had asked. Wallace sighed and looked down at his folded hands. The once immaculate fingernails were now chipped from his impacting the water and dragging Steven to shore, and the champion couldn’t help but feel a bit guilty.

“ It’s…strange.” Wallace had mused, once more looking over the river with an inscrutable expression. “ I love being by the river—it’s the only large body of water I’ve been able to access since I came to the city—but I’m not the biggest fan of heights. Not unless I’m controlling the launching. The bridge is fine, mostly, but I’d never been on it so late, and the water was so dark, and…”

He squeezed his hands tightly.

“—it was almost like I was pulled over by something outside of my control.”

Steven had heard of that phenomenon before, and he actually forced himself to go to the library during waking hours to do his own research, which he shared with Wallace during their next meeting. They had never arranged anything formally, but Wallace mentioned that he often went to the river on certain days at that time of night, and he wouldn’t mind seeing Steven again.

So they met again. And again. And continued to meet as the weeks passed. They never talked about what had brought them to Lumiose in the first place or their lines of work, but they talked about many other interesting things. Wallace not only listened to Steven ramble on about rocks, history, archeology, jewelry-making, and steel type pokemon for hours on end, but he actually listened. Actually seemed interested in what interested him. Actually asked questions and remembered certain facts going forward. In exchange, Steven delighted in hearing about Wallace’s own special interests—dance and gymnastics and art and drawing and water type pokemon, and how one day, he dreamed of becoming a professional pokemon coordinator and opening his own contest hall. It may not be soon, but one day, he would be free of ‘all of this’, and he’d waive Steven’s admittance fee for the rest of their lives.

Steven looked forward to that. He looked forward to everything about Wallace. He looked forward to seeing Wallace standing on the bank of the Seine, one toe pointed on the ground and his hands linked behind his back. He liked the way he turned and smiled at Steven when he called to him—in a way that made Steven hope, desperately, that he didn’t smile like that at anyone else. He liked talking about books and poetry and music and exchanging recommendations. He liked Wallace’s Milotic, his most precious partner, and he absolutely adored the little performances Wallace and Milotic would sometimes give him when there was truly no one around. He liked how happy Wallace looked when he indulged in coordination. He loved how his whole body seemed to glow. He loved how talented he was. How cunning. How creative. How witty. How sarcastic. How kind. How honest. How brilliant. He loved it. He loved it all.

It was last week, in fact, when Steven realized just how much he loved Wallace himself. How he loved him in a way he had never loved anyone before. How he looked at him and listened to him and delighted in him and wanted him—wanted everything Wallace would be willing to give. Wanted to give himself to Wallace, completely and utterly, if that was what the other man wanted as well.

So, Steven had chewed on his feelings. Rotated them in his brain like unfezants spit-roasting in the window of the local boucherie. Then, Shauntal’s latest pages had started fluttering in through the window—carried by the constant low-level breeze produced by the red windmill across the street—and he knew, then, that he wanted to give him something more than the fossils, rocks, and gemstones he’d polish just for him.

Steven wanted to do something for Wallace he’d never done before. Give him a gift he would make for no one else. So, he wrote a story about them—about how much he loved him—and decided that he’d give it to Wallace and ask him how he would like it to end. He would give it to him that week, in fact, planning for the day after Shauntal and Flannery crashed through his ceiling.

Now, for the second time today, someone is descending from the ceiling to change his life.


He’d recognized Wallace instantly from the sign advertising his act (and, he guesses, his body), but it takes seeing him descending from the illusory glitter perched atop a swing that he allows the truth to hit his heart like a hammer: that Wallace is Mikuri, and he’d spent the past few hours trying not to worry about how his friend would feel about him spending a night—sexually or no—with a courtesan right when he was about to woo him, only for him and the courtesan to be one in the same. More than bewilderment, Steven had felt an almost dizzying amount of relief, and all he’d wanted from the moment he saw the sign was to see Wallace—all of him, including the parts he hid with pursed lips, flippant words, and dismissive shrugs. ‘An entertainer, of a sort.’ It was exactly what he wanted, and Steven is relieved, and he’s excited, and oh, oh–he’s so beautiful.

He’s so beautiful.

Steven already thought Wallace (or Mikuri? Is Mikuri his real last name or a stage name?) shone like a gem, but in his costume, he’s shining as much as the reflective confetti he’s conjured (well, Milotic conjured, because it had to be Milotic; she is so stupidly powerful and so in sync with her master that he can’t imagine another pokemon capable of such a complex illusion). From the long legs that looked even longer with the silver, high-heeled dance shoes and scintillating silver vines and flowers that wound up his stockings; to the reinforced high-necked leotard sewn with a gradient of black and white rhinestones, paired with matching half skirt that brushes his calves when seated and long black gloves; to his beautiful green hair, pinned up in a bun and topped with an onyx and diamond comb shaped in the outline of flying starlies. Even his face is painted with glitter alongside his makeup, swooping along his right cheekbone like a trail of starlight; and two white, star shaped diamonds glitter in his ears.

Wallace is resplendent. Wallace is radiant. Wallace is clearly a bit scared, too, because Steven can see how tightly his hands are gripping the ropes. Yet he still looks so composed despite his fear of hights–a fear that made him nervous on a bridge, let alone being dropped from a ceiling. How does he do it? Steven wishes he could have even a small drop of the other man’s courage.

Steven wishes he could have so much of him.

Finally, the swing stops a good few meters above the audience, who seems to be holding their breath with anticipation. Wallace smiles (in a way, Steven can see even from the distance, that doesn’t quite travel to the rest of his face), and he takes a moment to swivel his head to examine the room.

That’s when he sees Steven, and there’s a bit of a murmuration in the audience as he sucks in a breath and nearly wobbles from his surprise, his eyes blown almost impossibly wide as he stares at Steven and Steven stares at him. All of the color drains from his face. His lips mash together in that way the geologist knows means he’s nervous and trying not to show it.

No. Not just nervous. Scared. Steven realizes that Wallace looks like a deerling that’s suddenly found itself face-to-face with the barrel of a hunter’s shotgun. His stomach churns, and panic begins to flutter in his chest, because Steven can’t imagine why Wallace could possibly be afraid of him. Has he done something wrong? Maybe during their last walk on the river?

“ I work in entertainment. Of a sort.”

Steven’s mind flashes back to rooms filled with cigar smoke and top-hatted men and thickly painted women, mirthfully tearing apart whose only crime was giving them what they paid for. The cancan dancers clacking down the street after work and the men who would whistle and jeer and hurl lewd insults at them when they were ignored. Mothers and fathers with their children who would block their view of the club and pick up the pace whenever they walked by during the day. Books and shows depicting those who sold their bodies as permanently stained and soiled and irreparably ruined for polite society. Grimsley’s barely-disguised pity. Nanu’s blatant disdain. The way Wallace’s fingers would press into the opposite arms whenever Steven even inched towards discussing their lives outside of the luminal hours.



The morality of men and women of the night.

It clicks, then, all at once; and Steven knows this won’t do. This won’t do it all. So he meets Wallace’s almost numb look of shock–

–and grins.

In these few seconds of breath, no one else in the hall exists aside from his beautiful friend glowing above him–above all of them–and he grins with abandon and with no trace of shame. He grins until his eyes close and his cheeks pull and pinch from the stretch. He grins with every fiber of his being and every ounce of fondness and admiration and love in his body (because oh, he loves him, so much so that he doesn’t know what to do with himself); and when he finally opens his eyes, he’s greeted with the even more beautiful sight of Wallace grinning back. Smiling so white and wide, with the trail of starlight stretching across his cheek as warmth fills his eyes and all of the tension bleeds from his shoulders; and even his death grip eases on the ropes of the swing, as if Steven’s smile has dispelled all of the fear he’d been feeling.

Steven smiles at Wallace, Wallace smiles at Steven, and Steven allows his heart to soar as a fragile hope starts to bloom in his chest that maybe, just maybe, Wallace really doesn’t smile at anyone else like this but him.

For those few seconds, they only see each other.

They don’t see Grimsley and Nanu creeping back into their seats, joining the others as they stare at Steven with varying levels of bemusement and confusion. They don’t see Burgh creeping in after them and cooing about the stars filling Steven’s eyes as he forces the irritated couple to scoot to the right to accommodate their leader. They don’t see the man with a brown three-piece suit and a single brown curl sticking up from his slick-backed hair with an immaculately-painted woman with an impassive expression standing sentry off to his side. They don’t see the too-slick man and too-cold woman staring at a tall, blond, tuxedo-clad man seated opposite them in the box, who’s staring up with barely disguised awe and wonder at the vision on the swing above them. They don’t see the duke staring up at Wallace, who–unable to see Steven in his peripheral vision due to the velveted partition between them–sees the Enchanting Emerald smiling so adoringly and vainly, naively, assumes it’s for him. They don’t see the three-piece gentleman smirk in triumph as the duke trips and falls into what he believes to be love.

They don’t see any of this. Instead, Steven and Wallace see each other; and then Wallace takes a deep breath, steadies his shoulders, and winks playfully down at him. Steven rocks back on his heels as the crowd, enamored, covets the wink as their own. The duke’s breath catches in his chest.

The band strikes a chord, the songstress links hands with her loudred in the pit for amplification, and Wallace once more grips the ropes.

The show begins.

Chapter Text

“ When am I going to meet the Emerald?”

Rose Quintrell already knows from Duke Siebold’s tone of voice that he’s won. No, not just airy, but pensive–pensive in the way of someone who’s just experienced something they are still processing but already liked, and the more they think, the more they like. It was the same look of someone appreciating their first sip of fine wine or a particularly delicious piece of chocolate or fruit. So far so good; Wallace is doing his job, as promised and previously arranged. Not that Rose ever doubted the man in the first place, because for all they have butted heads as the performer aged, they both were united in wanting the Moulin Rouge to be greater, albeit for different reasons. So long as they reach the same goal, Rose doesn’t care what his motivations are, or even if he himself will be able–or willing–to deliver on said expectations.

Still, it’s curious. Even for the most important of his very important clients, Wallace has never smiled in such a way–at least, on the floor. His smile tends to vary on the nature of the client, but most of them land squarely in the enigmatic or inscrutable, with an appropriate layer of coquettishness. That smile, though, and that hesitation…

Well, maybe it was simply Wallace realizing just how deliciously close they were to their ultimate goal. Rose files away the information for later and sets down his cigar on the ash tray.

“ After his show–with some time for him to properly prepare in-between, of course.” Rose picks up his glass of deliberately watered-down whiskey and swirls it as he follows Siebold’s gaze. The owner may have no romantic or sexual inclination towards his gender, but he certainly can appreciate athleticism and form, and Wallace has those in spades; and it’s always thrilling to watch him leap off the swing after being swung around the entirety of the floor, only to land on his feet on a raised section of the floor, much to the audience’s delight. Siebold seems even more impressed now. Good. Good. The notoriously particular duke’s expectations are being met. “ In his domicile in the copperajah. It will be an entirely private meeting, with instructions that you and Mikuri aren’t to be disturbed, and the meeting will last as long as you wish.”

“ Totally alone?”

“ Totally alone.”

Siebold’s eyes glimmer with anticipation, but there’s an almost charming hint of embarrassment that follows, and glances at Rose almost shyly. “ How long do such meetings…last, generally?”

Rose takes a sip of his drink and hums. He can practically hear Oleana’s bemusement from where she stands next to him. Honestly, he should be more strident in getting her to sit down once in a while.

“ It depends. Usually a few hours. Sometimes all night. There’s an unspoken rule that any clients have to leave before dawn, but…” He shrugs. “ Well, you’re no average client.”

No, Duke Siebold is far from an average client, because he is the only one willing to indulge Rose that has the means and money to make his dreams for the nightclub come true. A member of the vaunted Elite Four, Siebold has a well-known adoration of cooking, fine food, pokemon, and theater; and his drive to create and challenge himself has led the rest of Lumiose’s old money to consider him pleasantly eccentric, especially in how he tends to keep to himself and avoids romantic pursuits. He does have an eye for beauty, however, and he specializes purely in water types. The more he told him of Wallace’s beauty, surprising sophistication, and mutual love of pokemon, the more intently Seibold listened, and the more vigorously he fussed with his white gloves.

Now, the duke is here, and he’s clearly growing more enchanted by Wallace by the moment. It certainly helps that the performer is even more on point than usual; and given the thought, care, and effort he puts into his work at baseline, especially the part of it he actually somewhat likes, the overall effect is subtle but significant. Ever since his services were signed over to Rose by his parents ten years past, Wallace has wanted to be anything but a sex worker, and his dance hall performances are emblematic of that. He’s even the only one of Rose’s performers that actually uses a pseudonym–Mikuri–instead of his real name, as if trying to preserve his reputation for a future outside of his current occupation (one that ultimately includes his becoming a pokemon coordinator with his own contest hall, which stopped being funny years ago and now makes the Galarian want to scrape his ears out with a bottle brush whenever Wallace gets on a semi-dreamy tangent while sitting at his vanity behind stage).

Even as a man who had built himself up from nothing, Rose had been lucky enough to avoid the reputation-staining trap of being a sex worker, and he will never understand how such a practical and cunning man like Wallace can be so delusional about any future prospects. All the same, his drive to not be seen as a mere courtesan is a wide-spread part of his appeal (especially among the rich and famous), and it’s the reason the hall is packed every single night.

Wallace’s performances are simply good. They’re aesthetically pleasing, yes, and he acts appropriately seductive with the crowd when need be–yet he’s both extraordinarily athletic and creative, and possesses a grace, elegance, and flexibility not seen even in the most well-known professional dancers (in fact, Rose has heard more than a few ballerina wives of fellow businessmen disguising envy as moral superiority whenever his venue comes up in polite conversation, though he refuses to tell Wallace any of this in an attempt to avoid feeding into his fantasies). Not only that, but while Rose refuses to bend the ‘no pokemon in performances’ rule so long as the club is easily damaged and not weatherproof in the slightest, he has to admit that allowing Wallace’s milotic to conjure illusions from backstage was one of his better decisions. From raining down artificial glitter, to weaving ribbons of aurora-gradient energy around his arms to whip about like giant, fanning ribbons, to even conjuring large bubbles he can leap from, Mikuri’s illusions drew in many pokemon enthusiasts that wouldn’t even touch a place like the Moulin Rouge normally, despite Milotic herself staying tucked behind the curtain at all times.

There’s no denying it; Wallace’s numbers are spectacular, and Rose can see Seibold falling under his captivating spell as easily as all the others. The courtesan leaps from platform to platform and off the shoulders of the stronger dancers scattered within the crowd for this very purpose, skipping amongst the rabble like a rock on water. He twirls and backflips and dazzles as Milotic wreaths her master and the hall in dazzling and incandescent lights and illusions, and she doesn’t even need to see her master to know what to do, when, and how, let alone be commanded.

The most spectacular moments, of course, are when she conjures large bubbles that are strong enough to carry him up and up without bursting, before using her psychic abilities to almost imperceptibly assist him in skipping back down to earth on them, as if they’re simple platforms or stairs. Even Seibold lets out a quiet gasp at his acrobatics and poise.

“ What is such brilliance doing at the Moulin Rouge?” Siebold breathes as Wallace backflips off the last large bubble just as it pops to land on a raised platform. Rose can’t help but chuckle.

“ A long, unimportant story…but the important thing is that he’s here, and he’s hungry for more than I can give him right now.” He picks up his cigar, takes a puff, and blows it out in a ring. “ And who can blame him? I certainly don’t think you can.”

The truth, Rose doesn’t say, is that Wallace wants far more than he can ever have, no matter who he charms or brings into his bedroom, and no matter how many dukes and duchesses Rose rounds up to pump money into the Moulin Rouge to finally turn into a theater. He’d known from the start–when Wallace was still just a shy, lonely teenager who cried from homesickness and missing his sister–that his talents are utterly wasted in a place like this. In another life, he’d dazzle any stage as a coordinator, or even an actor. He’d be a shrewd businessman who would not have to answer to anyone.

However, none of them live in that life, and none of them ever will; and the sooner Wallace wakes up to that fact, the better.

“ Will this be your first time?” Rose dares to ask. Siebold gives him a look out of the corner of his eye.

“ My first time with a courtesan?”

“ Well, if I didn’t already know the answer, I’d also ask if this was your first time in the Moulin Rouge. But yes. I’ve never partaken in any myself, so I’m always…curious, so to speak.”

Seibold gives him an incredulous look. “ Given how many you manage, I find that hard to believe.”

“ You’re a chef by trade and passion, correct? Does that mean you eat every dish you cook?”

“ I suppose not.” The duke’s attention is soon pulled back to Wallace as he’s joined by someone else: a young woman around his age with long, flowing violet hair and an attractively languorous disposition, graceful and lithe in a tight-knit cotton unitard bedecked with satin, sequins, and feathers. “ That is…?”

“ Winona, one of our best acrobats, and one of the few performers with whom Wallace is willing to share the stage.” Rose sets his cigar down in favor of nursing his weak whiskey. “ And no, before you ask, she’s purely an acrobat and has never danced a cancan–literally or figuratively–in her life. While we’re famous for the cancan dancers and their talents on and off the dance floor, we also host performers that wouldn’t normally find stable or consistent work or income otherwise. Firebreathers, magicians, acrobats, contortionists, musicians too eclectic to appeal to general society…you name them, we have them.”

Seibold picks up his own sazerac and takes a drink. “ I’m still trying to figure out if you’re running a dance hall, an upscale bordello, a casino, or a circus.”

“ Why not all of the above? A regular house of pleasure, which is always warm and brightly lit even on the dreariest and rainiest of days.” Rose swirls his drink and looks back to the floor as Wallace and Winona engage in one of their intricate and alluring dance routines. “ In this city, if you don’t cast as wide a net as possible to attract as many patrons as possible, then you’ll go belly-up within the first few years. It’s the Moulin Rouge’s versatility in catering to the interests and desires that so many can never admit to having that has gotten this establishment to where it is today.”

“ It’s certainly a success story that many in my circle would never admit to admiring.” Seibold takes a sip of his drink and actually smirks at Rose. “ And yet, you seem to want more, including the acceptance of Lumiose at large.”

“ My goal was always to bring the Galarian theater tradition to Kalos.” Rose admits. “ However, you lot are certainly…”

Seibold gives him a look as Oleana coughs in warning. Rose grimaces.

“ Well, Galar and Kalos have a history of rivalry, and an automatic disdain for the other’s cultural products.” There. That sounds perfectly acceptable and not nearly as insulting or petty as Rose wishes it could be. Seibold, at least, seems satisfied, and Oleana taps her foot in agreement. “ The fact of the matter is that I have always intended the Moulin Rouge to one day be a proper theater, but that would require a great deal of investment, as well as a benefactor to give it legitimacy.”

“ Which is what you would like me to be.”

“ Only if you desire so, my dear duke.”

Seibold gives Rose a once-over with his striking blue eyes–his gaze neither disdainful nor fond–before shifting his body to more properly face the dance hall, carrying his drink with him as he gives up all pretense at niceties and indulges, instead, in Wallace and Winona dancing atop and through the crowd as if they exist in a different world. With the duke engrossed by his soon-to-be prize, Rose risks sharing his own look with Oleana, and he can tell from the trace crook of the right corner of her mouth that she’s pleased. Good. It’s nice to know he’s not the only one that thinks this is going well.

“ Mikuri will be your star actor, correct?” Seibold finally says. “ Then I’ll discuss the matter with him tonight and give you my decision after.”

“ But of course.” Rose is glad Seibold cannot see the knowing grin he can no longer hold back. “ I can only hope that you and Mikuri will have a very fruitful and…productive discussion.”

Winona and Wallace finally come to rest on the platform closest to the stage, and as the cancan dancers flow from the wings back onto the floor–greeted by cheers and whistles–the four tallest of them grab the circular rod of the pre-prepared curtain and hoist it up and around the two main acts, allowing for a planned costume change before opening up the floor to all paying customers.

“ How much will I owe you for my time with him?” Seibold asks.

There it is. Like clockwork. Rose’s grin returns en force. Men and women like him are all the same. Masterfully done, Wallace.

“ For you, Duke Siebold? Consider this night free of charge.”

The moment they kneel and the curtain rises up around them, Wallace grabs Winona’s face and gives it a shake, pulling her forward to look deep into her eyes.

“ What,” he bites out, “ is that starving artist and his little caravan of miscreants doing in the VIP section?!”

Winona blinks a few times before giving her friend a beatific smile that only makes him want to strangle her more. “ Why, I don’t know what you mean, Miiiiikuriiiii.”

“ Don’t! Give me that! Not tonight!” Now that he’s out of eyeshot of the audience and the duke (and Steven, oh gods, Steven), Wallace allows his composure to drop, letting himself flush and feel as fluttery and anxious as he feels. He even starts to shiver, and as the stage hands past them the costumes through the trap door next to the platform, Wallace finds his fingers stumbling over themselves as he undoes the buttons on his back. “ The only people that sit in those boxes are my clients, and it was only supposed to be the duke, who is–in case you’ve forgotten–the most important client I’ve ever had. Our most important client!”

Winona frowns and reaches out to help him undress, folding her cooler but steadier hands around his own. “ They’re not here to buy your time. They’re just here to talk.”

“ What are they here to talk about, then?” Wallace spits. It’s only because of his fondness for Winona that he doesn’t swat away her hands. “ And who is that new man with them?”

The new man. The man that’s new but not. The man that he knows as Wallace and not Mikuri. The man he likes. The man who’s his friend–his only friend outside of his line of work that’s not one of his pokemon, for heaven’s sake.

The man he loves. The man he’s come to love. The man he’s coveted as his and only his and has not told anyone about because he makes Wallace happy, so happy, and he loves him, and he knows; oh Weather Lords, he knows, and it makes him want to die–

“ Burgh told me about him.” Not having to change too much of her costume herself, Winona helps Wallace out of his top, then into the new one, shifting to button the back up given how badly he’s trembling. Maybe he’s cold? “ That’s the artist’s name, Burgh. We met the other day at the cafe and he bought me tea and some pastries. We had a lovely discussion about the Unovan art scene.”

Wallace rolls his eyes. “ If I’d known that your affections could be so easily bought by baked goods, I would’ve never let you borrow my scarves for tonight.”

Winona gasps and covers her mouth with a hand in mock disbelief. “ For shame, Miiiikuriii–and here I am trying to kill two swellow with one stone!”

“ Oh, this I have to hear.” Wallace throws his head disdainfully just before one of the stage hands pulls out the decorative comb from his hair and exchanges it with another. “ Very well, then; tell me how juggling two clients instead of one while not upsetting or short-changing the first, very important client–the only one we’d arranged for me to have for that exact reason–is going to somehow help the situation!”

“ Well, as you know, the duke is here to discuss investing in the conversion of the Moulin Rouge to a theater.” The acrobat doesn’t ache or flinch the face of Wallace’s irritated snipping; after all, she is more than used to how her best friend bites and lashes out when he’s initially thrown off-kilter before finding a new point of balance. “ And part of our charm, so the Chairman says, is that we already have a large venue, a very sizable client base, all the funds we need for props and costumes, and all of the people we need. Actors, stagehands, musicians…”

“ Yes, yes, I know, and we just need help with the actual stage.” Wallace rolls his eyes dramatically. “ It’s not anything he hasn’t told me over a million times this year, whether I like it or not.”

“ Well…” Winona ducks her head as hands pull out the band of her ponytail and begin to rapidly braid her hair. “ How can we call ourselves a theater if we don’t have a play to put on?”

Wallace hesitates as he grabs his new half cape from a stage hand.

“ That’s…a decently good point, actually.” He murmurs, cheeks flushing as Winona preens subtly in triumph. “ Oh, don’t let it get to your head! So! How is Monsieur…”

“ Burgh.”

“ Yes, right, right, him. The one with the hair. How is Monsieur Burgh going to help us, then?”

Winona grabs the waiting decorative comb, and Wallace immediately ducks his head, relieved that she’s the one putting it in and not one of the waiting helpers. They’re charming and lovely people, all of them, but they have no fine motor dexterity and his scalp is so sensitive. The last thing he needs is to fight off tears of pain and discomfort in his current state–especially in front of the duke.

–and Steven. Steven, Steven, Steven, what is he doing here, what is he doing here–

“ Burgh actually runs a travelling theater group. They’ve been staying at the Hotel du Roi across the street for months.” Winona’s hands are as gentle and soothing as her voice as she neatens up Wallace’s bun before sliding in the comb. “ They have a play all ready to go, but every single one of them who’s a proper adult has burned every single bridge with Rose, and…um…well, after meeting them myself, I can see why he won’t give them the time of day. Definitely the farthest thing from his type.”

“...which is why they’re trying to bypass him by going to me.” Wallace’s shivering begins to ease as his worst fears suddenly seem so much more distant than before. “ And you’d like me, preferably, to have some sort of physical script in my hand to show the duke when it’s time for our encounter, hence arranging for a meeting that will take place in the sliver of time I have between finishing my act and meeting the duke.”

“ Exactement!” Winona finishes fussing with the comb and kisses Wallace on the forehead before pulling back. “ However, as Burgh put it earlier, he can’t count on himself or the others to not burn bridges with you. Given what he’s told me of his friends, and meeting Nanu and Grimsley tonight–”

“ Who?”

“ Oh, two of his friends who are in the troupe…or run the troupe.” Winona waggles her hand dismissively. “ Which is why they found someone else to come to you instead of them.”

Wallace freezes as if struck with a miltank prod. Steven.

“ And…where did they find him? He’s not a part of the troupe, then?”

“ Oh, no. Apparently, this man not only didn’t know who you were, but he hadn’t even been here until tonight–even though he’s apparently lived in the hotel for the past two months.” Winona either doesn’t recognize or is too polite to comment on the way Wallace almost seems to wilt with relief before remembering himself and fastening his new half-skirt. She does notice that his fingers are no longer shaking and is pleased. “ It sounds like he genuinely just wants to talk, even if he’s already become a fan; according to Grimsley, he was struck kind of dumb when he saw the poster by the door.”

Wallace can actually picture Steven’s confusion–in that wide-eyed, slightly slack-jawed way he gets when he’s pleasantly surprised–and he finds himself, against every honed instinct and jaded lesson he’s learned over the past ten years, hoping against hope. His heart flutters in his chest like the beating of a vivillon’s wings, and for the first time since he was left behind by his family out of desperation, Wallace forgets about his job.

No, not just forgets about his job; he no longer cares. The most important client of his career and he doesn’t care. He just cares about the handsome man who he’d spent the past two months holding at arm’s length, who’s spent the whole performance with his eyes on Wallace as if he’s hung the moon and stars.

It’s the same way he’s been looking at Wallace for months when he thinks he’s not looking. It’s not new. It’s not new. It’s so beautiful because it’s not new. Steven, Steven, Steven, Steven. Wallace can’t stop saying his name in his head, and if he was alone, he’d probably be saying it under his breath like a mantra. A prayer.

Steven knows me and he knows. He knows and he looked up at me and smiled so sweetly. Is still smiling so sweetly. Is this a dream or a nightmare?

“ Wallace?”

The man’s head snaps up at the use of his first name and he all but bristles. “ Don’t use that in public, Winona! I’ve told you a thousand times!”

The acrobat raises her hands dismissively. “ Sorry, sorry, but calling you by your stage name wasn’t working. I’ve been calling you for a bit. It’s almost time.”

Wallace’s ire cools. “ Ah. My apologies. There’s just a lot on my mind.”

“ Of course there is.” With the costume change complete, Winona knows she should give the word for them to drop the curtain, but she decides to be a little inconvenient tonight. Instead, she scoots forward and takes Wallace by the shoulders, giving him a squeeze and an adoring smile. “ We’re all counting on you.”

Wallace sighs heavily and allows his head to hang heavy on his shoulders as he reaches up to grab her hands. “ I know, Winona.”

“ You can do it. No one else can do it.” Winona allows Wallace to pull her hands off his shoulders and grip them fully. “ We all believe in you. Even the people that hate you believe in you.”

He nods. “ I know.”

“ You can get us this. Get yourself this. A real theater, with a real stage; and we’d all be real performers. Real, respected performers, and you’ll be a real actor. The best actor. The star of the show. Every show. You’ll never have to sleep with anyone again until you want to.”

“ I know.”

She squeezes his hands. “ Aaaaaaaand…”

“ And?”

“ What comes after that?”

“ You know full well what comes next.” Wallace is smiling in spite of himself, however, and Winona does her best altaria impression and clicks and coos until he’s laughing and squeezing her hands back in turn. “ How many times have I talked your ear off about my dreams? So much you probably dream about them yourself!”

“ I know, but I want to hear it from your lips, right now.” She squeezes to the point just before pain. “ Pleeeeeeaaaase?”

“ You’re incorrigible.” Nonetheless, he answers, because maybe he needs to hear it himself, right now, and Winona’s always known just how to build him up and steady his resolve during dips of uncertainty and doubt. “ When I become a real actor, I will be able to pay back all of my family’s debt, and I’ll be free of Moulin Rouge. I’d travel all over the world, to places so far away that no one would ever know what I did when I was Mikuri. I’ll make and keep my own money, and become world-renowned for my talents–not my body and not my aptitude in bed.”

“ And then?”

Wallace can’t keep himself from smiling dreamily.

“ Once I make my fortune, I’ll be able to retire from being an actor completely, and I’ll be able to build my own contest hall far, far away. Maybe even in Sootopolis. I’ll be able to go home and make my family proud and see my sister again. See if she’s married or has children.” A happy sigh. “ And finally, finally, I’ll be able to devote myself to being a pokemon coordinator and nothing else. Never again. Not unless I choose it for myself.”

–and if he’s there, too, I’ll never want for anything ever again.

It’s a strange, almost intrusive thought–a wrinkle in the narrative he’s woven for his future for the past decade–but unlike his other intrusive thoughts (which seem to grow stronger and more frequent by the day), this is a pleasant one, and it makes him gasp and lurch back a little as his eyes pop open. Winona hurriedly grips his hands tighter and pulls him forward, as if he’s about to have another one of his ‘fainting gogoat’ spells, as they’ve come to be called.

“ Wall?”

“ Not in public, fluff.” Wallace releases Winona’s hands to massage his forehead and eyes. “ You’re right. I can do this. I will do this.” Winona smiles in relief. “ Good. Good. Now go blow that duke’s sock garters off and make it impossible for him to say no.”

With that, the acrobat starts to pull away, but Wallace snatches her hand before she can reach out and tug the curtain–the signal for it to drop. “ Winona.”

“ Mikuri?” The young woman doesn’t even bother playfully drawing out the vowels like usual. “ What’s wrong?”

Wallace can hear the band and crowd growing impatient, and he knows what’s out there and what he has to do, but… For the first time in his life, he wants to risk being a little selfish (and get away with it, of course), so he gives Winona the syrupy-sweet smile and batting eyelashes that can only mean one thing: you owe me and you know it. It’s an all too common look he’s given her over their decade of friendship filled with airheaded accidents and abstract plots, and from the resigned, deadpan look on her face, she knows it all too well.

“ Since you took it upon yourself to turn my relatively simple night into a plate-spinning act–one you only informed me of after throwing the proverbial plates at my head–I’d like you to do a little something for me in turn.”

Steven doesn’t even really notice it’s happening until it, well, happens.

He knows that everyone at the table is trying to talk to him, or talking about him, but he can barely hear them. Even when Wallace and the other dancer disappear behind the curtain, he only idly responds to questions and chatter, running his thumb along the rim of his still-full glass of water and waiting, waiting, waiting. Nanu makes some crass joke about him finally figuring out that certain parts of his body actually exist, but he doesn’t even get flustered by it. In fact, he only really registers the words when he hears the tell tale sound and yelp of Valerie smacking Nanu with her fan. He doesn’t care about any of them. Not right now.

All he cares about is the curtain dropping and seeing Wallace again. So he lets them bicker and jab and forces himself to actually sip some water as the cancan dancers start pulling men and women onto the floor to dance with them, and the band and singer kick from their short intermission number to a song that almost swings in his ears.

Then, the curtain drops, and Steven finds himself breathless once again; because Wallace has changed into a white leotard and half-skirt stitched full of green and blue gemstones of different colors, which curve down his body in the shape of ocean waves. Even his new hairpiece is resplendent with topaz and turquoise, and Steven makes a mental note to ask one of his colleagues at the museum to use the gem polishing room if possible–maybe even to get a key to it so he can work at odd hours. He has ideas. He has so many ideas, because while the gems are beautiful, they somehow look so impersonal–like they’re wearing Wallace when it should be the other way around. Steven can do better than that.

Of course, only if Wallace would like it, and Steven currently doesn’t know what he thinks or how he feels or if, Triad forbid, his friend thinks he’s come here to sleep with him. Just an hour ago, he was trying to figure out how to confess his feelings while also not hiding the fact the had a meeting with a prostitute the night before; now he’s trying to figure out the polite way to say that while he wouldn’t mind sleeping with him, one day, it would only be if they want to sleep with each other and he does not want to buy anything from him. He only wants it if he’s willing.

If he’s willing in the first place, really. After all, he has no clue how Wallace feels, and Steven’s never been the best at parsing the social cues of others. The more he thinks, the more he frets, and the tighter his fingers press into the water glass as he tries to figure out just what to say. What he shouldn’t say. Oh, right, he has a play to talk about, too, doesn’t he? That can come after…

After what?

“ Unfortunately for Steven, Mikuri’s probably going to choose that duke sitting behind us to dance with.”

That remark from Grimsley actually perks Steven’s ears, and as Winona moves to continue her acrobatics while Wallace surveys the audience with an exaggerated sultry look on his face, he finally turns his attention back to the rest of the table. “ There’s a duke?”

Grimsley snickers as Nanu rolls his eyes. Even Valerie trills demurely behind her fan. Steven gets the sneaking suspicion he’s being made fun of and does his best to relax his jaw before he can let his displeasure show.

“ Yeah, we’ve literally been talking about it for the past ten minutes,” Marshal says with a very firm slap to Steven’s shoulder (once more across Valerie, who gets a good smack of her fan on the larger man’s wrist when he pulls his arm back). “ Burgh here found out that Mikuri’s other guest tonight is some Lumiose duke who Rose is trying to get to fund his theater project.”

Steven’s brow furrows. “ Doesn’t a place like this make plenty of money?”

“ It looks like it, doesn’t it?” Grimsley demurs, dipping his finger into his glass of amoretto and swirling the ice cubes around. “ Yet think of the electricity costs; not all of this can come from home-wired voltorb or electrode. Think of the overhead. The heating and cooling. The maintenance. The food and liquor. The money cache for the casino. The pay to the performers. Costumes. Makeup. All of that costs a pretty penny, and converting this place into an actual theater would be a significant retrofit.”

“ They’re gonna have to knock down at least a few rooms.” Marshal adds. “ Break down the walls. Rewire all the electricity and re-route the pipes. New flooring. Seating. A big stage and a big enough backstage for all the performers and props. Lighting. An actual orchestra box. There’s a lot of moving parts, fancy pants.”

Steven feels a little silly for not having realized that himself, so he simply nods a bit too much and forces some more water down his throat, which earns him a sympathetic smile from Grimsley.

That’s right, Steven remembers, the embarrassed tension ebbing from his neck. He had to learn about how the world works, too. All the downstairs work for your upstairs life.

“ And a single duke can pay for all of that?” Steven asks credulously. Nanu snorts.

“ Don’t underestimate how much old money exists in Kalos.” The older man picks up his own glass of beer and gestures it at Steven. At least he doesn’t seem to be holding any hard feelings about their dust-up earlier. “ And this particular duke is one of the oldest, which means more passive income, along with the money you’re just kind of born with and never gets used, so it kind of pools up the more generations go by. This guy could probably fill a mansion with money and swim in it.”

Steven’s right eyebrow quirks up. “ That’s an interesting mental image.”

“ It’s not just the money the duke likely has.” Brassius adds, now on his third glass of absinthe since Steven’s arrival but not showing any effect other than a deepening of his melancholic demeanor. “ But the connections. The Moulin Rouge has a reputation, after all, and it’s not a flattering one. They’ll also need wealthy patrons and sponsors. Advertisement. Connections. Those, perhaps, are almost as equally coveted by the chairman as the duke’s income.”

Another vigorous bout of nodding. “ So, what does Mikuri have to do with this?”

The question makes Nanu snort his mouthful of beer up his nose, and as he chokes and snorts and laughs away the burn of the alcohol, Grimsley sighs and rests a hand on his forehead. It reminds Steven of when his grandfather makes his frustration at his grandson’s ‘inadequacies’ very well known, and he finds his heckles being raised again.

“ Kid, you’re almost adorable in how fucking oblivious you are.” Nanu grouses, and Steven finds his lips curling into the stiff, stilted smile he’s learned to plaster on whenever he’s faced with said insults from his grandfather. “ Mikuri has to convince the duke to invest, and to do that, he needs to work his magic on him.” His eyebrows waggle comically. “ Catch my drift?”

“ Your…drift?”

It takes Steven a moment to put two and two together–a pause that has Nanu and Grimsley trying desperately not to snicker and makes Brassius snap to leave the young man alone–but when it does, his mouth falls open slightly as his brain blanks.

“ You mean…sleep with him?” He snaps his mouth closed as the vague mental image makes his ears flush red. Nanu gives him a look that screams ‘what else do you think he’d be doing with a prostitute?’, and Steven scrambles to voice his thoughts before his embarrassment increases exponentially. “ But…why wouldn’t he just want to invest for the sake of the arts? Why would it take sex to get there? Would M…Mikuri just have to sleep with him forever? Wouldn’t the passive income from the theater and his increased reputation be enough of a reward?”

The others stare at him for a moment.

“ I like this guy.” Unexpectedly, the next one to speak is Marshal, and the way he’s looking at Steven indicates that he actually means it. “ He’s got sense, and he’s nice. He’s not like you assholes who get off on how bitter and miserable you are. Can we keep him around after he gets us the job?”

Brassius’s mouth falls open, and Grimsley and Nanu seem briefly too shocked to speak, though Burgh is not–and he laughs in pure delight.

“ You’re quite right, dearest Marshal!” It’s Burgh’s turn to reach over and give Steven’s closest shoulder a shake. The geologist feels like his arms are going to be dislodged from their sockets at this rate. “ I think I’m quite fond of him myself. For a man of class and breeding, he seems to embody the Victini ethos more than some of you–or, at least knows how to be more pleasant about disagreeing. Still, I think we can make a true Victini revolutionary out of him.”

Valerie coos and flutters her fan with enough speed to make one think she’s trying to use it to fly away. Nanu scowls as Grimsley’s eyes narrow. Brassius, meanwhile, cocks his head and thinks before nodding in silent agreement. Steven, meanwhile, wants to vaporize into thin air.

“ What…” He gulps and finally finds the words to croak out. “ What ethos are you talking about?”

Burgh’s smile grows in width and brightness. “ Why, the Victini tenants, Monsieur Tsuwabuki: freedom; beauty; truth; and love. I can’t possibly fathom you disagreeing with any of those, intellectually or emotionally, voluntarily or involuntarily.”

“ I…thank you?”

Steven looks down at the glass in his hands, chewing on his lower lip as he thinks about everything he’s just learned on top of everything he’d learned beforehand. He thinks about the Victini tenants and Nanu’s sour everything and the strange, almost uncomfortable idea of Wallace having to sleep with a wealthy man to get a theater constructed, of all things. He thinks for what feels like minutes but is actually a few seconds, and what rouses him from his own head isn’t yet more snarky, patronizing comments, but startled and angry shouting from the box behind them.

As if waking from a dream, Steven blinks and realizes that everyone around them–including his tablemates and the nearby dancers and audience members, are staring at the box behind him. He frowns, sets the glass down, and stands up to peek his head around the partition.

Somehow, fucking somehow, Steven failed to notice the acrobat who had been partnered with Wallace making a jump, missing the landing, and tumbling right into the other table from her momentum. A blond man in a nicer tuxedo than what Steven’s wearing is now covered in two spill drinks, and the man who’d been sitting across the table from him–a middle-aged gentleman with brown hair and in a brown three-piece, with a single red rose pinned to his lapel–is now hovering over him with an expression that would be more appropriate if the drenched man had been shot. The dancer is hurriedly trying to mop up his front with the equally drenched tablecloth, and a smartly-dressed woman is boring into the dancer with both icy blue eyes and a burning anger, a combination that makes Steven shiver involuntarily and retreat slightly, just a bit, behind the partition.

“ That’s Chairman Rose and Oleana Cosgrove.” Valerie says in a sotto voice, just barely heard above the beats of her fan. “ The man covered in liquor must be the duke.”

Steven’s stomach does a strange little flip that’s neither pleasant nor unpleasant. That’s the man Wallace has to…?

“ How difficult is it for you to keep your head out of the clouds, Winona?!” The icy woman–Oleana–breathes in pure brimstone and fury. “ How. Bloody. Difficult?! You could have at least had the decency to throw yourself on to the floor!”

“ I can’t control when or where I fall.” The dancer, Winona, somehow seems completely unaffected by both the chaos she’s caused and the resulting anger. “ I do apologize, Duke Siebold. These shoes are newer, and sometimes they slip–”

“ It’s quite alright.” To his credit, the duke–Siebold–seems more uncomfortable by his now soaking wet and harsh smelling formal wear than irritated at the cause. “ Accidents happen in your line of work.” He pushes her hands away when she tries to attack him with the tablecloth again. “ No, no, it’s alright. However…”

Siebold looks down at his stained and dripping shirt, vest, and top coat, and his face furrows in consternation. This seems to galvanize the other man–Rose, the so-called ‘chairman’--into action, and he pastes a sickeningly pleasant false smile onto his face as he grabs Winona’s shoulders and helps her up with a little more force than required.

“ Don’t worry, Winona. Like the duke says, accidents happen.” He gives the acrobat a patronizing pat on the back before not-so-subtly pushing her towards one of the side exits. “ Go and get yourself cleaned up and changed before rejoining your troupe; Mikuri’s performance will be shorter tonight, for obvious reasons, so you’ll be going on a bit earlier than usual.”

“ Yes, Chairman. Again, my apologies, Duke Siebold.”

Steven can’t help but admire how completely nonplussed Winona is about the whole thing; however, as she passes by their table on her way off the floor, the acrobat swivels her head around on her hair and stares at Steven. Not just for a second, but until she can’t see him anymore, which makes the geologist hurriedly check himself to make sure he hasn’t somehow dirtied or torn his own tuxedo in the hubbub. He then takes out his handkerchief and gives his face a precautionary scrub as he watches Siebold stand up and wince at the sound of squishing.

“ I can arrange a change of outfit for you.” Rose says quickly. Even Steven can practically see the gears turning behind his eyes. “ Come to my suite with me. You can wash up while Oleana procures a new tuxedo for you, and you should be presentable in time for your meeting with Mikuri. Right, Oleana?”

“ Yes, Chairman.” Now that the object of Oleana’s malice is gone, the woman’s voice has taken on a cold droning quality, and her face has collapsed from anger into a neutral expression that would be at home on a store mannequin. Steven can’t help but shudder a second time at the switch. “ This should only be a brief hiccup in your evening. Please, follow us, Duke.”

Siebold seems a bit uncertain at the turn of events, but he doesn’t hesitate to follow Oleana and Rose towards a side exit, and the cancan dancers and their partners go back to twirling and whirling as if nothing happened. Steven lets out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding and folds his handkerchief back into a neat little square.

“ Curious,” Burgh muses aloud as Steven smooths out the creases of his pocket square, just as his father taught him while he was growing up, before tucking it neatly into the breast of his tailcoat. “ The way Mademoiselle Winona missed the waiting hands almost seemed intentional. Then again, I don’t have a single coordinated bone in my body, so what do I know about the perils of rhythm and dance?”

Before Steven can think to answer, he hears Valerie gasp and drop her fan on the table, and Marshal seems to choke on his drink. There’s more scattered sounds of surprise–along with Burgh spitting out a ‘sacre bleu’ that does nothing to hide the fact that he’s Unovan–before the table falls eerily silent, and the geologist freezes as he realizes that someone has come to stand next to him.

“ I believe you were expecting me.”

Just like that, the world falls away again, and Steven swivels his head up and around to see Wallace standing above him, his arm propped against the partition wall as he leans against it. His impersonal costume shimmers impressively, but all Steven cares about is his smile, which is the same quietly fond smile the taller man gives him whenever they meet on the river. It makes his heart flutter in his chest.

“ No, I really wasn’t—“

Grimsley sucks in a breath through his teeth.

“—but I’m very glad to see you all the same.” Steven knows the smile spreading across his face probably looks stupid—it certainly feels stupid—but it only grows as Wallace’s eyes widen, then soften, as he shifts off the partition to stand straight. “ You have no idea how happy I am to see you.”

Steven knows he’s spoken right at the way his friend’s eyes crinkle at the corners.

“ Oh, well, in that case…whatever am I going to do with you?”

Wallace draws out the letters on the tip of his tongue in a way that most would find playfully sultry; Steven, however, knows his friend likes to draw out sounds just for the fun of it—something about the ‘taste of western alphabets on his deep eastern tongue’. It makes him grin—the last of his stress falling away like so many dominos—and when Wallace reaches down a graceful, impeccably-polished hand, the geologist takes it without hesitation.

Burgh clears his throat. “ Ah, yes, Monsieur Mikuri, this is—“

“ Monsieur Tsuwabuki.” In a breath, Wallace’s tone and demeanor shift from warm and playful to smoothly sharp, and he holds out his other hand to stop the artist in his tracks. “ Winona told me all about our new guest. She says you have a business proposition that could benefit both your acting troupe and our establishment, oui?”

Business proposition? Oh, right, the play; Steven almost completely forgot. He nods vigorously, and Wallace hums as he gently pulls the shorter man to his feet. Even then, Wallace doesn’t let go of his hand, and Steven’s in no hurry to release his.

“ I hate to take up your time, especially when you already have a very important client, but both our troupe and your theater–"

“ Your name is Burgh, correct?” Wallace cuts him off with his hand once again. Burgh gulps and nods. “ Excellent. A pleasure to finally make your acquaintance, after months of fluttering around looking like a particularly chaotic espratha. Now do me a favor and shut up.”

Valerie gapes. Nanu stares. Grimsley smirks behind his glass. Burgh’s mouth drops open before snapping shut; and both Brassius and Marshal are just barely holding in laughter, with the former actually smacking the table with his fist a few times as he wheezes. The sound makes Wallace smirk.

“ After all, I’m not here to talk to you, am I? Any of you, really–that’s why you’ve brought him.” Wallace gives Steven’s hand a squeeze. “ So stop wasting both my time and this nice young man’s time and let’s get down to business. Do you dance, darling?”

Steven blinks. “ Dance?”

“ Why, yes; though, if you don’t, I can take the lead and choose something simple. It’s my last dance of the night, and I’m free to pick my partner at my leisure, much to the chagrin of my adoring audience.”

As he says this, Steven realizes that a not insignificant number of men and women have stopped to stare at Wallace’s back, and the scorned, jealous looks on their faces send a strange, unpleasant burning sensation stabbing through Steven’s stomach. He’s not sure what the emotion is called or if it’s even a good thing to feel; all the geologist knows is that he doesn’t like the way people are looking at his friend like they’re somehow entitled to his time and attention simply because they paid for a ticket. Actually, their stares remind Steven of the way people gape greedily through store windows at the clothing and sweets beyond the glass, and the realization is enough to turn the burn into a small flame. He squares his shoulders and smiles at Wallace–and the people behind him–in the way he does when he knows he has to be charming and pleasant against his wishes. He should thank his father for his childhood etiquette lessons in his next letter.

“ I dance all the classics, actually,” Steven says, deliberately nonchalant. “ And several of the more commonly accepted southern styles. I’m sure at least one of them will keep you entertained.”

Grimsley whistles appreciatively in the background.

“ Goodness me, Monsieur Tsuwabuki. How delightfully bold of you.” Wallace’s eyes rise slowly towards his hairline in pleasant surprise, and the satisfied, almost syrupy look on his face morphs the unpleasant sensation in his stomach to something far more palatable. “ Well, then, who am I to keep my special guest on the edge of his seat?” Then, the strange heat breaks as quickly as it built, and the courtesan chuckles. “ Maybe I’ll even escape without sore toes tonight.”

The heat cools for Steven, too, and he finds himself wincing because oh gods, how many people Wallace must dance with on a regular basis, and how many of them are likely terrible. “ I think I can at least promise you that much.”

“ Then by all means, lead the way, mon cher.” Still holding hands, Wallace turns and begins to lead Steven out of the box section and onto the floor (with him loudly declaring that ‘it’s the star’s choice, ladies and gentlemen!’ Before they can step off the raised section, however, Marshal speaks up.

“ Wait…what about that fancy-ass duke? Won’t he be mad if he comes back and sees you dancing with another client? And Rose, too!”

Wallace stops in his tracks, looks over his shoulder, and gives Marshal a sly wink.

“ Oh, I wouldn’t worry; given how badly Winona soiled his suit, I don’t think he or the chairman will be back anytime soon—certainly not until after I leave the stage. Now, if you’ll excuse us.”

It clicks, then, for the artisans at the table, and Burgh and his theater troupe can’t help but gape as the star courtesan and the benignly-pleasant man they’d met just a few hours before disappear into the writhing mass of frills and Kalosian scents. Marshal breaks first, and he guffaws and slaps his leg as the others stare dumbly at each other, slowly realizing that Mikuri had just played them all.

“ I like him, too!” He wheezes. “ Think he’d be willing to come hang out at the hotel without being paid for it? Maybe for acting things? We could even make him food!”

The talk both men have been anticipating for the past thirty minutes gets underway once Steven proves that yes, not only he can dance, but he can more than keep up with his partner. Wallace, however, now looks grave and pinched in their shroud of semi-privacy granted by the loud, gyrating revelry.

Well, Steven can’t have that, either. “ I’m sorry.” He says softly. “ Please, believe that I really, truly had no idea you worked here, or what you did for a living. I know this is…probably not how you wanted me to find out. I didn’t intend for this to happen.”

“ I know, darling, I know. I’m not cross at you.” Wallace sighs and flags just a little beneath the hand resting on his lower back. “ Frankly, I was hoping against hope and sense that you’d never find out, but I thought…putting it off as long as possible would be easy, because you are…you weren’t…you just didn’t seem the sort to…”

Wallace bites his lower lip, suddenly shy, and glances off to the side. Steven wants to scoop out his heart with a dessert spoon.

“ Look, can I just…say something?” Steven chokes out through his dry throat. “ And could you…not speak until I’m done? Just because I want to get it all out there, but I’m nervous, and I get derailed easily if I’m nervous.”

“ Alright, Steven.” Well, now Wallace looks like he’s resigned himself to the gallows, and Steven finds himself swinging him through a step with a little more verve than required, which succeeds in popping the taller man’s bubble of dread by making him gasp in surprise.

Steven tightens his hand in Wallace’s and pulls him just a bit closer as their feet dodge and strafe around each other on the scuffed, polished wood floors.

“ I’m not upset at you.” The geologist says firmly, locking the performer’s gaze with his own. “ I don’t feel angry or betrayed or that you somehow…deceived me. You don’t know why I came here or what I did. You accepted that. I accepted not knowing your past or your occupation. It wasn’t any of my business. It still isn’t any of my business. You told me yourself, remember? So I’m going to tell you the same thing now: that you don’t owe me your past or your present or anything of yourself–not unless you want to give it willingly. You’re my…”

You’re the only thing that makes me truly happy anymore.

“...dear friend.” He finishes lamely. “ You’re precious to me, and I…the only thing that could change my respect and affection for you is if you turned out to be a serial killer, war criminal, or serial human or pokemon abuser.”

Mercifully, those words force a thin smile and the faintest huff of a laugh from Wallace, though he still looks entirely too pale. Steven can’t help but pull him even closer, and to his surprise, Wallace doesn’t fight it. In fact, he seems to melt into the touch. Or maybe Steven’s just surviving on determination and wishful thinking at this point; his knees will probably buckle if he stops and lets himself have more than one train of thought at a time.

So he presses on.

“ I also didn’t come here planning on sleeping with you.” Steven knows his cheeks are burning bright red under the electric lights, but it needs to be said for Wallace’s sake, and he’s going to say it even if he sublimates into a shamefaced gas in the process. “ Before I knew who you were, I mean–who this Mikuri was they wanted me to meet. And…”

Steven gulps and suddenly finds their mismatched shoes dipping in and out, back and forth, as the most fascinating sight since geodes.

“ This is going to sound so horrible and insulting, but I truly don’t intend for it to be; so please, please don’t take this as anything but affection when I say I want to sleep with you even less now, because that’s not something I’d ever want from you if you didn’t want it, too. So don’t…worry about me or about tonight or anything. I just…want the same thing I always have. I just want…to be near you, in any way you want. Nothing important has changed. I promise.”

The scuffs on the floor are also, suddenly, very entrancing. Steven holds his breath, and waits, and dances, and waits for seconds that stretch like hours.

“ Do you really mean it?”

Wallace’s voice is so faint that if Steven didn’t know it so well, it would be almost impossible to hear over the cacophony of the dance floor; but he does, and his head snaps up at how uncharacteristically timid it sounds. The courtesan’s face is drawn tight like an elastic band, and for the first time since they met two months past, Steven sees vulnerability in his eyes. He’s seen uncertainty, nervousness, melancholy, and even that unnerving empty expression when he was careening off the bridge, but not true vulnerability. Not like Steven can make him or break him with a single word.

“ Wallace.”

Before the other man can speak, Steven suddenly twirls him, then–with the strength bestowed upon him by a lifetime of trudging through caves and lifting heavy rocks–dips him downwards. Wallace yelps, eyes wide with surprise, and instinctively flings his arms around Steven’s neck and upper back. This is a different sort of disarmed expression–one that the geologist will never admit that he likes, in a strange way–and he meets Wallace’s startled expression with dead seriousness–

–before, once more, breaking into a grin as he hauls him back onto his feet.

“ When have I ever,” Steven says as he starts twirling them around the dance floor once again, “said something to you I haven’t meant since we met?”

It takes another second for it to click, but when it does, Wallace’s entire being seems to relax all at once. His shoulders soften, his grip loosens, and his face melts into what even Steven–obtuse as he can be–can see is fondness. Just like that, his poise returns, and he quickly repositions his hands so that his right is wrapped once more around Steven’s and his left rests on the small of his back.

“ Well, you have,” Wallace drolls, rubbing his thumb against the dip of Steven’s spine, “but you’re painfully obvious about it–so much so that I actually feel sorry for you when you try to lie.”

“ That’s because I’m terrible at it!” Steven chuckles. “ I’ve never been able to lie to save my life, and you see people better than most–I mean, what they mean, the things they do and say, all the social stuff I miss.”

“ It’s part of your charm, darling.”

“ Then you know enough about people and about me to know I mean it, right?” Steven squeezes his hand and gives him another quick, sudden spin and twirl for emphasis, earning him an absolutely lovely little laugh—the same laugh Wallace makes when Milotic playfully splashes around with him in the river. “ I care about you too much to lie, anyway.”

“ Oh, Steven; you can’t go saying things like that to me. Not you…”

For just a moment, it seems like Wallace’s eyes get a bit misty, and his lips tremble briefly as a new kind of vulnerability flits across his face. Before Steven can even begin to process what it means, it’s gone in a beat of a cutiefly’s wings, leaving behind his normal subdued fondness for the shorter man.

“ Oh, no matter; I’ll figure out what to do with your silliness later.” The statement is punctuated by the lightest kick to Steven’s shin, and the geologist finds himself chuckling along with Wallace, feeling like their equilibrium has finally been restored. “ I do have a request, darling…could you not call me Wallace unless we’re alone or off the property?”

Steven nods. “ I did mean to ask what you wanted me to call you. Mikuri is…”

“ A stage name.” Wallace confirms. “ If I’m going to have any future outside of the Moulin Rouge, I need to separate myself from my current profession as much as possible. A pseudonym helps me accomplish that.”

” Makes sense.” Another nod. “ And…you’ll have time to see me tonight? I hear you have a…”

Steven licks his lips and is thankful he doesn’t feel any heat in his ears or cheeks. For Arceus’s sake, they’re both grown men; he should be able to talk to his friend about his profession without feeling like a child sneaking his first peek at a sensual novel!

“…very important client after our meeting.” He croaks out. Wallace, fortunately, seems more bemused than annoyed.

“ Oh, sometimes I forget just how endearing you are.” There’s a quiet lilt to the end of that sentence that fills Steven’s chest with unreasonable hope. “ Yes, well, you know how my dream is to one day have the means to open my own contest hall and become a coordinator? Well, that duke I asked Winona to make a mess of is the key to that dream. So yes, he is incredibly important—so important, in fact, that he may be the last client I’ll ever have, Triad willing.”

As Wallace speaks, the song begins to wind down, and the dancers begin to separate. The courtesan sighs and tuts in annoyance.

” To think that I usually wish for the band to keep it short.” He laments. “ No matter; I can explain it to you when we’re alone, and I’m sure finding Duke Seibold a fitting and adequately-tailed tuxedo he doesn’t send for will give us at least an extra half hour of time than we would have had. Look over my shoulder—do you see the man by the right backstage entrance petting his Luxray and looking like he’d rather be anywhere but here?”

Wallace turns them to correctly position Steven to peek without being obvious, and sure enough, the champion catches sight of a tall, handsome man with short and scraggly blond hair, dressed simply in dark blue slacks and a white button-up with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Sure enough, there’s a particularly lovely specimen of Luxray sitting at his feet, accepting scratches from her master’s right hand while he reads some papers on a clipboard on his left. He really does look quite sullen and bothered.

” Yeah. I take it he’s not one of the dancers.”

That earns Steven another wonderful light laugh. “ Oh, goodness me, no—though that doesn’t stop men and women from occasionally trying to acquire his services, much to his never ending chagrin.” He turns Steven again before his staring becomes obvious. “ That’s Volkner Eclariage—half Sinnohan and half Kalosian. He’s an electrical engineer who graduated from the University of Jubilife and wanted to become an Elite Four member, which is why he came here. However, he was rejected for the job, and Rose hired him on to manage the electricity and generators for the club. Arceus’s strongest soldier, that one.”

Steven remembers the conversation he just had with his friends (can they be called friends) about the electricity costs and winces. “ I can only imagine. All this lighting…how many voltorb and electrode does it take to keep this going?”

“ Now that’s an interesting and quite ridiculous story that is perfect for another time. My point is that after they lift me out of here, wait around ten minutes, then go to him and go tell Volkner you’re expecting me. I’ll let him know to let you back once I get backstage, then we can go to my room together; that way we won’t get caught by Rose or his simpering snoop.”

“ The copperajah?”

Wallace’s smile wanes unexpectedly. “ Unfortunately, yes.”

“ It must be lonely living up there; and then everyone staring up at you when they walk in…I don’t know how you can stand it.”

The courtesan’s smile flags further. “ Funny; most of my fellow performers would kill to live in the star’s suite—sometimes literally, I fear. How is it that you, who I’ve known for only a little over two months, seem to know me better than the friends I’ve had since I was a boy?”

Before Steven can press, the band strikes its final note, and the crowd applauds. Wallace smiles softly, releases Steven, and steps back. The room suddenly feels much colder and more oppressive than before.

” Time for my glamorous exit.” Wallace gives Steven a fond pat on the cheek. “ Go back to your strange bedfellows and start the clock after I’m out of sight. I expect to learn just how you fell into their web of nonsense when we meet again.”

“ They actually fell through my ceiling a few hours ago.”

A sigh. “ Knowing you, that doesn’t surprise me.” Another pat, this time accompanied by the brief trailing of a smooth thumbprint along his left cheekbone. “ I suppose the details will have to wait. Adieu pour le moment, mon ami irremplacable.”

With that, Wallace turns and walks towards the platform on which he first alighted, parting the jubilant crowd like a boat cutting through water. The swing is once more lowered from the ceiling, and Steven waits until Wallace leaps onto the platform and then settles onto the seat before turning and walking back towards the box section where his ‘friends’ are waiting with wide, excited eyes and dozens of inevitable questions on their lips. Valerie and Burgh, in particular, look as if they’re about to spontaneously combust from curiosity at any second.

Steven smiles at them, gives a little wave, and looks over his shoulder to get one last glimpse of Wallace disappearing into the curtains hanging from the ceiling. Everyone in the audience is craning their heads up to watch him go, applauding and cheering and whistling as the star of the show clings onto the ropes and looks down.

Looks down.

Looks down.

Looks–

It takes Steven less than a second to recognize what’s about to happen, and before Marshal can even finish asking what’s wrong, the geologist has spun on his heels and is tearing back through the crowd, shoving and pushing and elbowing any poor soul that has the misfortune of being in his path. His actions are rude, even bordering on violent, but Steven doesn’t care. He barely even feels anything but his legs as he wills himself to run faster, faster, faster, because he’s still staring up at Wallace, and he’s being raised higher, and he’s still looking down, completely pale, obviously shivering even from so high up; and that horrible, stomach-twisting, almost vacant expression on his face from that night on the bridge has returned, only this time–

“ Get the hell out of my way!”

–there’s no one to grab him and pull him back. So with a snarled, panicked command, Steven breaks through the last of the human morass in his way and bolts towards the platform; and as he hurriedly scrambles onto it with a less than graceful leap, the Enchanting Emerald goes limp, pitches forward, and falls.

The audience screams and shrieks. Several members of the band drop their instruments. Steven pushes himself off of his knees and onto his feet, stumbles forward, and holds out his arms without a second thought.

Wham!

The impact knocks the breath out of Steven, and he staggers backwards a few feet, only barely managing to halt his momentum just as his right heel digs into the edge of the platform. Still, even with every bone and muscle in his body violently crying out in protest, he manages to stay on his feet and–more importantly–keep himself from dropping Wallace immediately after catching him. The taller man is entirely a dead weight in his arms, and as the adrenaline releases its grip on Steven, he realizes that his friend passed out during the plunge. He shakes him in a desperate but futile attempt to wake him, almost calling out to him before remembering he’s not supposed to and snapping his mouth shut, and he frantically scans the gobsmacked crowd and bewildered musicians near the stage for some sort of assistance.

He doesn’t know what to do, he doesn’t know what to do, he doesn’t know what to do–

“ Hey you! Over here! Hurry!

Steven just barely manages to make out the hissed stage directions from the rushing of the blood in his ears, and he looks down and off to his right to see the man Wallace had pointed out earlier–Volkner–frantically waving him over towards the side exit. With a gulp and a shaky nod, Steven carefully steps off the platform and onto the dance floor, ignoring the way his knees and thighs zing in protest as he adjusts Wallace’s limp body in his arms and dashes towards the engineer.

Just as he reaches him, the audience erupts into applause, and Steven nearly trips over his own feet at the realization that they think it was all just an act–a final dramatic flourish to an enchanting and captivating evening with Mikuri. Yet the grave look on Volkner’s face makes it obvious that at least one person other than himself knows that something is very wrong. Even his Luxray is whining and kneading the ground in distress.

“ Here. I’ll take him.” Volkner holds out his arms, but Steven stops and grips Wallace all the tighter, making him sigh and pinch the bridge of his nose. “ This is a disaster. Fucking…fine. Just…follow me, and remember–this does not leave backstage. Got it?”

Steven nods, and Volkner takes out a heavy key ring and unlocks the rear door, ushering him through to the sound of a ravenous crowd eating their fill and crying for more.

Chapter Text

From the moment he’s ushered backstage to the moment he’s directed by Volkner to set Wallace on a threadbare couch, the only thing Steven notices about his environment are the heady smells of liniment, turpentine, and tobacco smoke. When he lays his unconscious friend down, his world starts to expand again, allowing him to notice the warm cast of candlelight and the faded, smoke-stained, chipping paint of the wall behind the couch. Wallace’s face is pale and clammy, and his forehead is drenched in sweat, so Steven shakes off the hand (Volkner? Someone else?) that grabs his right shoulder and kneels down next to him, pulling out his handkerchief and tenderly blotting him dry.

” Should we call for a doctor?” Steven mutters, half to himself and half to whoever’s listening.

“ Nah; he’s done this lots of times before.” A new, masculine, more jovial voice greets Steven’s ears, and another hand comes down on his shoulder, though it doesn’t try to pull him away. That’s good; Steven may have actually tried to bite him if he’d tried. “ He’s been examined by a lot of doctors and they can’t figure out what’s wrong with him or why this happens. We even worried he had consumption for a while there, but they all ruled it out.”

Steven gnaws on his lower lip. For some reason, the reassurance that his friend doesn’t have some sort of terrible terminal illness only makes him feel worse instead of better. “ How long?”

” He had ‘em sometimes when he first came here.” The hand leaves his shoulder and its owner kneels next to Steven, allowing him a glimpse of curly red hair out of the left corner of his eye. “ They’ve been getting a lot more frequent the past few years, though, especially when his acts involve height.”

” Wallace never mentioned that.” It takes Steven a moment and a low gasp of surprise from the man next to him to remember that oh, he’s not supposed to call him by that name, and he curses under his breath. “ Sorry, sorry, I—“

” Wow. You know his real name?” There’s a bit of awe in the man’s voice, which bleeds the tension out of Steven’s body, because it’s the awe of someone being impressed and not someone learning something new. “ You know him, then? That well?”

“ That’s none of your business.”

” Yeah, I guess it isn’t.” There’s the sound of shuffling next to Steven as he pockets the handkerchief and takes one of Wallace’s limp hands in both of his, squeezing it tightly. “ Still, you know his name and you’re worrying about him pretty hard, so you must be something to him. Name’s Flint, by the way; I’m one of the firebreathers.”

Steven has no clue what that means, but it sounds impressive, even though he doesn’t particularly care about anything Flint does at this moment in time. “ What should we do?”

” Volkner went to get Argenta or Dahlia.” Flint realizes, belatedly, that Steven has no earthly clue what he’s talking about. “ Er, the hall matron and head choreographer–they manage the backstage and the day-to-day. Who are you, anyway?”

Steven doesn’t answer. He doesn’t know how he should answer—how Wallace would want him to answer. So he simply chews on his lower lip and holds his friend’s hand to his forehead, trying to ignore the sound of other people crowding around them, along with their hissed, almost giddy commentary.

” Oh dear, d-did Mikuri faint again?”

” Did he?! For feck’s sake! Any one o’ us would’ve been fired if we keeled over as often as ‘im! Makes me blood boil!”

” Well, maybe if you put out more often and picked men with fewer holes in their coats, you’d make enough to actually be something to the chairman other than an eyesore!”

“ Oh, shut yer pie hole, Morgan! Yer lasses ‘ave stockings fulla holes!”

“ C-can we p-please not fight now? Mikuri’s still unconscious, and I f-feel bad talking about this when he’s feeling poorly…”

A gay little chuckle. ” Alas, I guess the duke isn’t going to get his money’s worth tonight—and after all the work the chairman did to arrange their rendezvous!”

Before anyone else can speak, Steven snarls and whips his head around, spooking and almost immediately sending a group of four young women dressed in vivid cancan dresses of blue, red, yellow, and green fleeing stage left. The woman in blue, at least, has the decency to look over shoulder and mouth mortified apologies as the women in green and red take her arms and pull her along after the youngest in yellow. Flint smacks a hand over his mouth as he snorts out staccato bursts of laughter.

“ Nice one! Maybe we should hire you to put the fear of Arceus in the Diancies!” He snickers. “ Time and space, if anyone needs to be dropped down a few more pegs, it’s Morgan, Nita, and Dana. Evelyn’s pretty nice, though; wish she didn’t have to spend most of her time off the floor apologizing for her sisters’ petty behavior.”

Before Steven can go back to not caring, there’s the rustle of fabric and clopping of boots, and he and Flint look up to see Volkner leading two new people towards them, with a few other performers and stage hands trailing behind them like flotsam caught in a wake. The fastest–a darker-skinned young woman with long black hair and dressed smartly in a yellow suit top and black dancer’s slacks–quickly shoos Flint out of the way and sinks to her knees next to Steven, reaching into her purse and pulling out a small silver bottle. She takes off the cap and gives the champion a quick once over.

“ You must be Mikuri’s knight in shining armor. The name’s Dahlia. Volkner told us you might still be around.” She gives Steven a reassuring smile before forcibly removing one of hands from their protective clasp and placing the small bottle in his palm. “ Here. It’s smelling salts. Open them up and give him a sniff; he hates them, but they never fail to wake him up quick, Monsieur…?”

“ Tsuwabuki.” Steven reluctantly sets Wallace’s hand down on the couch before fiddling with the stopper. As he finally pops it open, the other person–middle aged, feminine in frame but masculine in a neatly tailored red suit, with short, neatly cut magenta hair and scarlet eyes–comes to a stop next to Dahlia and kneels down with far more grace than the choreographer, ironically. Steven supposes this must be the ‘Argenta’ that Flint mentioned. “ Steven Tsuwabuki. Are you sure he doesn’t need a doctor?”

“ They’d just tell us the same thing they always tell us, Monsieur Tsuwabuki–that there’s nothing physically wrong with him.” Argenta punctuates her words with a sad smile and half shrug. “ He’s seen dozens over the past few years, and none of them can find an answer, even though the problem is obvious. Fortunately, a strong stimulus and water seem to cure his ills…for a time.”

Sure enough, the moment Steven put the open bottle to Wallace’s nostrils, the courtesan began to cough and hack violently, almost to the point of retching. Steven’s relief at his being awake is swiftly tempered by this violent reaction, and he hurriedly throws the bottle back to Dahlia before grabbing Wallace’s shoulders and carefully maneuvering him to sit up. Argenta holds out a canteen of water, which Wallace takes and drains in one go, passing it back to her before even taking a breath. Steven wonders if he’ll ever stop admiring the other man’s extraordinary lung capacity.

“ Oh, gods,” Wallace rasps. “ It happened again, didn’t it? On tonight of all nights…”

“ At least it wasn’t in front of the duke,” Argenta says reassuringly, closing the canteen before setting it off to the side. “ And at least someone was there to catch you this time.”

“ I thought I didn’t feel sore…” Just then, Wallace finally registers Steven’s presence, and his eyes pop wide before practically melting with fondness. “ Oh. I see. You must be my savior, then, Monsieur…”

At first, Steven is extraordinarily confused, and he briefly fears that Wallace is suffering from some sort of temporary amnesia in spite of seeming to recognize him. Then, he remembers the small crowd of stage hands Wallace’s former performers currently gathered around them, whispering, elbowing, and gawking without an ounce of shame. Realization strikes him like a thunderbolt.

“ Tsuwabuki.” He takes Wallace’s hands and gives them two quick squeezes before letting go. “ I just…thought it looked like you were going to faint, so I ran to catch you. I’m just glad you aren’t hurt…Moniseur Mikuri.”

Wallace sighs happily and gives Steven’s cheek a playful pat. “ A gentleman with significant upper body strength…what a dream you are.” He rubs his eyes, pushes the stray tendrils of hair out of his face, and tucks them as much as possible behind his ears. “ I’ll be alright now, Argenta, Dahlia, thanks to this dashing young gentleman from, presumably, the deep east.” A heavy sigh. “ I’m sorry for…doing this. Again.”

“ We’re just glad you aren’t hurt, lovely.” Dahlia gives Wallace a reassuring pat on the back before rising to her feet, with Argenta following soon after. “ At least someone like Monsieur Tsuwabuki was here to catch you, rather than thinking you falling off the swing is part of the show.”

“ Don’t remind me,” Wallace groans, rubbing his face with his hands before letting them drop heavily onto his lap. “ Milotic?”

“ Here, sea sprite.” Argenta pulls a well-loved metal pokeball off of their waist and passes it to the grateful performer, who clips it onto the attached portion of his half skirt. “ Thought you might want to grab her and get moving once you woke up. You’ve got a busy night ahead of you.” The matron then turns and sets their hands on their hips. “ Alright! Show’s over! Now get back out front and make those gents and ladies thirsty!”

The crowd breaks, scattering in different directions, and Wallace shakily gets to his feet before offering his hands to Steven to pull him up. For a moment, the geologist debates batting the hands away, not wanting to add unnecessary strain to his friend’s body after he just had some sort of fainting spell. Yet the shy little smile on Wallace’s lips makes it near impossible for Steven to say no, so he grabs on and lets himself be hoisted onto his feet, relieved to feel the strength in Wallace’s limbs and the warmth of the skin of his palms.

“ You’re okay?” Steven whispers. Wallace smiles reassuringly and squeezes his hands before letting go.

“ I am. I promise.”

With that, the performer turns his head and watches Argenta and Dahlia walk towards their office, engaged in what is clearly a quiet but involved discussion. Once they’re out of sight (and well out of earshot), he turns his attention to the dancers and performers, who are either scurrying about getting ready for their own acts or watching the two men without any attempt at concealment or subtlety. He sighs and shakes his head. “ Madame Argenta’s right; I have a great deal to do and a short time in which to do it. You’ll likely be heading out to the main courtyard, yes, Monsieur Tsuwabuki? Please, allow me to walk you out; we’re heading in the same direction, and it’s the least I can do to thank you for your heroics.”

Steven nods eagerly–earning a glance or two from the closest staff–before his eyes widen. “ Oh, wait! My coat! I left it in the box with the others! I can’t leave without it…”

“ Here.” There’s a finger tapping Steven’s shoulder, and he turns around to see Volkner standing behind him, holding out his coat. Flint is back, standing just behind the engineer, and he gives Steven a smile and a cheery wave. Goodness, his hair is certainly very red. “ Figured you might not be coming back for it. Flint here had to practically pry me away from your friends and their questions.”

“ Yeah; for a guy they said they met only today, they’re pretty convinced you're a magician. Or the most unassuming casanova ever.” Flint’s voice is teasing, but there’s a blatant question in his eyes, and the surreptitious glance he shares with Volkner sets Steven’s teeth on edge. He takes the jacket and, since he’s about to go outside, slips it on.

“ We’re not friends–not really–and I don’t care what they think.” Steven says with deliberate lightness. He pats his inner pocket to confirm that the manuscript Grimsley said he shoved into his jacket to present to Wallace was still there, then his other for his billfold, and finally to his front pocket to make sure the Illumise hasn’t flown off somewhere in the club itself. Fortunately, he feels her trilling away in her sleep, which makes him smile. “ I’m doing them a favor, that’s all. Thank you for getting my coat.”

Volkner and Flint share another look, then turn their gazes not to Steven, but to Wallace.

“ That Grimsley guy also said,” Volkner begins carefully, “ that you hadn’t seen Mikuri before–at least, until today.”

Steven’s heart lodges in his throat for a second, and once he swallows it down, he gives Flint a positively murderous look. The firebreather at least has the decency to realize that there is something to be upset about, and he laughs nervously and takes a few steps back, holding up his hands placatingly as if Steven’s a particularly feral, ravenous druddigon instead of a human being.

“ Hey, hey, hey, listen.” Flint now starts waving the placating hands as Volkner sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose in blatant exasperation. “ I–the guy’s my boyfriend, and I thought maybe he knew who you were, since he and Wallace hang out a lot–”

“ We don’t ‘hang out’.” Volkner corrects with a sigh. “ We talk shop. Business. We don’t just sit around and gab over tea.” He drops his hand and finally notices Steven’s growing distress. “ Look, I can’t really blame Flint this time, though I don’t recommend telling him anything you may not want the rest of the workers here to know–”

“ Hey!”

“--but it’s really strange that a guy we’ve never seen before knows Mikuri’s actual name.” Volkner finishes. “ Like, supremely strange.”

Steven sucks in a rattling breath, then risks a glance at Wallace, who he’s quite relieved to see looks more amused than mad. The geologist exhales the breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding and places a hand to his sternum, which now earns him a curious glance from Wallace, who gently touches Steven’s free hand in a silent gesture of concern. They knew his name already, then. Thank the Weather Lords.

“ I was just worried and I…forgot about the name thing.” Steven mutters. “ I’m sorry, Wa–Mikuri.”

Wallace clucks his tongue and properly wraps his hand around Steven’s hand and holds on, which earns them even more bewildered looks from Flint and Volkner. So long as Wallace doesn’t mind, though, then Steven doesn’t mind.

“ You were that worried about me, darling?” The performer asks softly, which takes Steven a bit aback, because is that really a question? Does Wallace think Steven wouldn’t be concerned after something like that? He’s not insulted–just, once again, very confused.

“ You passed out and fell from a good few meters up.” He reminds him. “ People aren’t just…supposed to pass out, you know; and you could’ve been hurt if you’d landed on the ground. Of course I was worried. Wouldn’t you worry about me if our roles were reversed?”

“ Of course I would. It’s just…” Wallace’s cheeks pink slightly (a welcome splash of color after the pallor of just a few minutes before), and for the first time since his profuse apologies to the shorter man on the night they met, Steven witnesses the chewed inner cheek and coy deflected gaze of embarrassment. “ I’m not quite used to people worrying about me that don’t also have some vested financial interest in me.”

“ Hey!”

The bashfulness breaks as Wallace gives the now indignant Flint a look. “ If it weren’t for me, the Moulin Rouge wouldn’t be financially solvent, and you’d be forced back onto the circus circuit. You know this. I know this. Even Winona knows this, and she’s one of my dearest friends outside of Steven.”

Steven suddenly feels like he could float if he wanted to. Me? Even though he’s only known me for a little more than two months? He’s not sure if he should be charmed, worried, or both. Either way, he loves him. He loves him so much it makes him want to sing–which he won’t, because he has a voice that could make a voltorb explode against its will. Still.

“ That doesn’t mean we don’t give a damn for your own sake.” Volkner says quietly, clapping a hand over Flint’s mouth before he can speak. “ Even though you’re not wrong.”

“ And it’s that honesty that makes me like you. It always has been.” Wallace huffs out a quiet laugh. “ It’s alright, darling; Volkner and Flint here know my real name and use it from time to time, and, well…you didn’t even realize I had a separate pseudonym until you walked through the door. Why would I be cross at you forgetting it in a moment of pique that I caused?”

Flint gasps and licks Volkner’s hand to make him let go. “ So you do know this guy from outside of the club! Is he the reason you’ve been going out more often the past few months?! Who is he?! How did you meet?!”

“ If this is the most exciting thing you’ve heard all week, your life must be incomprehensibly boring.” Wallace rolls his eyes and gives Steven’s hand a squeeze. “ As much as I’d love to stick around and answer questions that are none of your business, I am on a bit of a time crunch, for all of our sakes. So you can either walk with us to the copperajah or go somewhere else and sit on your hands.”

There’s a purr by Steven’s feet, and he looks down to see Volkner’s Luxray circling himself and Wallace before giving the geologist’s pants and shoes a few sniffs, clearly curious. With a grin, Steven holds out his free hand for the pokemon to sniff, and then moves to give her some scratches around her ears and mane once she deems his pheromones satisfactory. The lioness growls softly, swishing her star-tipped tail along the ground, and Volkner raises his right eyebrow at the sight.

“ She’s not usually affectionate with new people.” The engineer remarks. A ghost of a smile flits across his face. “ Yeah, okay, we’ll walk. Let’s use the service exit; because if he’s going up with you like his friends said, it won’t do for any of the chairman’s adoring fans to get word back to him. You’re only supposed to be seeing the duke tonight, after all.”

Steven opens his mouth to say something along the lines of how they’re just talking theater business and there will be none of Wallace’s more intimate services involved, but Wallace makes a loud ‘click’ with his tongue—as if he’s trying to stop a lillipup from running out ahead—and Steven snaps his mouth shut the moment it opens. This earns him a pleased smile and the lacing together of their fingers, which draws yet more visible confusion from Flint and Volkner.

If only Steven could bring himself to care about anything other than Wallace right now. Oh well.

” Yes, well, let’s get a move on if you’re going to be our escort.” Wallace tucks their linked hands between them in such a way that conceals them from view, and Luxray loops through Steven’s legs before moving to walk at his side, earning more pats from the geologist and a bemused chuckle from her owner. “ I have a script to discuss with my good friend here while I change my outfit, and then a duke to seduce immediately after. As much pride as I take in my multitasking skills, even I have my limits, and tonight is not the time to test them.”

Given that the night is still going strong, the courtyard is mostly empty, with a grand majority of the patrons busy either watching the rest of the performances or indulging in the casino and other onsite ‘pleasures’. Even so, there are a few lords and ladies milling about, sipping drinks and enjoying the colorful lanterns juxtaposed against the greenery, so Volkner and Flint spend most of the walk attempting to shield the still-costumed performer from sight. Frankly, Steven’s quite glad that Flint’s too preoccupied by his constant repositioning of his body to attempt to make small talk, because he has the distinct feeling it would be particularly unbearable.

Fortunately, it’s only a short walk from the service entrance to the copperajah, and the group manages to reach the Pokémon’s legs unnoticed. Unsurprisingly, there’s an elevator built into one of them, which makes Steven wonder what Wallace and any other occupants would do if it caught on fire as he and the man in question pile in.

“ Cut the lights and turn them back on when the duke’s on his way.” Wallace tells Volkner, who nods in acknowledgement.

“ How ‘on the way’?”

“ Leaving his impromptu costume change–and when you do see him leave, find a way to stall him without angering him. I want to have enough time to usher Steven out without risking him being caught, because I doubt the duke would be too thrilled if he caught another man leaving just as he’s arriving.”

Another nod. Luxray purrs and gives Steven’s legs one last rub before padding over to Flint, who readily kneels down to offer pats to his lover’s partner.

“ Good luck, Wallace.” Volkner says solemnly. “ I don’t need to tell you this, and this is probably going to sound dramatic, but our futures are in your hands.”

“ You’re right; you don’t need to tell me this.” Wallace smiles myopically. “ Trust that I know how to do my job, Volkner, and I know how to do it well.”

With that, the courtesan pushes the button, and the doors to the elevator slide shut. Now that the two of them are finally alone, Steven sags and runs his hands through his hair in relief, turning to look at his equally relieved friend.

“ What was that about?” The geologist asks as the elevator comes to life with a shake. Wallace sighs and massages his closed eyes with his fingertips.

Why does he suddenly look so tired?

“ What I’m about to tell you will not leave this ridiculously-opulent residence, understand?”

Steven nods. “ I swear upon Metagross’s life.”

A dry chuckle. “ Goodness me, now I know you mean it.” A beat. “ I would’ve trusted you even if you hadn’t added that part. Very well.”

The elevator pings, then, and the doors open into what appears to be a red velveted waiting room, complete with several plush, gold-trimmed chairs and elaborate scrollwork and ornamentation that would look more at home in the baroque cathedrals and halls of Paldea than the strange mash of traditional and modern architecture and decorations of the rest of the Moulin Rouge. Steven suspects that Chairman Rose, like so many other members of the nouveau riche he’s met in his life, likes grandiosity for the sake of it rather than any true stylistic preference. Unfortunately for them, old money families like his own see such frenetic opulence as a sign of weakness more than strength—a tell-tale marker of insecurity and the resulting chip on one’s shoulder.

” The Moulin Rouge,” Wallace says softly, leading Steven towards the heavy wooden door at the opposite end of the room, “ is on the verge of running out of money. If we don’t change tracks and soon, I’d say that maybe we have…oh, a year or two left before Rose needs to start downsizing. Firing people.”

Steven’s eyes widen as he remembers the discussion he had with Marshal and Grimsley just an hour before. Did they just guess? Or did the workers tell them there was a problem?

“ Is it the electricity?”

“ Partially. There are a lot of moving parts.” Wallace sighs, eerily echoing Marshal’s earlier statement, as he opens the door and allows Steven to step inside first. “ We can talk while I get dressed. I hope you don’t mind terribly…”

“ Of course not. You have a job to do, right?” Steven grins again and is satisfied to see Wallace’s returning nervousness fizzle out before it can even begin to truly flicker. “ I used to watch my mother get ready for parties and business events she’d attend with Father, so I’m used to it.”

Also, Steven can’t help but feel curious about just what a courtesan does to get ready for, well, a client. Is it just like getting dressed for any other day at work? Just more…sensually? Does he tailor his look depending on who he’s going to see? Does he get information ahead of time about his clients for that purpose? Maybe from Rose? So many questions, and all of them are derailed by Wallace smiling at Steven as if he’s something wonderful and lovely and not a rambling, socially clumsy pest.

“ Your father works in business, then?”

Before Steven can answer, Wallace flicks on the lights in his room, and he’s greeted by the absolutely wonderful sight of at least three spheals rolling excitedly towards the door. He only barely remembers to move out of the doorway before immediately falling to his knees and holding out his arms to greet them, looking and feeling like a child on Wintertide morning.

“ Grimsley was right!” Steven gasps in delight. “ You do have spheals! Hello there, babies! Look how round and chubby you are!”

Wallace laughs–loud and unrestrained–and Steven’s not sure if it’s that sound or the excited barks of the Spheal that bring more warmth to his heart. Two of them roll over to Wallace, who kneels down to greet them with gentle cooing and endlessly patient reminders to not roll with abandon at the door when someone comes in; the last thing I need is for you to knock down a client! Or Rose and Oleana, again, as hilarious as it may be when you do. The third, on the other hand, rolls over to Steven before stopping and perching on his little flippers, gazing up at the strange man with some of the sweetest eyes in existence. Steven holds out a hand for it to sniff, and–once it claps its flippers on the floor in acceptance–repositions himself to sit cross-legged on the floor and scoops it into his lap.

“ Grimsley…” Wallace hums, picking up one spheal under each arm before standing up and walking towards the back of the room, where a decently-sized pokemon pool sits beneath the large window overlooking the street, stopping just beneath the sill so as to avoid being visible. “ The man who slinks around the gambling tables like a liepard on the hunt. I wonder how he found out I had spheals…”

“ He made it sound like it was an open secret.” Steven massages the Spheal’s little flippers and smooches her cold nose. Steel types may be Arceus’s most perfect pokemon, in his opinion, but every pokemon adorer with a soul universally agrees that spheals were born to spread happiness throughout the world. There’s a very good reason spheals are one of Hoenn’s most widely renown native pokemon species. “ How many do you have?”

“ Six.” Sure enough, two more spheals bob up from where they’d been swimming in the pool and bark in greeting at their master, while another sleepily pulls itself out from underneath one of the floor-length window curtains to waddle over. “ The one in your lap is my newest; she hatched from an egg one of my clients gifted me three months ago. Her name is Sally and, as you can tell, I haven’t yet gotten the concept of stranger danger through her delightfully empty head.”

“ Hello, Sally!” Steven beams down at Sally and playfully grabs one of her fins, shaking it with utmost seriousness. “ My name’s Steven; I’m one of your master’s friends. It’s very nice to meet you.”

Sally honks just as seriously before rolling forward to headbutt Steven’s chest in her own version of a greeting. The action makes both men laugh.

“ I’ve collected them over the years,” Wallace explains as Steven continues to play with Sally, setting the two he’s carrying into the pool before grabbing a heavy paper bag from the nearby cabinet and filling a few empty bowls with the dried pokemon food inside. “ My first was given to me as a gift to alleviate my homesickness when I was first brought here; after that, I would occasionally receive an egg on my birthday, or from some of my more frequent clients.” Steven tosses Sally up in the air and catches her before doing it again, and again, and again. “ Do you tell them you like water types as part of the…script, or something?”

“ Oh, no; I always tell them what they want to hear, nothing more and nothing less.” It’s a testament to how well the spheals are trained that all of them wait until Wallace has put the food away and stepped back from their filled bowls before they flop eagerly out of the pool and roll over to eat their dinner. “ Occasionally, however, they will ask me if I’d like a gift, and I’m very honest when I tell them that I’d prefer a pokemon over any bauble or trinket. Hence, the spheal, because they’re considered both adorable and rare outside of Hoenn.”

“ What about Luidcolo and Milotic?”

“ I’ve had them since I was a boy.” That stubborn sadness returns to the corners of Wallace’s eyes as he approaches and bends down to scoop Sally into his arms. “ I met Milotic when I was eight years old and she was just a Feebas, and she evolved into Milotic soon after. I caught Ludicolo as a Lotad before we boarded the ship to Kalos.”

Steven watches from his cross-legged position on the floor as Wallace carries Sally over to the food bowls and sets her down to earth with the others. A sadness of his own starts to pool in the bottom of his gut. “ How old were you when you started working here?”

Wallace freezes as he’s standing up, hands splayed flat on his thighs, and he hesitates for a moment before sighing and standing up straight. Without looking at Steven, he unsnaps his half skirt and drapes it over his arm, revealing the full expanse of his long legs as he walks to sit down on one of the nearby plush chairs to take off his shoes.

“ Fifteen,” he finally answers, lying the half skirt over the edge of a nearby chair that’s angled towards the one he’s currently in. A conversation area? “ Though Rose didn’t request I start doing sex work until I was sixteen, the legal age of consent. By that time, however, I was eager to start; I had…many men and women I’d met while dancing who constantly asked if they could buy my time, and I was eager at the chance to earn more money.”

Fifteen?

Steven’s heart does the emotional equivalent of a somersault into a bottomless pit. “ What about your parents?”

“ My parents?” Wallace smiles bitterly at the man regarding him with muted horror while cross-legged on his floor. It would be such an endearing sight if he wasn’t speaking of a subject that was the emotional equivalent of stabbing himself in the abdomen over and over. “ They’re the reason I’m here, darling. They signed over custody of me to Rose as part of a business deal. I haven’t seen or heard from them since they left me here ten years ago to save themselves.”

The geologist feels his heart sinking ever deeper into the shock and horror of what he’s hearing. Belatedly, he realizes that he’s sprung to his feet, but he simply stands there in lieu of knowing what to do with his hands, or legs, or brain, or anything. Sold him? His parents all but sold him to a dance hall and bordello?

He briefly wonders what kind of parent would do such a thing–before remembering his grandfather, Archibald Stone, and an acrid taste of nausea and disappointment coats the entirety of his tongue. No, no; some parents absolutely would sacrifice their child on the altar of money. Doesn’t he know that personally? Isn’t that why he’s in Kalos in the first place?

“ W…wh…”

Try as he might, Steven can’t force the words out, and the forlorn look on Wallace’s face makes him regret even asking in the first place. He turns his head to stare at the spheals enjoying their feast, and as he tries to focus on their delighted whines and wheezes of contentment as they stuff their faces, his trembling fingers grasp for his stim rings.

Spin, spin, spin, spin–

“ Steven.” The geologist is lost so deeply in his own miasma of thought and feeling that he nearly jumps out of his skin, and he whips back around to stare at Wallace, who’s finished taking off his boots and has sat them in front of the other chair, as if waiting for someone else to step into them. He smiles melancholically at his friend and beckons him over with a graceful hand.

Steven stumbles over, feeling as if his legs aren’t even attached to his body, and he reaches out to take the offered hand without a second thought.

“ I’m not upset with you.” The courtesan says in a soft voice. He gives Steven’s hand a strong, warm squeeze, and he holds the pressure until he feels the shorter man’s body start to relax. “ These are reasonable questions to ask–in fact, I knew that if you ever found out, you’d be asking them.”

Steven licks his suddenly dry lips and reaches out to enfold Wallace’s hand in both of his own, his calloused fingers feeling so rough against such soft and spotless skin, yet so right all the same. His heart hammers against the notch of his throat.

“ You don’t have to tell me anything.” Steven reminds him. Wallace, surprisingly, smiles wider at the statement.

“ Have you ever considered,” he says, a flush dusting his high cheekbones, “that maybe I do want to tell you? No one else, just…you. Maybe I’m bothered, actually, by how much I want to tell you.”

“ You…do? You are?”

Wallace nods, taking his lower lip between his teeth, pressing his incisors into the soft flesh as his hand trembles in Steven’s own. He says nothing more, simply waits patiently, like a defendant sitting in a courtroom awaiting the magistrate’s verdict.

It’s only when the wall clock chimes–seconds, minutes, hours later?--that Steven remembers how to breathe. And speak.

“ If you tell me, I’ll tell you.”

It’s Wallace’s turn to jump as the silence is abruptly punctured by Steven’s voice, and the shorter man watches as a host of emotions play across his dignified face, metamorphosing from confusion, to surprise, to wonder, to doubt, then to that delightfully tender expression that Steven doesn’t know how to name but one which Wallace wears often when they’re together.

“ You don’t have to.” The performer gulps and lays his free hand upon both of Steven’s, reinforcing the link of the chain of their arms. “ You don’t owe me your story just because I’m inclined to tell you my own.”

Steven shakes his head.

“ You have no idea,” he croaks out, “how much I want to owe you.”

A few seconds pass. The two men stare at each other: not moving, barely blinking, hands layered atop each other like a fancy Kalosian cake. Finally, Wallace sighs and lets his eyes fall shut, breaking the spell with a near palpable reluctance.

“ Do you mind watching my little ones while I get dressed?”

Steven blinks before remembering their situation and nodding. “ Yes, of course. Sorry, I–”

“ Do not,” Wallace hisses, digging his fingers into Steven’s hands with pressure that teeters on the point of pain, “ apologize. You have nothing to apologize for. We just have important work to do and no time to waste.”

A breath.

“ After, though…you live across the street, yes?”

Steven nods dumbly.

“ Wonderful. Just wonderful.” Another breath. “ Then…when the duke has left and you return to the Hotel du Roi…when all of the guests have left and the lights shut off, will you come back here? Then we can talk until the sun rises. I want to talk until the sun rises…but only if you want to as well.”

I don’t want to leave you ever again, is what Steven wants to say but doesn’t, since he’s still not certain of the depth and nature of Wallace’s affections despite so many repeated hints up until this point–hints that are blatant enough for even him to pick up. He’ll never, ever be vain enough to assume he knows Wallace even in part. Even if his feelings are returned.

Instead he says “ would you like me to bring some food when I come?”

Wallace laughs then, and laughs, and laughs, and Steven laughs in turn because it’s one of the most wonderful sounds in the world.

“ That would be delightful, actually, if you have any on hand. Nights like these always leave me famished.” With a pat to Steven’s hands, Wallace releases him, and the geologist takes a few steps back to allow him to stand up. “ Watch the spheals and tell me about just what you’re doing here and why. Once you’re done, I’ll tell you about the club’s situation, and then you can hopefully show me a play that’s good enough to present to the duke. You do have it on you, yes?”

Steven nods. To avoid a mix-up between his own writing and the papers Shauntal all but cramped into his arms in her excitement, he’d actually taken the manuscript he’d written for Wallace out of his coat and put it in his desk drawer, replacing it with the troupe’s play before being whisked away by Valerie for his tuxedo fitting. With how absentminded he can be with anything outside of his special interests, the champion has long since learned a variety of coping mechanisms, both through instruction and painful trial and error.

“ Good. Sit tight and make yourself comfortable; I’ll be as quick as I can.”

Wallace gives Steven a pat on the cheek, then—after another short moment of lip-chewing uncertainty—presses a quick and fleeting kiss to Steven’s forehead before all but bolting behind the curtain leading to the other section of the residence, leaving the champion to gape at his back in wonder, and—after a few seconds of processing—rocking, humming delight.

At first, there’s silence, and Steven only hears the sounds of Wallace preparing to prepare on the other side of the heavy black curtain, shedding his clothes and humming a little ditty that the geologist immediately recognizes as one of the more well known Sootopolan folk songs in mainland Hoenn. Steven can’t help but feel a little homesick as he listens, but that’s far from Wallace’s fault, so he instead distracts himself by examining his side of the room.

While the furnishings are less nauseatingly opulent than those of the antechamber, the red walls, red velvet, and golden tassels and trimmings are par the course for the establishment. Artwork from around the world is hung on the walls, a majority of the polished wood floor is covered by a hand-knotted serapi rug, and the chairs in which he and Wallace were sitting earlier are right next to a pleasantly smoldering fireplace. The bed is, obviously the centerpiece of the room: a queen-sized, four poster affair with gauzy curtains strung between the poles and an entire family’s worth of pillows arranged atop a luscious layer of thousand thread count sheets and wooloo wool blankets. A table of food had been laid out and placed near the sitting area prior to their arrival–cold meats and cheeses, a variety of fruits, and a bottle of champagne on ice–and as Steven studies the spread, he can’t help but wonder why his friend said nights like this leave him ‘famished’ when there’s plenty of sustenance to be had. Obviously, he’s expected to eat, or maybe just his guest–but wouldn’t it be awkward if only one person was eating or drinking at a time? Does he at least get to eat any leftovers?

Steven recalls how surprisingly light Wallace was in his arms after he caught him and vows to get him to eat something before he leaves and the duke arrives. He’s pretty sure his friend won’t put up much of a fight if he expresses his concern and asks nicely.

“ Steven?!”

As lost in his thoughts as he was, the champion hadn’t heard the sounds of a toilet flushing, a sink running, or the shower turning on; so he’s actually startled when he hears Wallace calling out to him accompanied by the brisk pitter-patter of falling water. He curses under his breath and reminds himself that he has to remain at least somewhat out of his own head, if only to avoid some duke crashing in on them and getting the wrong idea.

“ Sorry! I’m still here!” Steven looks over to the pool and sees that most of the spheals have finished eating and have rolled back into the pool for some post-dinner playtime. Only Sally remains eating, and the charming, excited little snuffs out of her flat nose make him smile. “ What were you saying?”

“ I haven’t said anything yet,” Wallace teases, and Steven sits down heavily on the edge of the (admittedly comfortable) bed, picks up one of the more decorative pillows, and buries his red-hot face in it for a second. “ Oh come on, darling! Don’t sulk about like that! It’s not becoming of a well-mannered man such as yourself!”

How did he know? Steven thinks, hurriedly chucking the pillow back with the others as if Wallace can somehow see him through the wall. Then again, his friend is supremely talented in so many things; it wouldn’t surprise him if he was a bit psychic to boot.

Or, maybe, he just knows me well. Steven tries and fails not to hope.

“ Do you need something?”

More water-cut chuckling. “ Well, as I said earlier, I’d like to know how we got into this situation in the first place!”

“ How?” It clicks after a second. “ Oh, yes! Sorry! Well, I’ve been living in the hotel across the street since I arrived–”

Thus, Steven begins to narrate the unlikely, almost absurd events of earlier that day, his shamefacedness vanishing as soon as it appeared. He tells Wallace of the theater troupe and the story they gave him of their origins, how they occupied almost the entirety of the top floor of the hotel, and the dire nature of their own financial situation. At this point in the story, Sally finishes eating and rolls over to him, and Steven hefts her onto his lap and gives her belly and tail fin scritches as he continues. He tells Wallace of the pages of writing that have fluttered in through his window on an almost daily basis for the past two weeks (while making sure to very heavily emphasize Shauntal’s mesmerizing wordplay, flowing cadence, and lyrical turn of phrase and not how often ghosts appeared, or the poor quality of the love interests, or how multiple people always end up dying by the end in uniquely morbid ways), and then, how he was relaxing on his bed earlier today when the troupe’s conkledurr accidentally sent himself and two of the younger members crashing through his ceiling.

As he talks about the fall and the subsequent turn of events, he’s terrified that Wallace may think he’s making it all up, especially given how frequently and gaily he’s laughing. As if sensing this, too, the other man quickly assuages his fears.

“ If it were anyone but you, darling, I’d suspect I was getting played!” Wallace lilts. “ Not only is it you, however, but even the most hyperbolic writers would find this ridiculous!” There’s a brief pause. “ You’re an excellent storyteller, I must say!”

More hope floods through Steven’s veins. If Wallace thinks that, then maybe–just maybe–he’ll like the story he’s written for him. “ That’s the first time I’ve ever been told that in my lifetime! Most people just think I ramble far too much!

“ I think your ramblings are beautiful.” Wallace’s tone is softer yet still audible through the sound of the shower. Steven’s heart skips a beat. “ You’re always so lyrical about your passions, Steven. I don’t think you notice, but…I do.”

“ You do?”

“ I do!” Steven had briefly worried that his rasp was too low to be heard through the wall and the shower, but Wallace’s chipper reply dispels that notion. “ Just the other day, Evelyn–one of the cancan girls–was wondering about why some rocks have layers, and I actually launched into a description of sedimentary rock, along with how it’s different from igneous and metamorphic rocks!” A self-defacing chuckle. “ Granted, it was a very pedestrian explanation compared to someone with your knowledge–and I probably did a terrible job–but Evelyn and her sisters still looked at me like I was insane–as if I was a witch trying to cast a spell instead of telling them how much pressure and heat can change how rocks look and act!”

Evelyn’s sisters need to go take a walk, is what Steven would have snapped had he not been absolutely buoyant with happiness and a not-insignificant amount of awe. He’s so giddy, in fact, that he only belatedly notices that he’s rocking back and forth on the bed enough to make it creak. He can’t help it, though, because Wallace has been listening to him. Other than his parents, his sideways sister, and the scant fellow rock enthusiasts in his personal life, most people he talks to about rocks or fossils or steel-types only listen out of politeness before making excuses to exit the conversation as quickly as humanly possible. He’s even used to hearing people groaning or seeing them roll their eyes when he approaches at meetings and formal events, or hearing them talking disdainfully about how ‘exhausting’ and ‘mind-numbing’ it is to listen to him when he thinks they can’t hear him, which they all do. It’s like they think he’s deaf and terminally oblivious simply because he’s strange.

Or that he’s unfeeling. Or, maybe, that his feelings don’t matter nearly as much as their own.

Steven hadn’t expected Wallace to actually retain any of the information he gave him; he was simply elated that he was willing to listen enough to give commentary or as questions no matter how long he prattled on about the adaptive nature of steel-type metal compared to manufactured metal. Yet here’s Wallace, actually using his knowledge to talk about rocks with other people, even when he’s not around to see and feel pleased. It feels…

It feels…

I love you.

“ Steven? Are you rocking?”

The geologist yelps and hurriedly digs his heels into the rug to stop himself. Even then, his energy has to flow out somewhere, so he sets Sally next to him on the bed as he flaps his wrist. The spheal seems delighted by this change and uses her little flippers and tail to bounce herself up and down on the mattress. The two of them are certainly quite a pair right now.

“ You’re flapping now, aren’t you?!”

Steven blushes all the way to the tips of his ears. “ Are you spying on me?!”

“ I’m in the shower, dearest; it would be hard on me to spy on anything that’s not my own body!” The shower is shut off, and Steven can hear the sound of Wallace padding towards the other side of the room, his voice traveling as he walks. “ I just know that you rock when you’re happy, and when you can’t rock, you flap. It’s adorable!”

Steven’s not used to anyone outside of his family calling him adorable in a non-patronizing manner. He likes it. He really does. The flapping begins to slow as the everything inside of him settles from a typhoon into waves after a storm, but Sally continues to hop herself around on the bed, having the time of her life.

“ Sorry!” He chokes out, winces, and coughs to clear his throat before trying again. “ I’m just…happy to hear that you remember some of my nonsense!”

Wallace stops moving. “ When I discuss art, coordination, water types, and other such banal topics–”

Steven’s head snaps up. “ They’re not banal!”

“ Then don’t call your interests banal, Steven; it’s not fair to you at all!” There’s the sound of a closet or wardrobe being opened and the rustling of fabric. “ Anyway, you’ve answered my questions, so I’ll answer your own about the club–oh, and please make sure Sally doesn’t bounce so much she breaks one of the springs.”

Steven’s hands immediately shoot out to grab the little Spheal mid-flop, making her bark and wiggle in protest. “ Got it! So, the Moulin Rouge is running out of money?”

There’s a long suffering sigh from the other side of the residence. “ Yes. As you surmised earlier, part of the issue is the cost of electricity; while Volkner’s worked wonders with our veritable army of electrode and voltorb in the basement, the costs of wiring and re-wiring the establishment on a regular basis are astronomical, even before you consider the cost of lights. Just because electricity is the future doesn’t mean that the rest of Lumiose has caught on enough to lower the cost of supplies and maintenance.”

Oh, business! Steven can understand business pretty well! Granted, he’s pretty sure he’s a terrible businessman, and he hates doing business in general; however, when you’re born as the heir to the Devon Conglomerate, you learn everything about business and economics whether you like it or not. This is one of the first times since fleeing Hoenn that such knowledge has been useful, and he finds himself nodding along with Wallace’s words, even as he sets Sally on the ground and rolls her back and forth with his feet as a conciliatory gesture.

“ Then,” Wallace continues, “ there’s the extravagance of the performances. Unlike a concert hall, art gallery, or proper stage–one that has ballet and plays and whatnot–we have no wealthy patrons to provide a continuous stream of money. This may shock you–”

Steven can practically feel Wallace rolling his eyes.

“--but not many lords and ladies of pedigree and means are willing to privately or publicly hitch themselves to the fate of a bordello, even with an accompanying broad variety of entertainment. Frankly, if the circus-folk weren’t so used to scraping by for money on a regular basis, they’d probably make the situation even more perilous by demanding higher wages. That poor Winona is so content on so little is almost heartbreaking.”

“ I’m guessing the casino either gives or takes depending on the day.”

Another frustrated sigh. Steven can easily imagine Wallace rubbing his eyes in pique. “ Don’t get me wrong; it was extremely profitable when Rose introduced it a few years past, and it significantly broadened our clientele base; however, now that the professional gamblers have learned to rig the system and how to bribe the operators…well, as you said. We have long streaks of windfall profits followed by consistent losses that steadily chip away at the surplus. Overall, we’re currently doing more than breaking even, but the margins are so small that it makes anyone who has the so-called privilege of seeing behind the curtain nervous.”

“ You’re one of them?”

“ As you’ve long since learned about me, just because I don’t have much of a formal education doesn’t mean I’m stupid. In fact, though he’d be loath to admit it, Rose comes to me for advice just as often as he does those he hires to run the club and manage the books, which only increases my popularity amongst my co-workers.”

There’s a bitter, slightly sad edge to Wallace’s voice that makes Steven’s heart ache. Most people would consider the courtesan’s assessment of himself as one of haughty vanity, but after many hours of talking about everything and nothing with him, Steven can personally attest that his friend is one of the most brilliant people he’s ever met. The star of the Lumiose underworld is obscenely well-read and uncannily perceptive; a man who possesses both a quick, calculating mind and a sharp, witty tongue–one that doesn’t hesitate to use a dizzyingly expansive and precise vocabulary to eviscerate or elevate on a whim. Wallace can dance around people in conversations with the same ease he cuts through water, and Steven cannot recall ever having a single boring conversation with him, or feeling like he had to dumb down his own topics.

Given the surprisingly detailed plans they’ve discussed in the past for Wallace’s own contest hall, Steven knew long before now that the Sootopolan also had a knack for business, even though he does not possess a formal education. His parents had sent his elder sister to private school on the mainland, but Wallace himself had been exclusively homeschooled by his grandparents, from the moment of his birth to the moment he boarded the boat to Kalos at fourteen. From the way the performer described it, it had been a rigorous, almost bonebreaking education defined by the classics and history, one that would’ve made some of Steven’s own doctorate teachers feel inferior–but an informal one, nonetheless.

Of course Rose would come to him for counsel, and of course his fellow performers and courtesans would resent him for the attention, even if they all benefit from Wallace’s work. Steven remembers the spiteful comments from the Diancies while Wallace was unconscious and scowls at no one.

“ Does anyone else know how bad things are?” The geologist finally asks. There’s some more rustling of clothing and small sounds of effort before he receives a reply.

“ I’ve told Winona and Volkner, who’s surely told Flint; and you know how well he handles personal information.” Steven can practically hear the eye roll in Wallace’s voice. “ Other than that…no, I have not. The last thing we need is for people to spread rumors and jump ship prematurely. The underworld is cruel and heartless, and as much as I hate the bastard, everyone who relies on this club for a living will fall if it falls; so I don’t need people sharpening hypothetical knives to put at Rose’s throat.”

Steven stops gently bopping Sally about with his feet, and the spheal rolls over to the window, joining its five fellows in huddling around a floor-length tapestry hanging on the wall next to it. He blinks.

“ Do the spheals…like wall art?”

“ Wall art…oh! Do be a dear and let them out, would you? There’s a door to the roof behind that tapestry, and the stairs and garden are all fenced off, so just open the door and let them waddle on their way. I always put them out on clear nights when I have customers coming.”

Sure enough, there’s a door behind the fabric, and the spheals almost roll over each other in their haste to escape into the cool night air. Just as Wallace said, the wrought-iron staircase is fenced in up to the railing, and Steven allows himself to be charmed by the six balls of blubber awkwardly but determinedly climbing the stairs before closing the door and setting the lock.

“ Becoming a theater will improve the club’s fortunes?” Steven asks as he pulls the tapestry back into place.

“ Oh, immensely.” More sounds of fabric and barely-legible Sootopolan cursing. “ The thing about proper theaters is that they’re sustained by wealthy patrons and ticket sales. Even with its reputation as a bordello, I’ve had several clients—the more eccentric and Victini-sequel—tell me they’d be more than willing to put their names behind an actual theater…once it’s built, of course. Besides, if it sheds its reputation, then more people will be willing to attend, including those who would rather be caught dead with their own mistresses in bed than be caught going to a cancan hall.”

“ And this duke? He’s willing to invest in the actual conversion?”

“ Yes!” Wallace’s tone almost immediately perks up, which makes Steven smile himself as he walks towards the little sitting area. “ Which is the exciting thing, but from what I’ve been told, Duke Siebold of Monrath likes to eschew convention…at least, to an extent. Not only is he a professional chef, but also a member of the Elite Four! Most old nobility just like to sit on their thumbs and do nothing all day!”

Elite Four? Steven’s ears perk up, and as he sits down in one of the chairs by the fireplace, he searches for when and where he’s heard that name before. Not at the IPL champion meetings—the Elite Four’s importance is still mostly relegated to their home regions—but…oh, that’s right! Diantha told him a bit about the Kalos Regional Pokemon League when he first arrived, when she and AZ had invited him down to the kitchen for one of their secretive, late-night, semi-regular tea breaks (apparently, she likes to ‘keep a close eye on him’, in her own words; and the coy wink with which she punctuated that statement said volumes about a long, winding story that was none of Steven’s business). Malva, the countess; Wikstrom, the knight; Drasna, the dragon tamer; and…

“ I’ve heard of Duke Seibold!” Steven calls back. “ He specializes in water type pokemon! If you show him Milotic, he might enjoy it!”

“ Really?!” Wallace drops something heavy in his excitement and hurriedly scrambles to pick it up. “ Do you know anything else, darling?! Anything at all that could help?!”

“ Um…”

Steven racks his brain, cursing his natural stupefaction at Diantha’s beauty, grace, and charms (at least, according to Cynthia, who knows far better than him) for keeping him from retaining much of what she told him! Then again, she hadn’t lingered too much on the Elite Four, but there was something else.

Think, Steven! Think!

“ Oh! He loves to read!” The revelation is not nearly as grand as Steven hoped it would be, but at least it’s something Wallace will be able to use, especially with his own eruditic personality and background. “ He’s a fan of poetry and fiction, and he’s very particular about his tastes, at least when it comes to food. It sounded a bit to me like he has very—“ Pretentious. “—refined tastes.”

“ Oh, good! That means I don’t have to change!” Wallace sighs in almost comically loud relief. “ Ugh, what a nightmare that would have been—it takes a long enough time to get into this, let alone getting out and then throwing together something else. I tend to go for sensuality over bawdiness unless instructed otherwise, and it hasn’t failed me yet.”

Now Steven can’t help but be curious as to what exactly his friend is wearing, but he simply sits and spins his rings, knowing he’ll find out soon enough. There are more sounds of a struggle, a few small hops, and then a grunt of frustration. Steven finds himself speaking before he can stop himself.

“ Do you need help with anything?”

All sounds cease in the other room, and as the silence ticks on for one second, then two, then three, Steven frantically wonders if he said something wrong. In fact, he’s just about ready to follow the spheals out when he finally gets an answer, though it’s not the one he’s expecting.

“ You…you would? You mean, you…you wouldn’t mind?”

That soft, nervously shivery voice is back, and Steven finds himself once again racking his brain for a reason; only this time, he can’t think of anything obvious off the top of his head. Maybe he’s worried that Steven just wants to have a…a peek? No, not that; Wallace seemed to accept his denial in searching for sex at face value, for which the geologist is grateful.

Oh! Maybe he’s worried that Steven might mess up his outfit! That makes a bit more sense!

“ I used to help my mother dress for formal events she’d go to with my father!” He adds. “ Business parties and balls and galas! I’d even help her a bit with her makeup and hair—“

As if holding his mother’s mascara and mirror and handing her bobby pins gave Steven any sort of resume; but that’s beside the point. He’s trying to be reassuring.

“—but it’s just an offer! You’ve done this by yourself for ten years, right? So I’m not trying to suggest you don’t know how to—“ Steven snaps his mouth shut and winces. “ You know what? Nevermind. Forget what I asked.”

“ No, no, Steven! I’m not offended or anything!” It’s true; Wallace doesn’t sound offended. In fact, he almost sounds…relieved? “ It’s…unbelievably sweet and kind of you to offer.”

“ Well? Do you? Want help, I mean.”

A beat.

“…I wouldn’t mind some help with the buttons in the back.”

One day, Steven may figure out the strange delight that fills him at Wallace’s shy request, but today is not the day. Instead, he all but jumps to his feet and trots over to the curtain, making sure to not simply fling it open as he walks through the makeshift doorway. He’s not sure what he’s expecting, but he’s somehow surprised and soothed at once by how similar it looks to his mother’s old dressing room. There’s a closed doorway to what must be the bathroom, a large wardrobe pushed against the opposite wall, a vanity, and an open closet illuminated with a small hanging light bulb. The one outward facing mirror is covered by a red, gold-tasseled curtain, beneath which is a chaise lounge covered with the same ornate pillows as the bed. Opposite the closet is a three-way mirror, in front of which stands Wallace, wearing something black and very obviously trying to fasten the back closure of his outfit.

Without saying another word, Steven walks over and gently bats away his hands, and Wallace sighs in relief as Steven begins to work the fastenings.

“ Thank you, my dear.” Wallace breathes before sucking in another as Steven discovers just why he’s struggling. It’s a black full corset with lace-trimmed shoulder straps of the same color, and it’s so tight, it’s almost too small to tolerate. Steven actually has to put a bit of upper body strength into pulling the panels together, then holding them in place with one hand as he uses the other to awkwardly slip the buttons through the loops.

“ Don’t you have–” Steven exhales through his teeth and sucks down his own breath as he brute-forces his way through the task. “--a slightly larger one? How can you breathe in this?”

“ Slimmer figures are in vogue these days.” Wallace says quietly, and not just because he’s taking staccato breaths with each pull and tug. “ Especially amongst the nobility. I can’t afford for this man to not figuratively or literally fall over his feet when he sees me, Steven.”

“ I understand.”

Steven realizes, then, that the outside pressure on his friend is far more intense than the squeeze of the almost-too-small corset. He sets his jaw and moves as quickly as possible, and he’s relieved to see and hear Wallace’s breathing return to normal, even though the geologist’s palms twitch in discomfort at remembering just how much force it took to force his body into that mould.

“ Thank you, darling.” Wallace uses his bare arm to wipe the beats of sweat off his face and gives Steven a weak smile. He already looks exhausted. Does he go through this with every client? No wonder he’ll doze off on the bench so frequently during their meetings. “ You mentioned you’d help your mother with her hair and makeup?”

Steven flushes. “ I mean…I would hold things and hand them to her.”

“ Perfect. Sit down right there and hand me the things I hand to you.”

That’s a task that sounds far more appealing than wrestling someone he very much cares about into an article of clothing that borders on a torture device. He sits down on the stool next to the vanity, laces his hands together, and dangles his arms between his legs as he watches Wallace finish clipping his black, lace-trimmed, thigh-high stockings to his garter belt. The geologist makes a valiant effort not to wince at how the air seems sourced out of the taller man’s body when he bends at the waist.

“ How do you keep the front looking so…smooth?”

Steven really doesn’t know how else to put it—on top of being embarrassed with himself for even asking it—but Wallace, as always, seems to understand him at his most incoherent. He laughs under his breath and walks over to take a seat next to him at the vanity.

“ Reinforced fabric as a result of having your costumes custom-made—that and tucking.” He gives beet-red Steven a playful wink. “ I personally like having a smoother outline anyway, and the grand majority of my clients prefer it as well, even the women.”

Well, he’s not quite sure what to do with that information, but it is surprisingly interesting. Steven swallows thickly and wills his face to cool down, which grows easier as he’s handed a collection of bobby pins, because at least he knows what to do with those!

Still, he’s…curious. Horribly curious. Wallace didn’t seem to mind the first question, so maybe…no, there’s no need to push his luck, especially when his friend didn’t want him to ever discover his profession in the first place!

“ You can ask whatever you want, you know,” Wallace says with a knowing smile. He turns back to the vanity, takes the krookodile clip out of his hair, and begins brushing out his smooth, slightly damp locks. “ It’s the least I can do after deceiving you for so long.”

‘You didn’t deceive me! It was none of my business!’ Steven wants to say; but the clock is ticking, and Wallace doesn’t need to spend any energy getting into an argument with him.

“ Do you see someone every night?” Steven finally asks. Wallace’s smile broadens.

” I insist on one day and night completely off during the week. Other than that, yes, at least one a night. Maybe two if there are particularly high-value clients who don’t mind being second in line.”

Wow! Sometimes two clients a night—when he already looks worn out before even seeing one! Steven hates that answer! He hates it so much! Why did he ask that?!

“ Do you get to keep the money you make?” Oh, Steven’s going to hate the answer to this one, too—but he can’t help it. He’s been wondering ever since the other man mentioned being ‘given’ to Rose by his parents at fifteen.

“ I do, but most of it goes to paying off my family’s debts…and helping keep the Moulin Rouge afloat. I’m not destitute, but I don’t have enough to pick up and leave if I wanted.”

“ I see.” Steven thinks. At least it doesn’t sound like he’s trapped here. Mostly. Still, there’s more to this story than Wallace is saying, so he’ll reserve any future prying on the matter for another time. “ Do you…like your work?”

” That depends.” Wallace holds up his hair, examines it in the mirror, then spreads it around his shoulders before examining it again. He seems satisfied with whatever he’s decided and holds out his hand for Steven to start giving him pins. “ Do I like performing? In general, I adore it. This kind of performance, however? In the dance hall, I can almost enjoy myself, though I can’t take any true pleasure from the fact that at least half of the audience is watching me because they want to sleep with me.”

“ And…the rest of it?”

“ You mean, the having sex for money part?”

Steven ducks his head. “ Sorry.”

“ Don’t be. You’re very sweet.” Another hand, another pin. “ Too sweet for this sort of place. No, I don’t, but there are many people in the world that work jobs they don’t like to survive. You think the average brick layer heads to work with a spring in their step? Or those that work the engine rooms in steamers? Or sweep streets? No, but it’s decent work, and the pay is better than being destitute and on the street; so you simply trudge along and find joy outside of your job.”

Is that really a good comparison? Is it really that simple? Can a human being really compartmentalize a job from the rest of their life when the job is selling their own body? Steven’s not sure, but if anyone has the talent to do it, it would be Wallace. So he stays quiet and hands over more pins, watching the courtesan as he pins up half of his hair while keeping the rest down.

“ I will say,” Wallace says after several more bobby pins, “that I take pride in being good at what I do.” A satisfied smirk spreads across his face. “ Damn good, frankly. No other courtesan in the entire city of Lumiose can retain the clients I can and morph themselves perfectly to satisfy each and every one. It’s the whole reason Rose brought up the idea of me becoming an actor as a bridge to my coordination dreams in the first place; acting is at least eighty percent of my job.”

“ Really?”

” Yes. It’s not where my heart is, but me becoming an actor is a win-win scenario for both myself and the chairman. He gets an in-house star to use for a few years while the theater’s being established, and I get to make far more money than I do now—enough to pay off the caldera’s debts and do literally anything else other than what I’m doing now.” A happy sigh. “ Including becoming a coordinator and opening my own contest hall.”

The caldera’s debts? That’s a strange way to put it. Still, Steven doesn’t pry, even though a cold sense of doubt is rattling through his insides like ice cubes. He hands over yet another pin.

” Do your clients ever…” He swallows thickly. “ Do they ever hurt you?”

Wallace pauses in his fussing and turns his head to smile reassuringly at Steven. “ Only when agreed upon beforehand and in strict terms and limitations. I’ve never been forced, if that’s what you’re asking. For all of his faults—and he has many—Rose carefully vets my clients and lays down the law prior to them seeing me. It wouldn’t do for his primary asset to be maimed, after all.”

Yes! Finally! A somewhat reassuring answer! Steven feels some more tightness unspool from his shoulders. Wallace finishes pinning up his hair and turns in his chair to face Steven. His eyebrows crook upwards.

” Who’s your friend?”

” My…friend?” Blinking, Steven looks down to see that the Illumise has finally woken up from its nap, and the little bug-type pokemon is now poking its head out of his breast pocket and is blearily examining its surroundings. “ Oh! They crawled into my pocket when I was coming into the building and I didn’t have the heart to wake them up! I hope you don’t mind!”

” Just because water types are my absolute favorite doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy all other pokemon; you’re much the same with your steel types. Give them here.”

Wallace holds out his hands, and Steven gently lifts the Illumise from his pocket and hands it over to the other man, resting his hands on his thighs as he watches the courtesan pet the sleepy firefly between its wings with his index finger and coo nonsense beneath his breath. Something warm and bubbly blooms in his chest.

I love you.

” Any other questions?” Wallace teases, laughing as the Illumise grabs his finger and holds fast, chirping in what only can be interpreted as a demand to play. “ At least, ones that I can answer before I start reading your script.”

Steven bites his lip, looks to the side, looks to the other side, looks again—

“ Just ask, please.” Wallace’s voice is firm but not unkind.

Ugh. Ugh.

“ When men hire you to have sex with them,” Steven forces out, “ do they usually have you…giving or receiving?”

” You mean, am I more often on the bottom or the top?” Wallace laughs again as Steven hides his tomato berry-red face in his hands. “ Goodness me, you’re adorable in all the best ways.” He swings the Illumise about with his index finger as he speaks. “ Bottom, most definitely; I tend to only top for women and very repressed noblemen. I always make sure I’m prepared to receive, however, because you never quite know the person who will walk through the door.”

Oh! Okay! That actually makes quite a lot of sense! Steven smiles–momentarily–before the full realization hits, and Wallace laughs so hard he wheezes and scares the poor Illumise as his now molten red friend pulls his coat up and over his head in an attempt to shuckle his way out of the mortal plane.

“ Well, Volkner hasn’t signaled the duke’s impending arrival, but we shouldn’t dawdle. You have the script, darling?”

Steven looks up from where he sits on the edge of the bed (after being shooed away to allow Wallace to do his makeup in peace, since ‘you’re surprisingly distracting’) and sees his friend push aside the curtain and leave it open as he enters the room. In a strange way, Wallace is less striking with makeup on than without, as if he’s deliberately softened his more angular features. He’s thrown on a sheer, floor-length black robe and understated low black heels to complete the outfit; and though Steven still worries about his breathing in that corset, he has to admit that the other man still looks wonderful—just in a far different way than he’s used to. Not worse, just…

Well, different. It gives Steven the same feeling he felt when seeing his show costumes on the floor. Beautiful, but impersonal—as if he’s wearing a costume in a play. That’s really what it is, though, isn’t it? Wallace said it himself. Acting is just as important as the sex in his line of work—if not more so.

” Aren’t you worried he’ll look inside?” Steven asks. Wallace looks over his shoulder at the other side of the room and smirks.

” They always check behind the curtain if I leave it closed. If not to use the restroom, then to check to make sure no one else is in the room.” He notices Steven’s confused look and chuckles. “ You have to remember that my clients are wealthy men and women of means, and there have been numerous blackmail scandals in other bordellos in the city. They’ll even throw open my closet and wardrobe, just to be certain we’re alone. The only time other people are present and not-participating is if that’s been agreed upon in advance.”

Steven almost asks if that’s actually a thing before remembering that oh, yeah, he has a job to do that’s not to ask questions that will inevitably make him blush. Instead, he nods and reaches into his jacket pocket, being careful not to disturb the Illumise sitting on one leg, blinking like a cabaret sign’s light as she nibbles on an oran berry.

” Yes, it should be…aha! Here!”

” Oh, good.” Wallace sits down next to him, daintily crosses his ankles, and rests his limber hands in his lap. “ Hopefully it will be better than the past versions of her work. I never read them myself, but Rose gave me some details, and…”

” Were they not good?”

“ Oh, they were well written, just with subject matter that’s not…well, suitable for the type of show we’re going for, which is more…experimental and Victini in nature. Less…less…”

” Morbid?”

” That’s a good way to put it! Morbid! And salacious, surprisingly. We can’t be having stripteases and burlesque-type antics on a haute couture stage.”

Steven snorts as he pulls out the manuscript—

—and freezes, because this is not the manuscript of Shauntal’s that he distinctly remembers putting in this very pocket to make sure he did not forget. Instead, this manuscript looks horrifyingly familiar, even with the absence of the twine he’d wrapped it in just a few hours before; however, instead of the blank title page (because he hasn’t thought of one yet), there is a handwritten note now acting as the makeshift cover:

Steven,

Apologies, but I saw you skwovetting this away in your desk and took a peek while Valerie was working on your suit, and I came to the conclusion that you’re not half bad. In fact, you’re pretty good, and I think this sort of story has a far better shot with the Chairman and the Emerald than Shauntal’s latest draft.

So I decided to take another gamble on you. Show this to Mikuri and tell him you’re our playwright. For everyone’s sake. I’ll make it up to you and I’ll make it up to Shauntal, hopefully.

Sometimes you do what you have to in order to survive, even if it breaks the hearts of the people you care about. Consider that a lesson from someone who’s lived this life longer than you.

-Grimsley

“ You wrote this, Steven?”

As lost in stupefied horror as he was, Steven only realized that Wallace was reading the note over his shoulder when he spoke, and he yelped and jumped with enough force to send Illumise and her berry tumbling onto the bed. Fortunately, it was a very short drop with a very soft landing pad, but the bug type still looks quite annoyed, and she resumes eating her snack with no small amount of petulance.

Steven, on the other hand, kind of wants to die right now.

“ I…I…I…I mean…I…”

What can he say? What can he do? It’s only by the grace of Arceus and the tolerance to absurdity he’s slowly but surely started to build up throughout the course of the day that the champion is able to produce verbal words at all. This is ridiculous. This is ridiculous and infuriating, because this was meant for Wallace in the first place, but not like this. Not in this way. Not in this location. He wanted it to be a special gift—an offering of a jumbled heart to the man with whom he’s fallen in love—not a pawn in a game for survival. No one else was supposed to read it! Ever! Who does this sort of thing?

Grimsley, apparently. Steven may or may not try to strangle him with his tie when he sees him again.

There’s no other choice now, though; Steven doesn’t have the heart to rip away the theater troupe’s last shot at a stable existence just because he’s self-conscious about the situation. So, even though he remains wide-eyed and white as a sheet, Steven relaxes his fingers enough for Wallace to pluck the note and manuscript from his hands.

He needs to say it, though.

” I wrote it for you.”

It’s Wallace’s turn to startle, and he nearly drops the manuscript onto the floor, though he catches it before it can fall completely out of his hands. “ You…you did?”

Steven nods and swallows down the tight knot in his throat the best he can. His mouth is bone dry, his stomach queasy, and his tongue fat and awkward in his mouth. Nonetheless, he finds the words.

” It…it was a gift. For you. I was going to give it to you tomorrow when we’d meet at the river. I…” Another swallow. Steven feels like he might faint. “ I…wrote it for you, and I…I wanted your help with the rest of the story.

“ The rest of it?”

Steven nods. “ I need you to tell me where the story should go. Only you can do that.”

” I…see.”

There’s such a silence that makes the otherwise ambient background noise of the bedroom—the ticking of the clock, the crackling of the fireplace, and the mlem-mlem-mlem of Illumise as she nibbles at her berry—seem almost overwhelming to the ears. Wallace stares at Steven, struck equally mute, eyes shining but expression unreadable. His fingers blanch themselves white as they press into the paper.

” What kind of story is it, Steven?”

Steven hadn’t wanted to say it like this.

” It’s a love story. Or it…it could be.”

” It could be.”

” Yes. That’s…what I need your opinion on.”

More silence. Wallace sucks in a breath and licks his lips. He hasn’t put on any lipstick or stain, Steven notices, but he likes them just the way they are. They may be thin and long, but they curve so beautifully—like ocean waves.

“ Well…I suppose I should get reading, then.”

Steven blinks. “ Oh, yes! Of course! I’ll just…sit over there so you don’t feel like I’m hovering over your shoulder!” And so I don’t have to watch your facial expressions, he absolutely does not add.

Wallace sets aside Grimsley’s note, and as he turns over the original blank front page, Steven stands up and moves to stand next to the fireplace. He doesn’t sit down; rather, he leans against the mantle with his shoulder and spins his rings, forcing himself to look into the fire or out the window instead of watching Wallace read and…and…

It’s stupid. This whole thing is stupid. The only thing Steven’s ever written in his life prior to this is a geology dissertation that his advisors insisted should be published. That’s all. He’s not a novelist. He’s not a poet. He knows nothing of the real world and nothing about love other than his pining for his friend, who’s gorgeous and mature and elegant and intelligent and quick-tongued and everything wonderful in the world that he can never be.

Steven’s hands shake as he grabs frantically for his rings. Spin, spin, spin, spin, spin, spin—

His grandfather was right; he really is a vapid, thick-headed, slow, plodding man. As slow as a torkoal and as thick as the rocks he’s so obsessed with. Someone like Wallace would never love him; and when he turns him down, it will be graceful, but he will likely see Steven as obsessed and weird and start enforcing distance.

Even if he says yes—which he never would, because Wallace is Wallace and Steven is boring, insufferable, useless Steven—what happens when he finds out he’s the Devon heir, even temporarily or permanently disgraced and on the run to keep the actual head of the conglomerate from killing him? Wallace is Sootopolan; there’s no denying the malevolence he likely feels concerning his ancestor, Lady Devon the Warmonger; and he probably, reasonably, holds an instinctive distrust of the Devon line as a result, changed last names or no.

Not only that, but now that Steven knows what Wallace does for a living—seducing rich men and women—he would inevitably look at him far differently knowing Steven’s own background and birthright (that is, if he can ever go home again, and his grandfather doesn’t get to him first). Wallace has been a courtesan for almost ten years—he’s probably heard so many empty words of love and affection from people who only wanted one thing—so is there any universe in which he wouldn’t learn that he was a Stone and reasonably assume Steven was just using him? Another rich man playing games?

This is a disaster, this is a disaster, this is a disaster, this is a—

“ It’s beautiful, Steven.”

Steven’s head jerks up from where he’d let it rest hopelessly on the mantle, and he blinks away the heat in his eyes (no tears, thank the Weather Lords; he’s already embarrassed himself enough for one day) to look over at Wallace, who has already finished reading the manuscript. A quick glance at the clock reveals that Steven has been lost in his own world for more than a handful of minutes, and he abruptly stops spinning his rings and pushes himself off the mantle to walk back over to the bed, where Wallace is now smoothing the pages on his lap with such tenderness that it makes the heat bloom anew.

” What did you say?” Steven almost can’t believe his ears.

“ I said it’s beautiful, Steven, and I mean it.” Wallace sucks in a breath and raises his head to look up at Steven, and the geologist is struck dumb by the sheen of wetness covering those green, green eyes. “ I don’t know what you were so anxious about. I already knew you were an excellent writer, but this is—“

” Wait. You found my book?” Steven knows he’s focusing on entirely the wrong thing here, but while he’d mentioned he’d written a book on geology to his friend before, he hadn’t actually expected him to go out and read it. Where did he get it, even? Some library in Lumiose? A geology dissertation? “ How did you…”

Wallace bites his lip, looks down at his lap, and rubs his thumb along the edges of the page. Steven is tempted to stop him before he gets papercuts.

” Over there.” Wallace jerks his head to the cabinet where he keeps his pokemon food. “ Top door. It’s where I keep the books I like to read the most—though, not in view of my clients, and not in chewing distance of stubborn little spheals.”

With his heart hammering in his ears and fingertips, Steven all but staggers over to the cabinet and throws open the door, revealing a neat and tidy makeshift bookshelf where clothing or stationary would normally be stored. He looks for the title of the mass-produced book on the spines—with his pseudonym—and is momentarily confused, because he doesn’t see it anywhere, even with two more scans. He’s about to tell Wallace he must have misplaced it—when his eyes light upon a thick sheath of weathered-looking papers secured with a large document clip.

Steven’s blood freezes in his veins.

” You mentioned the name a few times,” Wallace says shyly, thumbing the manuscript in his lap as he watches the shorter man stare at the offending document with the color draining from his face. “ I…went to a few libraries, but they didn’t have a copy. I wasn’t surprised—you mentioned that it’s so specialized that it’s usually only used as a textbook or reference material—but I…I desperately wanted to read it.”

With shaky hands, Steven reaches into the cabinet and pulls out the copy of his dissertation, gazing down at the cover page with a numb expression and nauseous stomach.

” You know how I get when a fire’s been lit under me, so I kept thinking of a way that I could read it without prying too much into your past.” The courtesan shifts awkwardly on the bed, uncrossing and crossing his ankles. “ Then it hit me: if it’s a geology text, maybe the geology department at one of the universities in the city might have it. So I used my day off three weeks ago—“

Three weeks ago? Steven wants to laugh until he shakes to pieces. They’ve seen each other multiple times since then, and Wallace never…he never once…not once…

”—and went to the polytechnique first, because it’s more science-focused. Fortunately, none of the men and women that work there are the types to frequent this establishment, so it was a surprisingly comfortable experience.” Wallace’s attempt at lightening the mood is brittle at the edges. “ I almost used your penname, but you’ve been so secretive, so I—“

Steven sucks in a breath.

”—I simply said the name of the book, and their faces lit up. ‘Oh, that’s a dreadfully popular reference text in our department! Our hard copies are on loan, but one of our adjunct professors was at the dissertation defense and liked it so much they had a copy made. They left for Unova years ago, and it’ll fall apart eventually, so you can just keep it!’ They even teased that it was a collectors item, since..”

Wallace sighs and glances back down at his lap, working his lower lip, uncrossing and crossing and uncrossing and crossing his ankles. Illumise has finished her berry and is now curling up on the duvet for a post-meal siesta. For a few seconds, Steven can only stare.

“...since the books have your pseudonym, and this one your real name.”

Stare at the title of his doctorate dissertation. Stare at his—

At his—

Sedimentary Minerals: Strata of History

Steven A. Stone, Doctor of Geology, University of Rustboro, Hoenn Archipelago

“ You knew,” Steven finally rasps, returning the dissertation to its spot in the cabinet before closing the doors. “ I never thought you would have…I thought it would’ve taken too much effort to find it. To bother looking. You went to a university?”

Wallace smiles wanly. “ Don’t underestimate how dogged I get when it comes to what I want.”

What he wants. Does that mean…?

“ You knew for three weeks, and you didn’t…”

Wallace doesn’t look at Steven. He simply stares at the text on his lap.

” Winona was originally from Fortree Village.” Steven, once again, feels as if he’s been punched in the solar plexus. “ A great deal of news doesn’t cross regional boundaries—even from Hoenn to Kalos—but she occasionally wants to know how our home is doing, so she will occasionally wander to the docks and pay the crews of Hoenn-based ships for any old newspapers. I…”

“ Wallace, you don’t have to—“

” I usually can’t stand looking at anything from home.” Wallace removes his abused lower lip from his teeth and replaces it with the tip of his right thumb. “ It makes me too homesick, but…I asked her to get as many as she could. She didn’t ask questions.”

Steven’s stomach plummets to his feet. “ You know, then.”

Wallace hesitates, then nods, chewing on the tip of his thumb. “ I know only what the papers say.”

“ Which is?”

” Many things—I’ve read quite a few over the past three weeks—but what I’ve seen tells me that you’re a good man who did a stupidly good and noble thing and is now suffering the consequences.” The courtesan looks up at Steven and smiles weakly, eyes still a bit moist. “ And if the reason you’re here is what I think it is, then I don’t blame you for being so cagey, or having a fake last name.”

” You could’ve just asked me yourself.” Steven winces at how harsh his words sound and the way they make Wallace flinch and shy into himself. He rubs his face, spins his rings, and tries again. “ I’m not angry, Wallace—“

“ I can understand if you are, Steven.”

” But I’m not. I swear to you, I’m not.” The desperation in Steven’s voice makes Wallace drop his thumb from his mouth. He carefully (so carefully, as if his words are precious) sets the manuscript on his opposite side and folds his hands together in his lap. He’s waiting. For what? “ I…it’s the same reason you didn’t want me to know you worked here. I didn’t want you to look at me differently. I didn’t want you to look at me like your people look at my family.”

Wallace’s gaze softens. “ I would never think like that. Not about you. Never about you.”

There’s nothing but soft, dulcet sincerity in Wallace’s eyes and voice. Steven’s insides finally begin to untwist from the convoluted knots the revelation had tied them in. He smiles, weakly, and takes a few steps towards the bed—

—only to stop, startled, as Wallace shies away. “ What’s wrong? I’m not mad, Wallace. You should know I mean what I say when it comes to you—“

” Do you know that I mean what I say, though?”

Steven stops in his tracks and stares at his friend for a few seconds. “ Of course I do. Have I ever given you reason to doubt that? If I have, know that it wasn’t intentional, and that I’m sorry.”

Wallace shakes his head.

” No, no, you’ve never done that. You’ve been wonderful. I…”

Wallace trails off, unusually speechless, twines his fingers together and repeatedly rubs his thumbs over each other. Steven waits patiently for his friend to find the words.

Does Wallace not know he’d wait for him forever?

“ Would you believe me, then, if I said that you being a member of the Stone family or the heir to the conglomerate never mattered to my friendship and my…my feelings for you?”

Steven blinks. Blinks again.

” Why would I not?”

The courtesan sags. “ Because of my job, darling.”

” Your…job?”

As with most things he’s discovered about Wallace today, it takes Steven a moment for the pieces to click together, and he finds himself all but throwing himself to his knees in front of his friend and taking his hands in his own. The taller man starts, but he doesn’t pull away, and the shorter man is holding onto him so tightly that there’d be nowhere for him to go if he tried.

” I believe in you.” Steven says firmly, without an ounce of doubt or hesitation, and meets Wallace’s eyes with an intensity he struggles to match with anyone else on his best days—when the world isn’t too bright and staring hurts more than it helps. “ I believe in you as much as I believe in my father, my pokemon, and my sideways sister. I believe in you completely. I would never…never have once thought, on my own, that you would be trying to…use me for money.”

The wet film is back, and Wallace screws his eyes shut and shakes his head, this time mournfully.

” I’d rather die than hurt you.” Wallace whispers. “ Or make things with your family worse. Ruin your life. You understand that now, don’t you? The things you didn’t know when you first wrote this for me. It’s okay. It’s okay if you understand now. It’s okay if you want to rewrite it.”

Again, it takes a second, then two, and then Steven’s eyes blow wide as he sucks in a breath. His chest is burning. His palms are tingling. His heart is dancing a cancan against his ribs. There’s no other way to interpret that. There’s nothing else it can mean. Even for Steven—oblivious Steven Stone, always on the back foot when it comes to any socializing outside of pokemon and his passions—can see that. Especially with Wallace. Wallace is always so deliberate with everything he says, picking each work like one would pick out a stone for skipping: picking them up, examining the sides, feeling the edges with your fingers, gauging the weight in your palm. Then, one last examination before raising your arm to throw, taking a leap of faith that you chose correctly.

Steven can only answer Wallace’s leap with his own. With a joy coursing through his blood that he never dreamed he would feel again, the champion smiles and, after a moment of thought, reaches up to cup his face in his hands. The action makes Wallace hiccup a breath and open his eyes.

” My father is kind and good. My mother is dead now, but she was also gentle and kind; and I would like to think I am, too. My grandfather is a monster, but to everyone; everyone is lesser than him.” Wallace sniffs, and Steven reaches up with his thumbs to brush away the tears gathering on those long, butterfree lashes. “ I don’t care about what he thinks, and I know my parents, and they would adore you for…for...”

For loving me.

Wallace’s shaking hands fold themselves over and around Steven’s own and clamp down with enough force to derail Steven’s train of thought.

” Not here. Please.” Wallace’s voice is thick with tears, yet to Steven’s befuddled delight, he doesn’t look sad. In fact, he’s smiling a new smile—a smile that reminds the Devon heir of the sun rising over the lip of the Sootopolan caldera in the morning. Beautiful. Boundless. A new light that brings with it new possibilities. “ I don’t…want to hear it here. I don’t want to say it here. I don’t want you to say it here, oh, darling, please…”

Wallace drops their hands from his face as he gives his head another vigorous shake, but this time, it looks like the courtesan is trying to snap out of a trance.

” I don’t want this to happen in this room.” He begs. “ Not when I’m about to sleep with another man. Not where I’ve slept with so many others before. Not where so many others have said sweet things that are hollow at best and lies at worst. Not this. Not this beautiful thing. Not you. My greatest, most irrational but pervasive fear for the past three weeks has been that one day, you’d find out, and you’d come calling with Devon money in hand—“

“ Never. Oh, Wallace, never. I would never do that to you.”

“ I know, I know. I know even more now.” More tears gather on his lashes, and Steven moves to lace their fingers together, knowing that doing anything more may lead to him breaking a promise he hasn’t yet made. “ Even so, the thought of you being here in this room still makes me sick, so wait. Please, wait. Help me wait.”

Steven furrows his brow and nods. He thinks he understands—but even if he doesn’t, he wants what Wallace wants. “ Then when…?

” Tonight. On the roof. Like we promised.” Wallace drops his forehead to rest on their joined hands and breathes, shivering from some emotional pique that Steven couldn’t identify on the best of days, let alone when he, too, feels like a single word or touch may make him come undone. “ Come to me tonight. Tell me everything, just like I’ll tell you everything, and then I’ll tell you how the story should end.”

“ What…what will you tell the duke, then? When he asks about the ending.”

Wallace chuckles and shrugs before sitting up straight. A few flyaway strands of hair have come loose from the bobby pins, and Steven takes it upon himself to lightly tuck them behind his ears, terrified that too strong a touch would break the spell or wake him from this dream. Let him never wake up; oh, please, let him never wake up.

” Well, he’ll have to invest to find out, won’t he?” Wallace teases, grabbing a piece of his gauzy robe and dabbing his eyes dry. “ Speaking of which, how long has it—?”

There’s a chime through the door, which makes Wallace seize and Steven look around curiously. It’s not yet time for the clock to chime ten, so why—?

Then, there’s the unmistakable sound of the elevator doors sliding open, and both men jump to their feet.

“ Volkner said he’d flash the lights!” Just like that, Wallace is tense, tight, and terrified, hissing the words through his teeth. “ Did I miss it?!”

“ No, no, no, there wasn’t…I mean…I didn’t see anything either! There wasn’t a flicker! I’ve been watching!”

Steven no longer knows what to do with his hands or his body. He needs to hide. There’s no time. There’s nowhere to hide. Nowhere to go. If the duke sees, he’ll get the wrong idea, he’ll get offended. He’ll walk away, and everyone’s hopes and dreams will be dashed, and Wallace will be—

There are hands gripping at Steven’s shoulders, and before his brain can catch up with what’s happening, he finds himself all but being thrown on the floor next to the bed.

” Get under!” Wallace takes Steven’s face in his hands and stares daggers into his soul. Steven, pinned like a vivillon to a board, can do nothing but obey. “ Get under and stay quiet! Don’t make a sound! Let me take care of it and I’ll figure out a way to get you out of here!”

Steven nods. Of course. Wallace is so much better at thinking on his feet than him. He’ll find a way. He always does.

” And…” A flicker of insecurity returns. “ If things…happen…then…please, plug your ears as tightly as you can, and don’t think less of me.”

Another breath. Another piece clicking into place. There’s the sound of two men talking. One laughs and sounds like Rose. Steven grins and wags his index fingers at Wallace and makes him snicker as he snatches the Illumise and shoves it into one of the inner pockets of Steven’s coat.

” Alright! Enough of that! Under! Now, now!”

There are footsteps approaching—two pairs, and Steven flops onto his stomach and slides as far as he can underneath the bed. He watches Wallace’s shoes as he stands back up, messes with his clothing, fusses with something that’s likely his hair. He takes a deep breath. Then another. Steven wonders if he has the time to wish him good luck, but then there’s a knock at the door, and he knows their sliver of a window has slammed shut.

The duke has arrived.

Chapter Text

“ I was wondering where you were.”

In the span of a second—or maybe the blink of an eye—Wallace’s demeanor shifts entirely. Just because Steven can’t see his face doesn’t mean he can’t hear how his voice smooths, lengthens, and warms in a way that makes the geologist’s breath hitch and his fingers tingle. It sounds, he thinks, like a sensual caress would feel, and even Wallace’s strides seem more elegant than normal as he all but glides out of Steven’s view.

” Just a moment, please.”

There’s the sound of Wallace’s footsteps transitioning from carpet to hardwood as he saunters over to the door, then the click of a lock, followed by him retreating towards the sitting area. “ The door’s unlocked now. Please, come in. Don’t keep me waiting any longer than you have already.”

Groudon’s tits, Steven thinks helplessly, almost dizzy from the sheer emotional and mental whiplash of Wallace’s change in everything. It’s like he’s become an entirely different person, and as Steven watches his feet saunter over to one of the chairs—probably to lean his hip against it—he can’t decide if he finds the transformation awesome or frightening.

Is this what he meant by acting? Steven swallows the saliva pooled in his mouth and rubs his suddenly sweaty palms against the rug as the door opens. If that’s what his actual acting’s going to be like, he’ll be lighting up all the great stages of the IPL regions.

“ Ah, Mikuri!” Rose’s booming voice snaps Steven out of his daze, and he grits his teeth in annoyance as the artificial exuberance of his tone grates against his ears. He sounds just like all the other fake businessmen and women of the Devon board, who spew simpering smiles while holding figurative knives behind their back. “ I’m terribly sorry it took us so long to get here; the duke here was interested in our generator system, so I asked Volkner to take him on a little tour to see the set-up. He was very impressed by how we’ve rigged the voltorb and electrode without triggering any resonance self-destructs!”

Guess that’s what happened to the signal. Steven rolls his eyes and very, very, very quietly scoots farther towards the wall. Rose’s brown leather shoes and pants come into view, then, followed by a pair of glossy, patent black leather shoes and crisp, newly-pressed black tuxedo slacks. That must be the duke. I’m surprised they found a suit that fits so well so quickly.

“ You kept me waiting to show off the voltorb and electrode?” Wallace laughs with just enough gaiety to sound genuine but not enough to potentially cause offense. “ Well, I suppose those darling little pokemon are all that’s keeping our establishment from completely depleting Lumiose’s poor, nascent power grid. I hope you weren’t terribly bored, Monsieur…”

” Siebold.” The black patent shoes approach Wallace’s heels, and there’s the rustling of fabric, followed by what can only be a kiss on the back of Wallace’s hand—one that lingers just a little too long to be polite. “ Duke Siebold of Monrath. I actually found the power generator fascinating, though I apologize for keeping one such as yourself waiting, between the detour and my suit…”

Now that there’s not the sound of the dance hall and Oleana’s furry clogging his ears, Steven can finally hear the duke’s voice in clarity, and it sounds just as refined as one would expect from a Kalosian lord. Slightly haughty, but not offensively so, with a pleasant accent and crisp diction. He sounds like the intellectual sort, and with those types, Steven finds they can either be pleasantly eruditic or insufferably pedantic. Only time will tell which category into which the duke falls..

” No need to apologize, Duke Siebold. Your time is far more valuable than mine and is yours to use as you see fit.” Wallace sounds pleasantly charmed by the gesture. “ I’m terribly sorry about what happened during my show, however; Winona is incredibly talented, but she’s also a tad clumsy. I just hate that her clumsiness chose tonight of all nights to rear its ugly head! At least we were able to salvage the situation!”

Oh, Wallace sounds so apologetic and mortified about the whole affair, which makes the knowledge that he’s the one that orchestrated the accident all the funnier. Steven actually has to shift an arm to cover his mouth and bite down on his tongue to keep from chuckling. His gestures, fortunately, appear to go unheard.

” Well, it’s a bit late for introductions, it seems.” Rose sounds all too pleased with himself and the situation. “ But allow me to make them regardless. Mikuri, this is Duke Siebold of Monrath, the man who’s interested in our conversion plans. Duke Siebold, this is Mikuri, the Enchanting Emerald of the Moulin Rouge.”

Wallace chuckles under his breath. “ It’s a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance, Duke Siebold.”

” Trust me, Monsieur Mikuri; the pleasure is all mine.” Steven can empathize with the quiet wonder in Siebold’s voice. “ You were absolutely radiant during your performance tonight. I couldn’t take my eyes off of you until I was forced by circumstance.”

” Well, I must admit that having your gaze on me was…thrilling.” Oh, Wallace sounds unbearably coy and abashed all at once, and Steven can envision him using the downcast gaze and fluttering eyelashes he uses to mock the vapid heroes and heroines of newspaper serials during their trips to the Seine. He has to choke back another laugh—especially at how the duke’s breath catches in his throat. Like a magikarp to a lure. “ Chairman Rose, if you don’t mind…?”

The way Rose chuckles makes the skin on the back of Steven’s neck crawl. “ Of course. I’ll leave you to it, Mikuri, Duke Siebold.”

” Thank you, Monsieur Rose.” Seibold demurs. “ For the tour and the…introduction.”

” Don’t thank me just yet, my dear duke; it may be that by tomorrow, I’ll be the one in your debt.”

With that, Rose turns and walks out the door, and all three men sigh in relief as the front door closes behind him. Wallace shifts on his feet and does something that Steven can’t see but rustles fabric. Holding out his hand, perhaps, for the duke to take?

“ Well, Duke Siebold, what shall we do first? Business? Or pleasure?”

The timbre of Wallace’s voice makes Steven shivers. He hears the duke’s own breath quiver in his throat and the whisper of a light touch. A hand taking another.

“ I feel like business, with you, would also be pleasurable.” The duke murmurs. “ However, perhaps we should eat something before we decide. We heard that you had a fainting spell at the end of your act, and I would hate for it to happen again during our time together.”

Wallace sighs long-sufferingly while Steven finds himself thanking the duke beneath his breath. Getting him to eat something was the one thing he failed to get to before his arrival! Eat something! Please!

“ How mortifying,” Wallace mourns, but in a way that makes Steven think he’s coyly looking up through fluttering lashes. Given the shift of the duke’s feet, he thinks his assumption is correct, because that look would be entirely disarming to anyone who didn’t know it was a parody. “ First Winona accidentally ruins your tuxedo, then I keel over like a fainting gogoat. In my defense, they make my costumes ridiculously tight at times, given the fashion these days…”

“ I can only imagine.” Seibold actually sounds sympathetic. “ Especially since most women–and men–of high fashion are not performing at your level. I’m just relieved you weren’t hurt.”

The spring of anxiety that had been slowly winding up in Steven’s body since finding out about the duke finally begins to uncoil. He’s decent, then, this man. At the very least, he cares the bare minimum about the man whose services he’s purchased–or, at least, the quality of the services as tied to the man. It’s a low bar, but much like his father, Steven has always been suspicious of others in his social sphere: wealthy, yes, but also those old, deep roots. At least the new rich can be fun, eclectic, and innovative, more unbound by traditional norms (unless they try far too hard to stand with the old rich, with the most blatant current example being Rose Quintrell). Steven and his father are no saints, that much he’s been taught and shown over the years–but they do their best to remember they’re just people, simply ones born into a circumstance of which only a select few could ever imagine. Men and women like his grandfather, on the other hand, forget that all too easily.

Steven’s not yet sure if Duke Seibold of Monroth is not yet the type of man who looks down at everyone outside of his means; or sees people and pokemon as pretty tools to use and throw away when they end up being more real than fantasy; or cares naught about the world outside of how it impacts him and his bottom line. What he is, however, is at least considerate enough to realize that Wallace must be exhausted and hungry. He’ll take it for now.

“ I suppose that’s a good idea.” There’s the sound of Wallace smoothly lowering himself into one of the chairs and the sight of one of his ankles crossing over the other. “ Very well. I’ll let you pick your poison for the both of us.”

The duke laughs a laugh with the stiltedness of a machine starting up after years of activity. Still, it's a pleasant, good-natured sound, and he actually makes a decent effort at small talk as he walks over to the dressed table. Steven’s nerves further unspool, and as Siebold makes plates and pours drinks, Steven reaches down and gives the Illumise in his pocket a soft shush and gentle pat as she begins to squirm. Fortunately, she settles down, though there is a distinct huff of annoyance against the tip of his finger.

You and me both, Steven thinks mournfully, knowing he’s going to be sore and stiff for the entirety of the next day if he stays in this position for longer than a few minutes. Still, it’s a far better outcome than the alternative, so he remains motionless and feather-breathed as the duke returns with the plates and glasses before taking his own seat.

From there, it descends into pleasant small talk, and Steven only processes bits of what they’re actually discussing in favor of just observing Wallace without sight. The duke is a trained chef, apparently, though he only cooks as a hobby. Water pokemon are his favorite, and when Wallace brings out Milotic, the conversation briefly derails into the duke cooing and stroking her smooth, gem-bright scales while Wallace whispers to her in Sootopolan.

Steven learned a bit of the language growing up out of business and geopolitical necessity, and has been brushing up on it as much as possible ever since meeting his friend, so he can catch a few whispers of meaning if he focuses. Mostly it’s reassurances from Wallace to his partner, saying I’m alright; just the same fainting spell as before; I wasn’t hurt this time because someone was there to catch me. You saw them. Yes, him.

A pause, as if listening, then a breathy chuckle and instruction: try not to look at the bed too often. I don’t want to … what might happen if the … were to discover him.

Other breaths and more complex words and phrases follow, too complex for Steven to understand, though he thinks he hears the word love conjugated as loves and tries desperately not to read too much into it. Not until it’s said to his face.

They talk animatedly about pokemon for a while, which Steven can appreciate, and he finds himself creeping a bit closer to the edge of the bed to listen as Wallace and Siebold vent mutual frustration at people who overclean the scales and shells of water pokemon and open them up to dryness, cracking, and brittle fungal disease. Wallace sounds a bit like his Wallace, then, and Steven is impressed at the duke's knowledge of the physics of a clawitzer’s water cannon for both propulsion and projection. He even takes a few mental notes on how to optimize the flow of water through the chitinous chambers for both attack and defense. Elite Four indeed.

As the conversation progresses, and out of the corner of his eye, Steven can see Wallace’s foot creep slowly towards the duke’s leg throughout the conversation. When the topic of the theater finally comes up, Wallace whispers something in Sootopolan to Milotic that Steven can’t understand, but he soon catches the meaning as the pokemon slinks over and curls herself up in front of the bed. Ever in-sync with her master’s desires, the sea dragon has arranged the length of her body so that anything beneath the bed is blocked from view, and Steven breathes a sigh of relief once she’s fully settled. He slips Illumise out of her pocket and places her near a hatbox, and even though she chirps and buzzes at her newfound freedom, the unusual whistling of Milotic’s breath easily masks the sounds.

Gods, does Wallace think of everything? Will Steven ever not feel fat-tongued and clumsy in his presence? What does someone as brilliant, confident, and self-assured as him want to do with someone like him, who oftentimes can’t even bear direct eye contact with other people?

Steven doesn’t know, but he’s happy beyond words that he does all the same, and he uses the cover of Milotic’s body to scoot a bit closer to the edge. If he turns his head right, and is quiet and careful, he can just catch a glimpse of their faces. The duke looks almost as sangfroid as he was before, yet there’s a curve to his lips, and the geologist shivers as he adjusts to allow Wallace sensually drag his heeled-foot up and down his shin and calf. The combination of the slow drag and drop of his foot, the subtle angling of the courtesan’s body towards the duke, and the way one of his hands ‘subconsciously’ traces the space between stocking and garter belt as they speak screams sex without saying it; and even the way Wallace watches the duke would be captivating, as if he’s latching onto every single world. Every laugh is an appropriate length and loudness; every turn and dip of the corners of his lips calculated; and every repositioning of his head designed to captivate. His eyelashes flutter, beautifully, and Steven is pretty much convinced his friend is a wizard at this point. It’s no wonder he’s considered both the jewel of the Moulin Rouge and the best courtesan in Lumiose.

Yet Steven can tell that Wallace is not really enjoying himself.

The champion would never, ever dream of claiming a sound knowledge of all of the performer’s tics and eccentricities–especially not after only two months of knowing him–but Steven would be willing to be his own partner pokemon on his friend being tired and physically uncomfortable. Every so often, he raises his chest and straightens his back, covering with the propping of his hand on his chin and his elbow on his thigh. His words aren’t breathy, but the shifts of his posturing read not only of his body protesting the squeeze of the corset, but of the way he shifts his weight on his hip, sitting or standing, whenever he thinks they’re being watched.

Not only that, but…

Steven recognizes those shoes, because Wallace had actually worn them during their last meeting a few days ago. They were new, and he wanted to ‘break them in’ before having to wear them for an extended period of time, but even his eerily-composed friend couldn’t completely cover up his wincing and the way his teeth dug into the inside of his cheek at irregular intervals, which gradually shortened until every step was causing tangible discomfort. Yet he refused to admit anything was wrong–or even let himself limp–until Steven told him that he either needed to sit on a bench and wait for him to go buy him a new pair of shoes, or have Steven carry him like a bride to the cafe where they were going to eat.

Now, upon reflection, Steven realizes that Wallace had actually hesitated before going to sit down on the bench, as if he was seriously considering–

Nope, nope, nope. Steven grits his teeth and actually smacks himself lightly on the face to snap himself out of that particular train of thought. The point is that those shoes–while going quite well with the totality of the outfit, he admits–are clearly still bothering him, given the way the foot that’s not engaged in seducing the duke keeps rising up on the toe, trying to subtly offset as much pressure on the heel as possible. He hopes he won’t have new blisters to deal with when the night is over when the old ones haven’t yet had the chance to heal.

How does the duke not notice any of this? How does anyone else not notice any of this? Why was Steven the only one that looked at Wallace’s face up on the swing and knew something was wrong?

“...do you have any seasoned actors on staff?”

Belatedly, Steven realizes that the conversation has long since shifted from the concept of converting the Moulin Rouge to a theater to the actual mechanics, and he shifts a little bit closer to Milotic to better hear the conversation while making sure his head and body remain well below her girth. He feels little wings brush against his hair and realizes that the Illumise, too, is taking the opportunity to see what all the fuss is about. So long as she does it quietly, Steven doesn’t care.

“ Unfortunately, those have been hard to come by, given our reputation.” Wallace sighs dramatically and gestures with his flute of champagne, which he appears to have barely drunk from, if at all; and Steven is quite unhappy to see that the plate of food is similarly untouched. “ As you can imagine, no actor of any decent prestige is going to jump at the chance to perform at a hypothetical theater converted from a night club and brothel.”

Seibold frowns and takes a ship from his own half-empty flute. “ I can see that would be a problem, yet as talented as you obviously are, Monsieur Mikuri, I worry about the ability of the other performers on staff to transition to acting without any coaching or mentorship. In fact, it may be best for the main roles of any initial performance to be the best and most seasoned acting talent available, if only to give legitimacy to the theater.” He coughs, realizing how it sounds, and has the decency to look a bit embarrassed. “ Please know I’m not trying to be haughty, or diminish the talents of your fellows–”

“ I understand completely, Duke Siebold. In fact, I empathize completely with your concerns, and I happen to be in agreement with you.” Wallace shifts forward a little more in his seat, and the duke mirrors the action without hesitation, as if he’s an ekans being helplessly charmed by a flutist. “ In a twist of fate, however, we actually have an acting troupe staying across the street that’s expressed great interest in working with our establishment in exchange for being the headliners.”

“ Truly!” Seibold laughs in amazement and scoots his chair closer to Wallace, who giggles demurely but keeps his chair in place, though his foot creeps a few more millimeters up the duke’s leg with its next travel up his calf. “ That Hotel du Roi place across the street? Now that you mention it, I’ve heard rumors of several prominent Victini artisans having taken up residence there, including the painter Burgh and the sculptor Brassius. Have they changed career paths on a whim?”

“ As someone who lives in the heart of the Victini Revolution, I can state for a fact that Victini artists always like to push the envelope when it comes to their crafts, even if it means switching mediums. I think it has something to do with that ‘freedom’ ethos of theirs…or, perhaps, they just get bored with their work and desire to turn over a new leaf for a time.”

“ Much like a ditto changing shape on a whim.” Siebold muses. “ They are well known names, I admit, but…do they have any experience?”

“ They have quite a collection of talent and two actors with previous experience.” A smile ghosts across Wallace’s face. “ One whom they just hired. They also have…two very talented writers, one of who’s been published in the past, and he’s actually provided me with the basic concept of a show for your review.”

Steven, once again, feels like melting into the floorboards. I’m not a member of the troupe, Wallace—and a geology textbook doesn’t count when it comes to being a playwright!

True or not, the white lie has the desired effect, with Siebold resting his elbows on his thighs and his chin on his steepled hands as he leans forward. “ Have you read it yourself?”

” I have.” For the first time since the duke entered the room, Wallace’s smile seems genuine, and his eyes crinkle at the corners. The sight makes both Steven and Siebold smile. “ It’s still unfinished, but…it’s wonderfully written and creative. I think it would make a spectacular play.”

“ Then I look forward to reading it later tonight.”

There’s a moment of silence, punctuated only by the crackling of the fireplace and the slide of shoe leather over fabric, and Steven swears he can hear the blood sloshing through his veins. His breath catches at the base of his throat.

Am I really going to have to plug my ears?

“ May I ask you something, Monsieur Mikuri?”

Wallace’s smile turns coy—and false—once again. “ By all means.”

Steven grimaces and presses his lips into the back of his hand to muffle a groan. Weather Lords, I cannot believe this is happening.

“ What do you think of this…Victini Revolution?”

Oh. Well. That’s certainly not the sort of question Steven was expecting—nor Wallace, given how his eyes briefly widen before narrowing back into that sly, sultry look.

“ Well, this is a Victini club hoping to open a Victini theater, so you can say I at least have to tolerate it.” The duke chuckles along with the bemused courtesan. “ In all seriousness, the ways they express their beliefs and desires can be a bit…overwhelming, at times, but I appreciate the spirit and the verve with which they approach life and art. I wish we all could be more free in our desires in our society.”

There’s a subtle weight to the word ‘desires’ that makes Steven’s breath hitch in his throat. Arceus’s golden wings, Wallace is a sorcerer when it comes to seduction; and given how Siebold slides a few millimeters forward in his seat, it seems his fellow blue blood agrees.

“ By beliefs, do you mean the tenants?” The duke’s voice is barely higher than a whisper. Wallace nods.

” Yes. Truth, beauty, freedom, and love…all are lovely words that are lovely in practice, but far more complicated in real life.”

Duke Siebold gives a stern nod. “ I agree completely. I’m fond of the works of art it produces, but the movement itself gives me more questions than answers. For example, truth itself can vary depending on one’s viewpoint if it’s not purely objective, scientific truth, and truth and beauty can contradict each other. There are many ugly truths out there.”

“ True, and beauty is so often in the eye of the beholder.”

” Not when it comes to your beauty.” Seibold murmurs.

Wallace trills in faux delight while Steven rolls his eyes; because while he can definitely empathize with the sentiment, if the duke thinks Wallace is gorgeous now, he should see him when he’s not pretending his chest and feet aren’t being uncomfortably compressed. He still hasn’t eaten, either, and the duke was the one that insisted on it in the first place! Make him eat something! Please!

” You flatter me, my dear duke.” Wallace dips his head and glances up shyly through his lashes. “ I’m sure you’ve seen far more beautiful men and women than myself.”

“ I don’t think anyone in the world could achieve your level of beauty.” The statement is hoarse yet surprisingly honest, and Steven can’t help but nod in agreement. “ And…what about love?”

“ Love?”

“ The fourth tenant. Do you believe in love?”

Wallace quirks an eyebrow. “ Believe in love? I think that’s the wrong question to ask.”

“ You do?”

“ Yes. For example, there are many kinds of love in this world that are not romantic: the love between parent and child; the love between siblings; the love between children and grandparents, cousins, aunts, and uncles; the love between friends; the love between humans and their precious pokemon partners. When you ask if I ‘believe in love’, does that include all of these other types of love? Or is romantic love the only love that matters?”

Steven is impressed by Wallace’s answer, and Siebold seems to be himself, though not before the duke cycles through an emotion on his face that the geologist can’t place. It doesn’t seem bad, but it also doesn’t seem good; in fact, it’s almost like the expression of his Aron when Steven cracks a dawn stone on the wall of a cave to fill it with blinding light.

Did Siebold not expect Wallace to be so eloquent or thoughtful? If he didn’t, then…is he pleased by the subversion of the expectations?

He seems to be—at least, for now, as he chuckles and shrugs helplessly in his defeat. Steven realizes that he’s clenched his fists without noticing and takes a moment to shake them out as the conversation continues.

“ I feel like this isn’t the first time you’re going to dance around me as easily as you dance on the floor.” Siebold’s tone is gracious and good-mannered. “ I think you know full well what I meant, however. “ He rests his hands in his lap and begins to pick and fiddle with his white gloves. “ Romantic love. I imagine such a thing would be…complicated in your profession.”

Wallace shrugs an elegant shoulder. “ To say the least. I don’t like bragging without cause, but I am the best courtesan in the city, and the men and women I’ve laid with have told me they loved me…oh, as many times as there are stars in the sky.”

The picking intensifies. “ I can see that. You are certainly…talented. Beyond even what I imagined before seeing you in the flesh.”

“ Why, thank you, dear duke.” Another shrug, this time of the opposite shoulder, and Wallace’s fingers go back to idly tracing the territory between skin and lace on his leg. “ Unfortunately, while the stars and their light are concrete and absolute, such confessions are entirely without substance. Not a single one of them has loved me outside of the throws of ecstasy.”

Wallace’s tone is matter-of-fact, and his expression remains coyly bemused, but there’s a hollowness to all of it that makes Steven’s ribs clench. That’s what’s been bothering him, he realizes, ever since he first saw Wallace as The Enchanting Emerald. He’s so, so beautiful, yet it’s the beauty of a model walking on a Lumiose runway or the gisaeng his grandfather hires to entertain guests at Devon Conglomerate functions. Pleasant to look at, even breathtaking at times, but it’s acting. That’s really all it is—acting without a stage. As the best courtesan in the city, Wallace is inevitably the best actor, regardless of who appears in the social pages of Kalosian magazines and newspapers. Steven can see it. Wallace seems to have the ability to excel at anything he puts his mind to, but this? Making the men and women who buy his services feel and believe whatever they want?

Talk about stars—Mikuri shines as brightly as the sun.

Yet if Steven had to choose between Mikuri the sun, or Wallace the man who puffs out his cheeks when he’s afraid he’s going to laugh too hard; or pouts out his lower lip when he thinks Steven is being very cruel and unfair to someone who’s just come here to have a lovely time and is now feeling very attacked; or gets he hiccups every time he drinks anything fizzy (which would explain why he’s not drinking the champagne, now that he thinks about it); or poses dramatically—including on nearby surfaces—whenever he’s trying to make a point (or just make Steven laugh when he’s being a bit ‘too stoic’); or squeals in excitement whenever he sees a water pokemon out and about and insists on petting it even if it’s pouring down rain outside; or randomly jumps into the river without prompting or taking off any of his clothing just because he feels like it; or drums his thighs with the pads of his fingers whenever Steven tells him he has something to show him, even if it’s just another rock; or makes the most grating ‘hem’s and ‘hum’s when he disagrees but is trying not to show it; or tries on every pair of clothing or shoes that catches his fancy three times before deciding to buy or put it back on the rack, which makes every shopping trip at least two hours longer than it needs to be; or who has to touch every scarf and shawl hanging in the vendor stalls they pass when walking down Centrico Plaza, whether the sellers like it or not; or who snores so loudly he’ll wake himself up when he’s feeling ill or particularly exhausted; or, or, or—

Steven wouldn’t even have to think. It would be a reflex.

Who needs the sun when you have the world?

“ What about you?” Siebold asks. Wallace tilts his head.

“ What about me?”

“ You speak of the other men and women who have given you empty sentiments of love.” The picking morphs into niggling tugging as the duke leans forward further. “ What about you as an individual?”

“ You mean…do I myself believe in the possibility of romantic love.” There’s a smile in his voice. “ If I listen to Kalos’s never-ending litany of romantic poems, stories, and songs and feel as if they speak to me–or, at least, that I may be capable of such sentiments in the future.”

The duke’s ice cold eyes melt ever-so-slightly. “ Are you?”

“ Hmmm…” Wallace puts the knuckle of his index finger to his lips and lets it rest there as he thinks. He makes no move to nibble, or worry, or otherwise move. He thinks, and the fireplace crackles, and Steven doesn’t realize that he’s actually holding his breath for an answer until his chest starts to burn and the Illumise is patting his cheek with worry. He splutters out a breath behind his arm and stifles a cough.

Why, Steven thinks anxiously, is he hesitating? Is it part of the act, or…?

Or what? Has Wallace magically changed his mind about him in less than an hour without prompting? Steven can hear his father’s voice in his head gently chiding him on his impatience–you’d think becoming champion would have taught you to slow down, or at least how to take a joke!--and the only reason he doesn’t scowl at Joseph Stone’s infuriatingly correct voice is because he doesn’t want Illumise to think he’s cross at them.

Besides, as much as every single cell in his body resists it, his father has been right in the past–and there’s a reason Steven’s hearing his voice now. Be patient. Be patient. He shifts his body enough to reach out towards Milotic and runs a finger up and down her scaled side as he forces himself to wait. The sea serpent coos in thanks and subtly arches her body into his touch, making the geologist chuckle under his breath.

“ If you’d asked me a short while ago, I would have told you that I can’t afford to think about such a silly notion as falling in love–especially given my current occupation.”

The answer makes Steven startle in spite of himself, because unlike the dulcet, measured tones Wallace has used in conversing with the duke since he entered the room, this new voice is a bit too soft. A bit wondrous. A bit too real. The champion frantically looks up over Milotic’s back and sees that the courtesan is shyly diverting his gaze from the duke in the direction of the bed, and when he catches a glimpse of Steven, he smiles as if he’s set eyes on a dream.

“ However…” He murmurs. “ After recent events…I have to admit, it’s been on my mind. Love, that is.”

Siebold’s breath catches in his throat. “ It has?”

The smile widens. “ Very much so.”

Months later, Wallace will explain that his long hesitation had to do with deciding just how genuine he should be in that moment, knowing the man he loved was beneath his bed as he worked on meticulously seducing the last and most important client of his career as a courtesan. Even though he had not known about the duke mistaking his smile on the swing as one for him, it was clear that he was already enraptured by Wallace, with his questions about love indicating just how deep his fascination lay. Wallace was paid to make men and women believe whatever they wanted, and if the duke believed he was talking about him when he spoke of love–even if he never once said it directly to his face–then Wallace was simply doing his job.

Besides, saying no would’ve meant lying to Steven right in front of him; and even if his beloved would have understood why if he’d simply explained afterwards…

Well, he just couldn’t stand the thought of hurting Steven, or lying about his feelings–even if only temporarily or out of necessity. Perhaps it was the first harbinger of things to come.

Steven knows none of that, of course, in the moment itself. All he knows is that Wallace just told him he loved him without actually saying the words–just as he had before the duke arrived–and he continues to gaze at his beloved in dumbstruck happiness even after he returns to looking at the duke. Whatever inner turmoil he’d been feeling just a minute before is now completely, utterly ridiculous, and Steven is forced to admit that his father always seems to be right about patience. In fact, while Steven is normally loath to admit it, he may just write a quick thank you to Joseph in his next letter without any context. Not only is it less embarrassing that way, but adding context would probably take at least ten extra pages, if not more.

Oh, it doesn’t matter. Wallace loves him. Wallace loves him. Steven’s not sure if he wants to laugh, cry, or die from happiness. Maybe a combination of all three would be most fitting.

“ I’m happy to hear that. I think one should keep their options open in life–especially when it comes to the concept of love.”

Siebold reaches out, then, and touches his fingers to Wallace’s thigh. All of Steven’s bubbly, tingly joy vanishes in an instant, replaced by immense awkwardness. What’s happening now? Is anything happening? Are things about to happen? Should he get his index fingers ready?

Wallace simply hums and lays his hand over the duke’s, inviting him to stay, and to touch. Steven doesn’t know how he’s doing this without wanting to pop like a soap bubble.

” Shall I fetch the outline for us to review?”

Siebold hums, inclining his head in agreement, and Wallace gently removes his hand from his thigh before rising to his feet. The duke’s eyes never leave Wallace’s form as he turns and walks towards the bed with a subtle sway to his hips, and if Steven weren’t swiftly distracted by his friend catching his gaze, he may have pondered longer about the intensity in that ice-blue gaze. Or how he shifts in weight in the chair.

As it is, Steven only really sees Wallace’s apologetic smile and how he mouths a profuse apology, which he returns with his own smile and an exaggerated don’t worry. Reassured that his unexpected observer isn’t completely miserable, the tense lines of Wallace’s face smooth out (somewhat, because it’s even more obvious to Steven up close that his shoes and corset are causing some distress), and he takes a moment to bend down and stroke his dozing Milotic’s back and fronds before grabbing the manuscript from the bed and turning around—

—only for Siebold to seize his shoulders and kiss him.

Steven very nearly cries out in alarm, because he hadn’t noticed the duke coming up behind Wallace, which means he moved very quietly and very quickly. He bites down on the sleeve of his coat at the very last minute and watches–torn between confusion and a strange sense of horror he can’t pin down–as Wallace simply…stands there. He stands there and lets Siebold kiss him, with his left hand limp and his right tossing the outline back on the bed. Was he expecting this? Even Milotic isn’t reacting other than a curious glance at her owner and his customer. Maybe Steven is the one that’s overreacting. This is just business, after all–the business of selling your body for money. Kissing is part of that.

Why does knowing that not make Steven feel better, though? Why does his stomach feel so queasy and his skin so itchy? Why does he want to plug his ears even though he’s not hearing anything? It’s not jealousy, because what even is there to be jealous of, exactly? A parody of love and intimacy that makes one of the most vibrant people in his life look and act like a glass-eyed, ball-jointed doll? No, it’s almost certainly not jealousy; but it’s not disgust, and it’s absolutely not arousal. It’s not happiness. It’s not embarrassment. It’s not offense. It’s…it’s…

What is this? What’s wrong with him?

“ Goodness me.” It takes Wallace’s breathy little exclamation for Steven to realize that they’ve finally stopped kissing.“ You certainly know how to surprise me, Duke Siebold.”

Siebold lets go of Wallace’s shoulders and takes a step back. At least he has the self-awareness to be thrown off-balance by his own actions. “ Forgive me, I don’t–”

“ Oh, silly man; there’s nothing to forgive.” Wallace is quick to cut him off. “ After all, this is why you’re here with me, oui?” He reaches up with his right hand to glide his polished fingernails along the duke’s pink-dusted cheek. “ We could have simply met in one of the private rooms in the club if you’d simply wanted to talk business, but non; you came to the copperajah because you want me. There’s no shame in that.:

With a touch as light and dulcet as a cincinno’s fur, Wallace trails his hand down the curve of Siebold’s jaw, then his shoulder, before mapping a lazy path down his arm. Once he reaches the wrist, he rests the pads of his fingers at the duke’s pulse point, grinning like the meowth that ate the cream when he’s rewarded with a soft, strangled moan. Siebold’s hands spasm at his sides before clenching into fists.

“ I’m starting to think,” Siebold rasps, “ that you’re capable of weaving spells, Monsieur Mikuri.”

Wallace chuckles. “ I would not appreciate being called a ‘‘sea witch’ or ‘siren’; otherwise, you can imagine my abilities however you like.”

Siebold’s throat bobs. The cords of his neck snap taught and trembling. Steven’s hands creep toward his ears. Just then, the lights flicker before cutting out completely, and Wallace and Milotic make almost comically similar sounds of surprise. In the midst of his own bewilderment, Steven quickly realizes that Illumise’s glow may attract attention from under the bed, so he snags the little lightning bug and tucks her in the folds of his coat.

“ Goodness me.” Wallace breathes, and as Steven’s eyes adjust to the sudden change in light, he can see that one of his hands has come up to cover his mouth. “ There must be trouble in the generator room–that, or someone tampered with the wiring to my room.”

“ Does that happen often?” Siebold asks. Wallace sighs dramatically and drops his hand.

“ You would be surprised at the hostility I’m capable of incurring from my fellow courtesans, Duke Siebold.”

“ I would not, actually. Greatness and superiority to spur jealousy from those who can never achieve such heights.” Siebold sees something on Wallace’s face that he likes, because his entire being seems to soften in the firelight, and he reaches up to rest his thumb on Wallace’s chin. “ I’ll go look to see what’s going on.”

Wallace hesitates, biting his lower lip, and suddenly looks quite nervous. It almost seems like he’s inventing a fear of the dark–which, given that they literally met in the earliest hours of the morning, is another exemplary bit of acting on his part. “ Are you…sure? I don’t mean to inconvenience you even more than you have today.”

“ For you? I believe I’d suffer a thousand inconveniences with a smile.”

Wallace hesitates for a few more polite seconds before yielding with a sigh. “ Oh, if you insist. If the elevator isn’t working, you’ll have to use the stairwell. It’s behind the curtain to the right of the elevator.”

“ Very well.” Siebold takes one of Wallace’s hands and kisses the back before letting it drop. “ Fret not, I’ll be back once the trouble has resolved.”

“ I shall await with bated breath, my dear duke.”

In fact, it seems like both Wallace and Steven are holding their breath as the duke turns and exits the room with wide, purposeful strides. Once the door shuts behind him, there are steps that fade the farther they become, then the rustling of a heavy curtain, the opening of an even heavier door, and the slam of it being yanked shut. It’s only until both are certain that Siebold is gone that they release the breaths they’ve been holding.

“ Oh, thank the Weather Lords,” Wallace groans. “ Better late than never, I suppose; I was about ready to fake an injury to get him to leave!” He takes a moment to slip out of his shoes and toss them off towards the sitting area and breathes an even bigger sigh of relief. “ I almost regret buying those dreadful things, but they’re the only pair that go with this outfit, which I have been putting together for a week when I found out this meeting was arranged.”

“ Why didn’t you wear the pair I bought you?” Steven asks. He gives Milotic’s back a pat, and she churrs and slithers out of the way, allowing him to escape from beneath the bed and push himself to his knees. He works his fingers, elbows, and shoulders and winces when his joints crack far more loudly than anticipated. Wallace gives him a fondly exasperated look.

“ The pair you bought me are very nice and comfortable, darling, but they are not the kind of shoes that will seduce a duke.” He holds out a hand and hauls Steven to his feet when he takes it. “ Honestly, I’d do laps around the nightclub in these shoes if it means earning his investment. Things are going much better than I’d hoped.”

“ Are they? I mean, with the duke; you’re obviously doing fantastically, Wallace.”

The consort’s cheeks flush. “ Am I?”

“ Of course you are!” Steven takes his manuscript from Wallace and sets it on the table before taking his hands and giving them a reassuring squeeze. “ You’re playing Siebold like a…a musical virtuoso plays a toxtricity’s gills! Honestly, I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were casting some sort of spell on him!”

“ Oh, dearest Steven; flattery will get you everywhere with me.” With a fond laugh and a cocky smirk, Wallace lets go of Steven’s hands to tweak his nose, making him squawk and bat him away in protest. Milotic trills in amusement from where she’s made herself comfortable in the pokemon pool. “ As I said before, I’m damn good at my job, regardless of whether I like doing it or not. It also helps that you gave me that hint about his being a water pokemon specialist; I think Milotic tipped him over the edge far sooner than I would have alone.”

” Well, Milotic is stunning,” Steven agrees. “ Just as stunning as her master.”

“ Bah!” Wallace rolls his eyes to the ceiling and moves to his partner to give her some well-deserved rubs and scratches. “ While I may indeed be gorgeous—and thank you for noticing—she’s clearly the most beautiful of the two of us.”

Steven snorts. “ I don’t know about that, but I do know she’s the less big-headed one.”

” Maybe I’ll deflate a bit if you stop complimenting me so much.”

“ Me? Stop complimenting you? Impossible.”

“ Then suffer the consequences of your actions.”

“ With pleasure.” Steven sits down heavily on the bed and fishes Illumise out of his coat pocket, perching her atop the nightstand to allow her some fresh air and breathing room. “ What now?”

” It depends on the extent of the power outage, but when the lights come back on, we’ll probably have less than five minutes before the duke’s return.” Wallace gives Milotic a smooch on her snout. “ Either way, we should have more than enough time to hide you on the roof with the spheals until he leaves, so long as you stay mostly flat.”

“ Mostly flat?”

” I think a man standing atop the copperajah would be quite noticeable to all but the most absinthe-drunk patron, Steven!” Wallace’s spreading smile belies the annoyance in his voice. “ Now, very carefully, crack open the door to the roof or look out the window and see how crowded it is out there and if you can see any other parts of the club without power.”

Steven raises an eyebrow. “ You’re literally standing by both of them.”

Wallace hums as he continues to rub down Milotic. “ I’m very, very busy, in case you can’t tell.”

“ Mhm. Busy. Alright.”

While the geologist grouses, there’s clearly no weight to his words, and he even takes a moment to give Milotic his own pets (because she’s such a good girl! The most beautiful and clever girl in the world, truly befitting her role as the only water type he likes as much as steel! He’ll be sure to bring her some cream puffs as a treat tomorrow!) before stepping around the pool and walking to the window, deciding a quick glance would be less noticeable than cracking open a door. He grabs the edge of the curtain, lifts it just enough to expose the glass, and peeks around the fabric.

Wide and wild red eyes meet his steel blue, and he yelps and stumbles backwards, nearly tripping and falling into the pool in the process. Both Milotic and Wallace are quick to stop his fall with their snout and hands respectively.

” Steven?! What’s the matter?!” Panic rises in Wallace’s voice. “ Has there been some kind of accident outside?! Did the voltorb and electrode self-destruct again?!”

Without saying another word, Steven dashes over to the concealed door, throws open the curtain, and pushes open the door with prejudice, uncaring of who may see.

Besides, he’s currently not the oddest sight to behold on the copperajah.

” Flannery?! Shauntal?! What are you two doing here?!” Steven notices something else. “ And who the hell are you?!”

The two girls—who were kneeling on the metal grating of the stairwell but fell onto their rears when Steven burst onto the narrow landing—scoot backwards and hold up their hands placatingly. Well, Flannery holds up both hands placatingly, and the girl at least has the decency to be tomato berry-faced and mortified. Shauntal, on the other hand, tries to and fails to hide what appears to be an old wooden stethoscope behind her back before the geologist can see. Steven would be far more incensed at the blatant implication if he wasn’t thrown off by the strange, adult man standing off to the opposite side of the girls, who’s clearly frazzled and not knowing what to do with his hands.

At least, Steven thinks, I’m not the only one who’s pressed in this situation.

“ I am so, so, so incredibly sorry!” The other man groans. It takes a moment for Steven to place the accent, but it eventually clicks as Paldean, though the type of Paldean a foreigner learns to speak after years of acclimation. He’s close to middle aged, with flat, shoulder-length blond hair, slightly bowed legs, bags under his amber eyes, and deep nasolabial folds. He somehow looks like an artisan and librarian all at once. “ I had stepped out to get food while we waited for Brass and the others to return, and I didn’t realize Shauntal and Flannery had snuck out until I returned, and they’d slipped by the tall man at the counter—“

It clicks for Steven, then, and he finds himself relaxing slightly. “ Are you Hassel?”

The man’s eyes widen. “ Yes! How did you know?”

“ I’m Steven. You probably knew that already.” Steven gives the two young women a cold, steely look befitting of his preferred type. “ Brassius and the others mentioned you were coming. He was upset because he thought you’d reneged on the meeting.”

” I did no such thing!” Hassel sounds positively affronted at the idea. “ I just thought it would be best to wait for him at his lodgings rather than trying to track him down in a packed night club! Besides, I was told of its reputation when I was asking for directions, and I…I wasn’t sure if he was serious about meeting here…”

Steven can’t help but be amused as the other man coughs and fidgets with the knot of his tie. Good! Someone else new to this whole fiasco who also feels completely out of their depth! He’s not alone! His feelings are normal! This does feel like you’ve suddenly fallen through one of Hoopa’s rings!

” No, he was serious, but not about the bordello bit.” Steven is proud at how nonchalant he sounds about the whole thing at this point. “ This nightclub has a lot of different acts. Anyway, It’s nice to make your acquaintance.”

He holds out a hand to shake with Hassel, which he does, awkwardly, while receiving a strange look in return. Given how many he’s gotten over the course of the evening, however, the geologist finds himself unfazed.

“ I wish I could say the same, but I must admit, I think we’ve met under very un-ideal circumstances.” Hassel sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose when he releases Steven’s hand. “ Shauntal had mentioned her curiosity in how her play was being received—“

Steven’s veins fill with ice. Fuck. Fuck.

“—but I had no idea she actually intended to sneak over here!” He finishes, giving the writer a murderous look. “ What were you thinking, young lady?! Both of you, none the less! Miss Flannery!”

Shauntal pouts while Flannery stammers.

“ I was actually taking a nap when I woke up and realized she was gone!” She explains, rising to her feet and brushing off her pants. “ I saw all the bedsheets in the room were gone aside from the bed I was sleeping on, and Phoebe said Shauntal had asked her help in making a sheet rope as a prop…”

Flannery nods her head over at the railing, where sure enough, there was a rope of well-loved bed linens that had been lassoed over one of the short posts of the railing. Steven is briefly tempted to fashion it into a noose and hang himself.

”…and she’d already climbed up by the time I got here.” She continues, ducking her head in shame. “ By then, she was already listening in, but we…it sounded like you’d left and it was just Mikuri and the duke, so I tried to tell her we should leave, but then they talked about how they were going to read the play, and…”

Flannery trails off and buries her face in her hands. Steven can’t help but take pity on her, and reaches out and ruffles her coarse, red hair, smiling tiredly but genuinely when she peeks up through her long bangs.

“ We were going to stop listening once Mikuri went to work!” It’s Shauntal’s turn to rise to own her defense as she slips the stethoscope into her bag and stands up. “ We weren’t trying to be like…like that! It’s just that it’s my play, and everyone insists on keeping not just myself, but Flannery out of the loop, simply because we’re younger! It’s our play too!”

” And our future!” Flannery adds, dropping her hands. “ We’re not just along for the ride! We have nowhere else to go if this falls apart! We’re a part of the troupe, too!”

“ Of course you are, darling—and you have a right to have some say in your fate, even if you are young.”

Steven spins around to see Wallace standing behind them, hip resting against the railing and arms crossed over his chest, regarding the two young women with sympathy in his smile and a strange heaviness in his eyes. It makes Steven’s own heart sink a bit in his chest.

” Ohmygosh, ohmygosh, ohmygosh!” Flannery once more tries to meld her face with her palms. “ Monsieur Mikuri, I’m so, so, so, so, so, so, so sorry!! We just wanted to find out if we’d really get our show! We really weren’t going to listen in on the…the other parts! I swear on my torkoal’s life!!”

The redhead’s voice cracks and squeaks at the last part, and Shauntal actually giggles, only to be mollified back into silence by Steven and Hassel’s stone cold glares. Wallace sighs and chidingly clucks his tongue before shifting his weight back onto his bare, stockinged feet and padding over to them, being careful to avoid the more angular and pointed sections of the iron grate.

“ Ease off, gentlemen. I’d have done the same thing in their shoes.”

The instruction is light but cool, and Steven immediately complies, stepping back and allowing him to address Shauntal and Flannery without overcrowding them. Hassel hesitates a moment longer, but Steven coughs and jerks his head in a silent order, and the older man sighs and also slides out of the way. Mercifully, it looks like the power outage is not localized to just the copperajah, and the only electric lights Steven can see are from the streetlights and surrounding neighborhood. While the black blobs of patrons in the courtyard are clearly concerned, they either can’t see them atop the statue or don’t have any reason to look, and his shoulders slump with relief.

We have a bit more time, then. Steven puts his thumbnail to his lips as he thinks, thinks, and thinks some more. Maybe we can get the girls and Hassel down and away from the copperajah before they’re noticed…

“ You’re not mad?” Flannery squeaks, peeking out through the gaps in her fingers. Wallace chuckles and tenderly strokes her head.

“ Of course not. Granted, I don’t appreciate most people listening in on me as I do my work—“

With that, a shamefaced Shauntal casts her gaze down to her feet, finally seeming to realize the intrusiveness of her actions. Wallace clucks his tongue at the sight before reaching out to adjust her glasses back over her nose.

”—but as I said, I would have done the same thing if my fate had been at stake. In fact…”

The courtesan’s gaze grows heavier, and he opens his mouth to say something, only to close it and chortle as he changes his mind. Steven spins his rings and makes a mental note to ask about it later.

“ Well, let’s just see that while I’m not exactly pleased with your intrusion, I can certainly understand your motivation…even sympathize.” Wallace sighs and lifts one arm enough to nibble the knuckle of his index finger. “ Although, I’m afraid you’ve put us in quite a predicament.”

Shauntal blinks. “ What do you mean?”

As if to answer her question, the lights to the entirety of the Moulin Rouge flicker to life all at once, and Steven watches in horror as those scattered in the courtyard begin to look around as they murmur in relief. Eventually, their eyes turn up to the copperajah, and the murmurs escalate into gasps and cries of surprise as they spot the star of the Moulin Rouge standing atop the external landing with two men and two young women, with the sheet rope clearly visible to all. Realizing this, Hassel makes a strangled noise and hurriedly pulls it up, but the damage has been done.

“ That.” Wallace says simply. “ If your intrusion hadn’t been so obvious, we could’ve shuffled you three up with Steven to the roof—but with so many people seeing, word will get back to Rose. And the duke.”

All of the color drains from Shauntal’s already pale face as Flannery sinks her teeth into the meat of her thumb to avoid crying out. Hassel still seems a bit lost to the whole situation (and really, who can blame him?), but he does recognize that the inconvenience has escalated into a potential crisis with life-changing repercussions, and his face is creased even more prominently than baseline as he unties the blanket rope from the railing and flings the whole apparatus through the open door.

Steven and Wallace, meanwhile, stare at each other as the gears turn in their head, with the latter nibbling on the knuckle of his index finger and the former spinning his rings with furrowed brow.

Think, Steven! Think!

” You said five minutes?” Fortunately for Steven, since he’s not standing in the middle of a social gathering or sweat-palmed at the head of the conglomerate’s boardroom table, his adaptability and crisis management skills are operating at his champion best rather than Devon worst. “ As an estimate for the duke coming back after the lights come on.”

“ It depends on how far he went to search for the source of the problem; if it was all the way to the generator room, then ten minutes at maximum. Five minutes is the far safer bet.” Wallace drops his hand from his mouth and turns to Steven. “ What do you have in mind?”

Steven doesn’t answer at first; instead, he turns to Hassel. “ Did anyone see you three climb up here?” “ Not me, no. I was very concerned about how it would look if I was seen sneaking into a courtesan’s abode.” Hassel even flushes at the thought. “ I’m not sure about the young ladies…”

Shanutal shakes her head. “ No, I swear on Xerneas’s golden hooves to both of you; most everyone was still inside enjoying the show, and I used Chandelure’s trick room to distort the space around Flannery and myself. If anyone did see something, it would’ve just been a ripple in the air.”

“ What an excellent use of trick room reality mechanics!” Steven crows. “ You have a knowledge of pokemon moves that would find a welcome home in any regional league!”

Shauntal flushes red and presses her fingers to her cheeks in delight at the praise. Given Grimsley’s dry and unforgiving commentary about her draft plays, Steven can’t help but wonder just how much praise she actually gets on a day to day basis, and his heart sinks when he remembers just what she’s going to discover about the script actually being presented to the duke. It makes him reach out and ruffle her hair with a smile that he hopes isn’t too apologetic. Wallace smiles at the sight, then delicately covers his mouth with his fingers, almost like a reflex.

“ Pokemon knowledge aside,” Wallace murmurs, “ I take it your conclusion is that if no one saw the three of them arrive, then it means you can say you yourself were in the group and not hiding under the bed the whole time.”

“ Wait, you were hiding under the courtesan’s bed?” Hassel chokes. “ While he was with a client?”

Wallace gives him a pointed look. “ Yes, by accident, and it was my plan in the first place to get him out before any sexual activity occurred, so do me a favor and close your mouth, Monsieur. It’s entirely unflattering.”

Hassel’s chin only drops further as Flannery snickers and Shauntal giggles. Steven ignores all three of them along with his hot ears.

“ Here’s what we’re going to do.” Steven’s tone takes on the same patient but unmistakably firm and no-nonsense tone he uses for league business, and the three interlopers almost immediately forget their embarrassment and stand at attention, which makes Wallace snicker behind his hand.

“ This is the story: I met with…with Mikuri after his performance backstage and gave him the script to review with the duke. I spent an hour or so exploring before deciding to head back to the Hotel, and I ran into Hassel on my way back to the hotel, who informed me about you two sneaking out to peep in on his meeting with the duke. I went with him to help coax you two down, but in the process, the power went out and we made enough of a ruckus to alert Mikuri, who–very understandably–wanted to know what four strange people were doing on his balcony, including the man he just spoke with about the play.”

Steven’s eyes narrow.

“ At no point was I ever in the copperajah itself until just now.” The geologist’s normally amiable voice is cold and stern, which makes the girls stand all the straighter. Wallace’s smile only widens behind his fingers. “ Are we clear? If the duke finds out I was there while he was, he will think the worst, and you can forget about your Victini show in any way, shape, or form. Not only that, but Monsieur Mikuri will likely get in trouble for a situation that is not in any way, shape, or form his fault, and it may permanently damage his reputation. He does not deserve that. Are we in agreement?”

Shauntal nods solemnly, as does Hassel, but only after regarding Steven with a look that reminds the champion far too much of how Grimsley saw through him back at the hotel. The geologist tries to look him in the eyes, but his temples throb when he tries to hold focus, so he allows his gaze to deflect to Wallace.

The pounding eases almost instantly.

“ Of course!” Flannery’s face and voice are chiseled with determination as she holds up her clenched fists. Steven is trying very, very hard to not laugh at the sight and accidentally come off as patronizing, which has occurred too many times to count. “ We don’t want anyone to get in trouble, let alone Monsieur Mikuri, who’s doing this very, very nice thing for us and looks very beautiful, and I always wanted to tell him that, so now I have!”

It’s Shauntal’s turn to blush as she yanks one of her friend’s thick ponytails. “ Flannery!”

“ Oh, it’s alright.” Wallace drops his hand from his mouth with a husky chuckle and gives Flannery a playful wink, which makes her ‘eep’ and hide partially behind Hassel in response. “ Genuine compliments are actually quite lovely when it comes to my line of work.”

Hassel frowns. “ I find that hard to believe.”

“ Well, you’ve never made a living by morphing your body to fit the desires of other people, have you?”

There’s a blade wrapped within silk in Wallace’s smile and the trill of the question, and it makes Hassel gulp and take a step back, putting up his hands and wincing as if the knife was about to go for his throat. Instead of figurative or literal carnage, however, Wallace snorts in derision before beckoning for the others to head inside.

The girls share a look before scampering into the copperajah like it was a suite of a five-star hotel, and their cries of wonder at the opulence of the furnishings mix with Milotic’s coos of confusion as Hassel awkwardly slips through the space between Wallace and Steven and follows suit.

“ What’re you going to do?” Wallace asks once they’re alone. For the first time, Steven notices that he’s shivering, and he hurriedly sips off his own coat before throwing it around the taller man’s body.

“ Simple.” Steven takes a step back and smiles with as much self-assurance as he can muster, and his heart does a little flip as Wallace–soft-cheeked and delightfully disarmed–carefully adjusts the too-small coat so that it lies across his shoulders, crossing his arms and holding the lapels as if it’s a cape with a broken tie. “ The Victinis asked me to pitch their show for them. I think it’s safe to say that I’ve done my job with you, but you’re not the one with the final say.”

“ No, I’m not.” Wallace agrees. He takes a step closer to Steven and smiles down at him as he rubs his thumbs over the smooth gray wooloo wool. “ Do you think you can convince the duke?”

“ With you here to grease the wheels? I think we have a good shot. After all…”

Steven smirks and leans forward, and Wallace too dips closer, tipping his head forward as if he’s about to hear some juicy gossip.

“...I’ve spent my whole life around men and women like him.” The geologist finishes. “ I know them and how they work, what makes them tick, and what they like to hear.” He shifts awkwardly on his feet. “ I’m not…good in a boardroom, let alone the conglomerate’s, but outside of it–”

“ As your other day job.”

“...yes.” Steven is immeasurably thankful that Wallace doesn’t risk saying said job title aoud–not with two excitable young women and a slightly less but still impressively excitable man just through the open door. “ As my other profession, I hold up fairly well. More than fairly well, depending on who you ask.”

“ I can see it.” Wallace smirks. “ And you don’t see this as a business deal?”

“ I did before. I don’t anymore. I want this, too.”

Steven doesn’t tell Wallace why, because he made a promise to hold off on emotional outbursts and demonstrations until later tonight, and he wants to keep every promise he makes to him. So he doesn’t say that the moment he found out just how important a successful theater with a successful show would be for not just his life, but his future, the geologist stopped seeing the promotion of the play as a business transaction and started seeing it more like a battle he had to win. Granted, there are no pokemon, but tactics are tactics and versatility is versatility; and as the IPL-designated High Champion of the Hoenn Regional Pokemon League, Steven is literally one of the strongest there is right now.

And the duke?

Well, Steven’s never lost a battle against the Elite Four of Hoenn, and he’s certainly not going to lose to one from an entirely different region. The fact that no pokemon will be involved is irrelevant.

Siebold will lose, and Steven will win, and Wallace will be happy. That’s all that matters.

The champion voices none of this, however; instead, he lightly rests a hand on the small of his friend’s back as they walk across the thin metal landing and step through the door into the red room.

Chapter Text

Once Wallace and Steven step back into the red room from the landing, Steven bolts and covers the door behind him, and Wallace folds Steven’s coat over his arm and hands it back to him with a murmur of thanks.

It’s only when Steven drapes his coat over the top of the book cabinet in lieu of a proper rack that he realizes how oddly quiet the room has become, and he realizes why the moment he turns around and sees Shauntal sitting on the edge of the bed, face ashen and hands trembling as she white-knuckles the manuscript that was supposed to be hers. Flannery is sitting on the bed next to her, rubbing her back soothingly as she reads over her shoulder, and Steven can see Grimsley’s note laid out in the redhead’s lap. Hassel stands in the sitting area, holding his hands to the fireplace, and Illumise has found herself a new seat at the base of his thick cowlick.

Steven feels his heart plummet to his feet. He doesn’t know what to say.

“ I can assure you, Mademoiselle Shauntal, that Steven did not know Grimsley switched the manuscripts until he removed it from his coat pocket to show me.” Wallace, fortunately, always seems to find the words that Steven has lost. The courtesan strokes Milotic’s snout and kisses the crown of her head before moving to stand with Steven. “ Unfortunately, there is no time to fetch your work, so we have no choice but to press forward with Steven’s text. I am truly sorry.”

Shauntal looks up at Steven from behind her coke bottle glasses with dark, sodden eyes, and it strikes the champion that she doesn’t look at all surprised. There’s hurt carved into her smile and anger in how tightly she clutches his manuscript, but otherwise, she just looks defeated.

“ It’s good.” Steven was expecting those words even less than he was expecting a lack of anger, and he can only imagine the stupified look on his face as she looks back down at the pages and relaxes her death grip, running her thumbs along the sides. “ It really is good, Steven, and…probably what they were looking for. More than what I’m able to give them.”

Flannery winces. “ Shaunty–”

“ I’m…” Shauntal squeezes her eyes shut, sucks in a deep breath, and whistles it through her lips. Her thumbs fip the pages up and down, up and down, up and down. “ I’ll be okay. Really. I’ll…I’ll have another chance, right? Maybe with a more…more eclectic audience, like Burgh always says. But…if this is supposed to be a Victini show, how much more eclectic can you get?”

Steven and Wallace exchange miserable looks before simultaneously looking to the clock. There’s no time to comfort, not really, and they should probably work on getting their story straight instead. Steven can talk to Shauntal later. Comfort her. Explain things a bit better. Maybe bring her Grimsley’s head on a platter as a consolation prize.

Yet as the young woman hangs her head between her quivering shoulders and tries to suck down her tears, Steven–who is an impatient man at baseline–finds himself completely without patience in the face of her misery. He kneels down in front of her, pulls the manuscript from her hands, and hands it to Wallace before taking Shauntal’s hands.

“ Be my co-writer!”

Shauntal startles at the forcefulness of his words and studies Steven’s equally stern face with a look of confusion. “ What?”

“ I wrote this because of you!” Steven gives her hands a shake. “ This is the first thing I’ve ever written that isn’t a textbook, and I was inspired because you’d always throw your drafts out the window, and they’d blow into my room because of the breeze from the red windmill! This was just supposed to be a gift for a friend–I wasn’t intending on publishing it or anything– but I…I never would’ve written it if you hadn’t inspired me.”

“ You…” At first, Shauntal seems to think he’s making fun of her, but she swiftly rethinks the notion at the sheer determination in Steven’s eyes and voice. She blinks wetly–torn between disbelief and hope–and looks to Flannery, who seems equally stunned. “ You don’t have to say this to spare my feelings–”

“ Oh, I can assure you; he’s completely serious.” Wallace has settled himself on the edge of the pokemon pool and is now stoking Milotic’s head from where it’s resting on his lap. “ Even though I’ve known him for only a short time, I highly doubt Monsieur Tsuwabuki knows how to lie without making it look completely transparent, so I’d take him at his word.”

Shauntal sniffs and smushes her lips together.

“...you wrote this because of me?” She rasps. Steven nods and smiles.

“ Only because of you, and…you’ve looked through it, obviously. It’s not finished yet. I have reasons for it not being finished, but…it was supposed to be read like a novel or short story, not a play. I have no experiencing in writing for the stage, let alone writing fiction in the first place, so–” There’s the ding of an elevator, and everyone turns their heads to look at the door, then each other.

“ Let’s write the rest of it together, Shauntal!” Steven speaks with more urgency but no less sincerity. “ The duke’s going to want more than what I have right now! You’re surely better at coming up with ideas on the spot than I am! Let’s get through this and get your show!”

Another, fainter ding. Flannery gulps and Hassel runs his fingers through his coarse blond hair. They have a matter of seconds. Wallace makes no move to get up and pre-empt the inevitable knock at the door. Maybe a few more seconds.

Shauntal looks at the door, then at Wallace, then at Steven. She sucks in another deep breath, and just like that, she is a woman transformed. Color returns to her cheeks and life to her eyes, and with a grateful smile at Steven, she takes a corner of her dress and gives her face a quick wipe. Steven and Wallace share a smile of their own as the former rises to his feet.

A loud ding.

“ We just have to give him enough of an outline to prove we have a finished product.” She takes Steven’s offered hand and gasps as he pulls her to her feet. “ So strong! You really are quite dashing, Monsieur Tsuwabuki.”

The sound of footsteps exiting the elevator. Multiple pairs. “ Focus!” Flannery hisses. Shauntal’s cheeks pink and Wallace chuckles.

“ It’s true!” The footsteps approach. “ You handle the first part and I’ll help you with the second half!”

“ So will I.” The pair turn to see Wallace shooing Milotic’s head from his lap so he can stand. He brushes off his stockings and adjusts his robe so that it hangs evenly off his shoulders before giving them a secretive little smirk. “ I think I know how some of it should go.”

Steven’s breath hitches in his chest. “ Really?”

The smirk sweetens into a smile. “ Really; in fact, I have the sneaking suspicion that you’ll quite like what I have in mind.”

There’s a sharp knock at the door. “ Mikuri! What’s going on in there?!”

Wallace sighs. “ Rose. Fantastic. Obviously, word’s gotten back to him that I have guests.” Rather than going to the door, he moves to the sitting area and folds himself gracefully into one of the chairs, crossing his legs at the ankle and loosely crossing his arms at the waist before calling out. “ Would you mind unlocking the door yourself, Chairman? As you have probably heard, I’m entertaining some unexpected company!”

“ Oh, for the love of…this isn’t the time for your sass, Mikuri!” Nonetheless, there’s the sound of jangling keys, then the turning of the lock. “ There had better be a good explanation for this!”

“ If by ‘good’ you mean ‘completely and utterly ridiculous’, then yes, there is.”

Steven forces his bemusement off his face as he listens to the sound of Rose cursing intelligibly, then the jangling of keys, then curing and the jangling of keys mixed together into a cacophonic soup. Wallace hides his smile behind an elegant hand and makes absolutely no move to get up and help.

Finally, there’s the sound of a key being shoved with prejudice into the lock, then angry clicking, before the door is all but flung open, revealing a red-faced Rose trailed closely by a malevolent Oleana. Siebold is next, who—mercifully—looks more confused than angered by the mismatched group of people in Wallace’s room; and following closely behind him are—

“ Hass!”

Hassel’s face lights up. “ Brass!”

Siebold yelps as a jarringly overjoyed Brassius suddenly shoves past him, and Hassel almost barrels Rose and Oleana over as he crosses the room to meet him halfway. Wallace moves, then, and as Brassius and Hassel embrace like long-lost lovers, the courtesan glides over to the duke, resting a careful hand on his shoulder and whispering apologies and explanations as his face creases and flushes in the perfect picture of shamfacedness. Siebold falls for it hook, line, and sinker, and every muscle in his body seems to relax as he touches Wallace’s cheek and quietly replies in turn.

Steven would like to try to read his lips, but the last thing he needs to do is risk kicking a dying fire, so he turns his attention to watch Flannery and Shauntal as they swarm Rose and Oleana, falling to their knees and grabbing their clothes as they wail their remorse in complete unison—as if they’ve been practicing for this moment for days rather than thinking up their prostrations on the fly. Maybe they will make excellent actors; at least, Steven finds himself pleasantly surprised and impressed, while Rose and Oleana are clearly torn between playing nice and throwing the girls off. The presence of the duke and the strangers, however, seems to cool their ire—or at least force them to fake magnanimity.

Wonderful. This is going far better than Steven had imagined just a minute ago. The geologist even rocks back on his heels in pleasure before shifting back onto the flats of his feet.

” What’s the story?”

Steven jumps as Grimsley’s voice slinks into his ear, and he subconsciously starts spinning his rings as he turns to find the gambler standing at his shoulder, with Nanu, Marshal, Valerie, and Phoebe creeping in behind with varying levels of trepidation, wonder, and—in Nanu’s case—amusement. Grimsley at least has the decency to look somewhat apologetic, which tempers Steven’s annoyance, even though he fixes him with a cold, steely look.

” I met Mikuri in the club earlier and was walking back to the hotel when I ran into Hassel, who told me that the girls snuck off to spy on his meeting with the duke.” Steven whispers. “ We were trying to get them down off the copperajah when Mikuri caught us. I’m guessing Phoebe came to warn you?”

” She did.” Grimsley winces and rubs the back of his head as he watches the rest of the troupe filter in with one clear absence. “ Good. That’s the story we told the duke and Rose. We ran to try to pre-empt them. If the duke hadn’t been with him, he probably would’ve ordered one of his guards to shoot us.” He steps a few inches closer. “ You’ve got this?”

Steven’s eyes narrow further. “ I don’t think I have much of a choice. Just stand back and keep quiet. I’ll handle it.”

The gambler smiles silk. “ You don’t have to tell me twice. Burgh’s downstairs blowing into a paper bag; he’ll come up once he’s calmed down and won’t accidentally blow the whole thing out of proportion.”

” I was able to calm Shauntal down before you all arrived. She’s going to help me co-write the play that I am apparently writing for the troupe.” The champion’s jaw clenches. “ You owe her, Grimsley. I’ll do this for you, but you owe her.”

Grimsley winces. “ Yeah. I know.”

” And me.”

A more painful grimace. “ I know, I know. Did Mikuri like it, though?”

” My story?” Steven’s head is filled with the memory of Wallace’s touched expression and glossy eyes, and he suddenly can’t stop smiling, which clearly throws Grimsley through a loop. “ Yeah. Yeah, he did. Quite a bit.”

” I’m…glad to hear it.”

Grimsley clearly wants to ask more questions, but Nanu’s boisterous laughter stops him in his tracks, and he and Steven turn to see Nanu doubled-over laughing at…something, while Phoebe and Valerie coo and Marshal gapes.

“ Are you kidding me?” Nanu wheezes, almost in tears. “ Is this a prank? Fini’s soggy tits, I thought you two were just college friends! What the fuck, Brassius?!”

Steven and Grimsley follow their stares just in time to see Brassius and Hassel break what was apparently a deep kiss, though their arms remain wrapped around their upper backs and shoulders, even as Hassel blushes as red as a tomato berry. Brassius, however, is completely unrepentant.

“ Of course we were,” Brassius crows, looking like the meowth that ate the cream as he looks up at his slightly taller paramour. “ We’re also making up for lost time, so to speak. I wasn’t exaggerating when I said our meeting again was about love.”

Hassel chokes on his inhale, but it’s clearly not out of unpleasant surprise, given how his eyes shimmer and his hands tighten on Brassus’s shoulders. Steven can’t help but smile at the sight.

Love. Yeah, love is pretty nice, isn’t it? That’s one Victini tenant everyone can agree upon. Probably. His grandfather wouldn’t, but that would surprise absolutely no one. It’s an open family secret that his grandmother threw herself down the stairs to get away from him.

” Steven?”

The geologist is jolted out of his musings by Wallace’s voice, and he turns—fingers still idly spinning his rings—as Wallace walks over with the duke in arm. A flame of panic flashes over in Steven’s stomach; because while the Elite Four are considered purely an intraregional concern and are all but irrelevant in the discussions he’s had with the other IPL champions, and while he doesn’t think he’s met a member of another region’s Elite Four until now, there’s still a slim chance Siebold may know who he is—either through non-league business or through Diantha prior to his exile.

If he does, then the gig is more than up—it’s practically vaporized.

Fortunately, there’s no hint of recognition on Siebold’s face, though he does give Steven a curious once-over as the pair approach. Wallace briefly catches Steven’s eye and gives him a reassuring wink.

“ Steven, I’d like to introduce you to Duke Siebold of Monrath.” Wallace smoothly releases Siebold’s arm as they stop in front of the shorter man. “ My dear duke, allow me to introduce you to Steven Tsuwabuki, the newest playwright of Burgh’s theater troupe. We had a wonderful conversation about it between my show and my returning here to wait for your arrival.”

Siebold nods and holds out his hand. “ It’s a pleasure, Monsieur Tsuwabuki.”

“ The pleasure is mine, Duke Siebold.” Steven reaches out and shakes his hand with the practice and confidence of one who has been shaking hands from boyhood. “ Though I’m sorry we had to meet under these circumstances. I can’t tell you how sorry I am for the intrusion.”

Just out of Siebold’s peripheral vision, Wallace demurely covers his mouth to hide his smile, clearly tickled at how well the ruse is being received. His delight only grows as Siebold nods in understanding and crooks the right corner of his mouth upward. First mission accomplished.

“ I won’t lie and say that I’m not disappointed by the disruption of my evening plans,” Siebold murmurs, “ but I think Mikuri is correct in that it may be better in the end to get the business out of the way before focusing on…other matters.”

Invisible fingers crawl their way up the back of Steven’s neck. “ Of course.”

With a smile that feels painfully tight on his cheeks, Steven releases Siebold’s hand just in time for Burgh to stumble and all but fall into the room, panting like he’s run a mile. Before he can even fully haul himself to his feet, Rose breaks away from the now placated Flannery and Shauntal and whirls to face him, face ruddy and twisted with rage. Even tough, brawny Marshal gulps and takes a step back as the club’s owner stalks over to Burgh, grabs him by the collar, and yanks him forward until their faces are only a scant few centimeters apart.

“ I’ve had it up to here!” Rose growls, unheading of how Burgh instinctively flails out his arms and pushes weakly against the stockier man’s shoulders. None of the other members of the troupe react–clearly petrified of making things worse or drawing Rose’s ire–and Steven watches Oleana smirk in smug satisfaction where she stands next to the girls. The sight makes his blood boil. “ I’ve had it up to here with you and your little ragtag gaggle of charlatans making nuisances of yourselves, scuttling underfoot like desperate whimpods looking for scraps–!”

“ Do you have any other actors signed up to perform in your future theater, Chairman Rose?”

Rose’s next words die in his throat, and he and everyone else in the room slowly turns to stare at Steven, who stares down the venture capitalist with steel cute eyes and his right hand resting lightly on his hip. Even Oleana looks taken aback, though Steven refuses to let his own satisfaction at the sight get in the way of the matter at hand.

“ What did you say to me?” Rose releases Burgh’s collar and all but throws him off to the side as he stalks over to Steven, though his momentum falters after just a few steps when Steven barely reacts, simply regarding him with cool indifference.

“ I think you heard me well enough the first time. Do you have any other acting troupes–or actors in general–lined up to participate in your theater once the renovations are complete and the doors are open?”

From the way Rose’s eyes blow wide and how Oleana sucks in a breath, it’s clear that this isn’t a question that has been posed to them before, and Steven can’t help but wonder why that wasn’t one of the first arguments Burgh brought to the table during past negotiations. Then again, given how Burgh is now staring at Steven as if he’s bestowed upon him one of the secrets of the universe, it seems that he himself hadn’t even considered it until now. What has he even been saying to Rose this whole time? Does Steven even want to know?

“ As I was telling Duke Siebold earlier, the chairman has made quite a few inquiries over the past year.” With one last stroke of Siebold’s shoulder, Wallace smoothly inserts himself into the conversation, moving to stand next to Steven as Rose regards him with horror and wordless pleas to keep your mouth shut, Mikuri. Oleana’s fingernails dig into the arms of her smart coat. “ Oh, what’s the point in hiding it? I’ve already informed the duke of our troubles. The fact of the matter is that, yes, Rose has made countless inquiries, and he has received almost the same response every single time: that while it may be under consideration when the bordello is no longer a bordello and has a reputation as a respectable institution for thespians, it’s absolutely out of the question in its current state. No one wants to hitch their fate to a gaudy dance hall and all around den of sin, no matter how eagerly they partake of its functions.”

Rose’s lips curl into a snarl. “ Mikuri–”

Wallace stops him with a raised hand. “ Don’t. You know the answer and you also know that, even if you wholeheartedly agreed with my logic, you’re not the final decision maker.”

The courtesan drums his fingers on his crossed arms as he languidly inclines his head towards Siebold.

“ After all, even if you still refuse to give Burgh and the others the time of day, it’s the duke who will be deciding whether or not the theater remains a pipe dream, and he will inevitably have to put his rubber stamp on every aspect of our production. Is that not correct, my dear duke?”

The twist of Siebold’s lips lengthens into a proper smile. “ I believe you’re quite right, Monsieur Mikuri.” He meets the courtesan’s eyes for a long moment before forcibly breaking himself free of that captivating emerald-green gaze to regard Rose with the barely concealed disdain of old money being forced to entertain the new.

“ The names Burgh and Brassius are well-known amongst fine art collectors and enthusiasts, Monsieur Rose," the duke continues, " and Mademoiselle Valerie’s name is synonymous with Kalosian haute-couture fashion, albeit in smaller circles. Not only that, but as I look at Mademoiselle Kalamani, I believe I recognize her from a venture I made to Alola a few years past. She was the star of a traditional Alolan theater show, and not only did I myself find her performance excellent, but the entire archipelago considers her to be one of their foremost practitioners of native Alolan acting and dance. Or am I mistaken?”

Phoebe giggles and shakes her head.

“ You’re correct, Monsieur Siebold–though I left that all behind to care for my grandmother when she was dying.” She ignores the gaping of almost all of her friends and co-workers as she links her arms behind her back and rocks on her heels. Only Nanu seems unaffected; in fact, he regards Phoebe with the proud warmth of any grandparent. “ After she passed, I didn’t want to go home quite yet, and Uncle Nanu offered me a job with the troupe! His family and mine are close back on the archipelago and I’ve known him my whole life!”

“ You have?” Flannery hisses. “ And you didn’t tell us?”

Phoebe shrugs as Nanu chuckles. “ I just never saw a point. What’s the point of a new start if everyone knows who you were before?”

Even Siebold laughs. “ Quite right, Mademoiselle Kalamani. I look forward to potentially seeing you perform once again.” He then focuses back on Rose, and just like that, the mirth is swept away by a tidal wave of displeasure. “ While most of them may not be seasoned thespians, Chairman Rose, the grand majority of them are well-established in the art world, and are exactly the type of names that would draw in a new, more diverse audience to a new theater–especially one that, quite frankly, could use as much assistance with its reputation as possible. Did you simply not know of their popularity amongst the social elite, or did you simply consider it irrelevant because it’s not directly related to theater?”

In most circumstances, Steven and his father find such old rich haughtiness against the new laughable, because they consider any sense of superiority derived from one’s breeding, lineage, or income source as nothing more than a self-soothing delusion about one’s relevance in the world. In this particular circumstance, however, Steven finds nothing but joy in the way Rose stews and repeatedly relaxes his clenched teeth as he weathers Seibold’s patronizing onslaught. Oleana gapes like a beached magikarp before remembering herself and snapping her mouth shut. Marshal looks like he’s barely resisting the urge to burst out laughing while Burgh stares at Steven and Wallace in wonder. Even Grimsley looks impressed.

“ You…bring a perspective that I have, admittedly, not considered until now.” Rose finally grits out. Wallace makes a little noise of delight that the club owner pointedly ignores. “ However, one thing you’re forgetting is that every production needs a script, and we want to debut with something new and exciting rather than the same old Shakespeares and Hugos. Something truly Victini. However, up to this point–”

Regaining his bearings, Rose exhibits some disdain of his own, only it’s towards Shauntal rather than the duke. The girl shrinks slightly under his stare.

“--the troupe’s writer has not produced anything worth putting on stage.” He smarms. “ What good is a decent troupe if there’s not a play for it to perform? They can’t simply stand on an empty stage and improvise, now can they?”

“ What about the latest script? Have you reviewed it yet?” Every gaze in the world once more turns to the duke, and Rose is once again off balance as he desperately glances over his shoulder at Oleana, who looks equally confused. He clears his throat.

“ What do you mean, Duke Siebold?” He rasps. Steven’s not sure if he wants to rock on his ankles or hide under the bed again.

“ Monsieur Tsuwabuki here, with the assistance of Mademoiselle Shauntal, has started writing a completely new story–one filled with the concepts of beauty, freedom, truth, and love.” Wallace once more takes the lead, and Milotic helpfully slides out of the pokemon pool and slithers to the bed, where she picks up the manuscript in her teeth and nudges her way past the eclectic group of artisans to offer it to a clearly charmed Siebold. Steven, once again, wonders if Wallace wields some sort of charisma magic. “ I was just about to show it to Duke Siebold here before we lost power. If you all would mind being quiet for a few minutes…”

As Siebold takes the manuscript from Milotic and cracks it open, Rose approaches to read as well, only to be shooed away by the duke with his free hand. Pride bruised and ire piqued, Rose rubs his face before sitting heavily in one of the armchairs by the fire, with Oleana allowing herself a moment of exhaustion and settling into the other with a tired sigh. Flannery and Shauntal plop on the bed and scoot together until their shoulders touch, Nanu and Grimsley slouch against a wall, Brassius and Hassel lean against the mantle, and Burgh begins to pace and fret and pace some more. Valerie fans herself and titters indecipherably with Phoebe.

Wallace and Steven stand together, awkward only because of the situation, and Milotic takes advantage of their closeness to request pets from both men. Her cool, smooth scales and melodic humming do wonders to soothe Steven’s jittery soul.

“ What’s it about, Fancy Pants?”

Steven looks up to see Marshal frowning at him with arms akimbo. “ You mean…the story?”

“ What else do I mean?” Marshal shrugs. “ While the duke’s reading and all. Not all of us have had the chance to read your, er…”

The former dock worker glances warily at Rose, who’s busy massaging his closed eyes, and gulps.

“…latest draft.” He finishes lamely. “ And it’s better than us just sitting here with our thumbs up our—“

Oleana hisses in warning.

“…standing here waiting for the duke to finish reading.” Marshal rubs the back of his shaved head before crossing his arms once more over his chest. “ Seems like he’s pretty into it, so spill, Steven.”

Rose drops his hands and glowers at the champion. “ I’m quite curious to know myself.”

It’s Steven’s turn to gulp, and his fingers grab desperately for his rings as everyone in the room aside from the duke looks at him expectantly. The sound of his own breathing is suddenly too much for his ears. Looking Marshal in the eyes becomes too painful to stomach, and he drops his gaze to his shoes before the pain can morph into nausea, and nausea into embarrassment. His tongue feels like a leather shoe sole in his mouth.

Everyone’s looking at him. Everyone’s waiting. Everyone’s looking at him. Everyone’s waiting. Everyone’s looking at him—

“ It’s about a mermaid; oui, Monsieur Tsuwabuki?”

As swiftly as it surrounds him, the dome of too much crumbles under the sound of Wallace’s cool, level voice, as if it’s the sun burning away the morning fog. He blinks and looks up at Wallace, who’s smiling down at him encouragingly, using the duke’s turned back as an opportunity to gently touch his arm. It’s light, and fleeting, but it brings Steven out of his own head and back to earth. No one else seems to pay the gesture any mind aside from Grimsley, who falters in his coin flipping to stare at the pair, brow furrowed and lips parted in a small ‘o’. Steven very pointedly ignores him and takes a deep breath.

” It starts with a prince who’s been banished from his homeland for a crime he didn’t commit.” Steven is relieved that his ‘fake it until you make it’ voice is showing up when he needs it for once. “ He joined the crew of a merchant ship and has been sailing around the world with them ever since, seeing new sights and meeting new people and pokemon, while trying to ignore his longing for home.”

Steven takes a moment to rub his sweating palms dry on his pants before going back to his rings. Wallace touches his shoulder again–the briefest of brushes–and it helps him gather his nerve and push forward.

“ One day, during a storm, the prince is on night lookout when he sees what looks like a human trapped in a net on a rocky outcropping. He tells the captain that someone’s in trouble, but he says that the person is likely a siren who’s been caught and left to die, and that it’s better for everyone to let it happen. The prince can’t accept this, so on impulse, he actually jumps off the ship and uses all of his strength to swim to the rocks and cut open the net. By the time he’s freed the other man, he’s too weak to save himself, so he sinks into the water and resigns himself to drowning.”

Steven risks a glance at the others and is relieved–and more than a bit mystified–to see all of his new ‘friends’ hanging onto his every word. Even Rose has leaned forward in his chair and is resting his palms on his knees as he listens intently. Oleana is far subtler, but Steven can see a flash of blue from the corner of her eye, and all of the unexpected attention makes his brain start to buzz at the edges.

“ However, it turns out that the person he saved isn’t a siren, but a mermaid.” Steven winces as he feels his ears start to burn. Hopefully the warmer light from the fire keeps the others from noticing. He hears Wallace shift his weight on his feet. “ The mermaid dives in after his rescuer, and when the prince awakens again, he’s lying on his back on the beach of one of the islands of a nearby regional archipelago. The mermaid is sitting next to him, waiting for him to wake up, and they end up talking until the sun sets and rises again. Once the prince has recovered his strength, the mermaid leads him to the nearest city, and they part with a promise to meet again.”

Just then, there’s a loud sniff, and everyone turns to see Hassel dabbing his eyes with a handkerchief. Steven would suspect he was being mocked if there weren’t real tears streaming down the artist's face.

“ My sincere apologies,” Hassel snivels and sniffs loudly while Brassius rubs his back with a knowing smile. “ I tend to be on the emotional side and your story’s already so beautiful.” He trumpets loudly into the handkerchief, making Rose wince. “ They’ll meet again, of course, yes?”

“ Of course they do.” Wallace cuts in before Steven can open his mouth. “ It wouldn’t be much of a story if the narrative drops off at the very beginning.”

Oleana rolls her eyes. “ What happens next, then?”

Steven licks his suddenly dry lips. “ Ah, well, you see…I haven’t written the rest yet.”

Rose’s entire demeanor shifts from pleasantly curious to near murderous. “ What do you mean you haven’t written the rest yet, Monsieur Tsuwabuki?”

Just like that, everyone’s eyes are once more upon him, and Steven opens his mouth only to realize–much to his horror–that the words are struggling to form. It’s not a complete nonverbal block–not yet–but the geologist is suddenly having trouble translating his thoughts into sound. Oh no. Not now. Please, not now, not when everyone and Wallace are watching and waiting and counting on him and–

“ Steven wanted the opinions of those that would be involved in the show that aren’t members of the troupe.” The champion’s knees threaten to give out from relief as Wallace picks up the conversation as easily as one would a baton. He takes a step forward and laces his fingers together at the level of his waist. “ What’s the point of putting together an entire show if it’s going to be vetoed by the financier? Or the future proprietor of the theater? Or even the star?”

The harsh lines cutting through Rose’s brow soften. “ Fair point. Well, have you come up with any other ideas for the plot?”

Shauntal hops to her feet, but Wallace beats her to the punch, cutting in before she can even open her mouth.

“ Of course he has.” Wallace looks over his shoulder at Steven, and whatever mental knot has tied itself between Steven’s brain and tongue loosens as those glittering, gem-like eyes catch his own and hold fast. “ In fact, we discussed some ideas during our meeting in the nightclub, and I think we have the next steps forward.”

“ What might they be?” As if summoned, the duke enters the conversation, smoothing out the cover of the manuscript he’s only just then finished. “ It’s excellently written and has potential, but a bit more vision and direction would be greatly appreciated, even if we end up taking a completely different path in the end.”

Wallace doesn’t even look at the duke. He keeps staring at Steven as if he’s the only one in the room with them, and like a piece of driftwood caught in the tide, the champion is helpless against his pull.

“ As the ship travels through the archipelago in the weeks that follow, the mermaid follows the ship, and he and the prince wait until the rest of the crew is asleep. Sometimes they’ll simply call down and up at each other from the deck and the ocean; other times, the prince will sneak out in the rowboat, and the two will find a secluded sandbar or grotto to talk until the sky begins to lighten and the mermaid has to depart. It’s during one of these late night dalliances when the mermaid reveals that…”

The courtesan hesitates, but only for a breath, and his gaze never once falters.

“...that the mermaid’s fallen in love with the prince. It’s as simple as that.”

The earth rocks beneath Steven’s feet.

“ Are you sure,” he rasps, “that this is where you want the story to go?”

One last chance. Once last chance to laugh it off and back away. One last chance to clarify, subtly but starkly, that he’s only talking about the play itself. One last chance to let Steven down gently if he’s not blending fiction and nonfiction together. One last chance to let Steven down gently and break his heart in as few pieces as possible. He’ll survive. He will..

Wallace ducks his head, finally breaking eye contact in the process, and picks, picks, picks at the hem of his lacy robe with faintly tremulous fingers. The tip of his pink tongue glides over his lips. Milotic looks up from where she’s practically draped over Flannery’s lap and whistles.

Finally, Wallace looks back up at Steven, and there’s so much fragile hope in his emerald eyes that it makes Steven’s stomach twist painfully. He stares at him, then nods (nods!), and opens his mouth to speak–

“ Shauntal, do you have any thoughts on what should happen next?”

Wallace snaps his mouth shut as Steven’s question cuts him off. He blinks, eyes as wide as saucers, as he looks to Shauntal, then the duke, then–as the group’s attention is now focused solely on a startled, stammering Shauntal–back to Steven. Hurt flickers across his face.

‘ Why?’ He mouths. Steven smiles reassuringly and cocks his head to the side.

‘ You wanted me to help you wait.’

Steven pairs the exaggerated movements of his lips with just a whisper of actual words, and the geologist knows he’s been understood when the courtesan’s eyes widen yet again, his hand rising to rest against the dip of his throat. His lips tremble as his eyes sheen over with a translucent film, and as he blinks it away, he smiles with the same fragile hope Steven has seen in his eyes countless times this evening. It makes him feel like he’s falling in love all over again.

“ Well, obviously, the prince returns his feelings!”

Spell broken, Steven and Wallace turn to look at Shauntal, who’s leapt off the bed in her excitement to regale the others.

“ But!” Shauntal pauses dramatically to make sure everyone is watching before continuing in a mischievous tone. “ There’s a complication! See the reason why the mermaid was in a net to begin with is because he was actually sent by his underwater kingdom to be wed to the king of the archipelago region as part of a peace treaty, and he was snatched by pirates on the way! So while he’s fallen in love with the prince, he’s duty bound to marry the king!”

Burgh gasps and claps his hands together. “ Oh, little litwick, it’s perfect! Any proper Victini drama would be incomplete without star-crossed lovers!”

“ Where was this coherence the whole bloody time?” Oleana grumbles under her breath.

“ Your guess is as good as mine. It certainly would’ve saved us a great deal of trouble in the long run.” Rose sighs and shrugs helplessly before he and his assistant turn back to watch the fireworks.

“ Anyway, as thanks for saving his groom, the evil king—because he has to be evil!—invites the prince and his crew to stay in the palace and attend the wedding.” Shauntal makes grand sweeping gestures as she paints the narrative for the entire room. “ This allows the mermaid and the prince to conduct an affair right under the king’s nose!”

” Oh, an idea! Maybe the prince has a special talent that makes him useful in the wedding!” Hassel is next to speak, though with his voice being thick with tears and snot, it’s a bit hard to make out his words at first. “ That way, he’s a part of the festivities themselves and not an observer!”

” A way to add some extra tension.” Brassius touches his knuckles to his lips and hums. “ Yes, an excellent idea, Hass. I like it. What sort of talent should it be, however? It can’t be too outlandish, because while we want the show to be utterly spectacular, we don’t want to be so outlandish as to force the audience to suspend all disbelief.”

“ What about cooking?” Siebold asks. He searches for a seat, and Oleana doesn’t hesitate to give up her own, earning her the duke’s quiet thanks as he sits down and cradles the manuscript in his hands. “ Perhaps they wish for him to cater the entire ceremony.”

” That certainly is an idea, but cooking may be difficult to convey on stage, what with all of the food that will need to be coming on and off the stage.” Burgh is surprisingly tactful as he lets the duke down gently, and Siebold merely sighs in disappointment before nodding, ceding the point without argument or theatrics. “ The duke brings up an excellent point, however, in that the prince should practice some sort of creative art! It would add an entirely different dimension to the performance!”

” Art within art.” Grimsley snaps his fingers. “ That is a good idea. Well done, Duke Siebold! A true Victini show should have an artistic flare that goes beyond the play itself!”

The duke blinks. “ Ah…thank you very much, Monsieur. I think.”

” Ooo! Maybe it should depend on who we have playing the prince!” It’s Flannery’s turn to pipe up as she bounces excitedly on the bed. “ After all, every potential actor we have specializes in some kind of other art form, like painting or sculpting!”

Burgh blinks. “ Quite right, Flannery. Ah, but what about…?”

“ Isn’t it obvious?!” Flannery peers through the crowd of bodies at Steven and Wallace standing off to the side and grins brightly. “ Monsieur Mikuri is going to play the mermaid! I think it’s pretty much the perfect role for him!”

Wallace smirks. “ Yes. It’s almost like it was made for me, non?”

Steven blushes and chokes on nothing, and while Grimsley’s gaze lingers for just a second too long, the others almost immediately turn back to the matter at hand. Wallace rests a hand on the small of his back and massages the tense musculature with the pad of his thumb.

“ Are you alright?” Wallace whispers. Steven sighs and pushes his bangs off his face.

“ This was supposed to be a gift for you.” He mutters and lets his arms fall morosely to his sides in defeat. “ Not a spectacle, and not some sort of…of stage show. It was supposed to be special.”

” Well, for what it’s worth, I’m thoroughly enjoying myself, darling.” Wallace gives him a reassuring smile as he trails his nails up and down the knobs of his back. “ And it is special. It will never not be special to me, dearest, even if they decide to paint me blue and cover me in tacky costume jewelry for the show itself!”

” Really?”

” Really.” Wallace glides his hand over Steven’s flank and hip bone before drawing it away. “ Because not only did you write such a gloriously heartfelt story just for me, but it’s going to be the story that propels me to my dream, and…”

The courtesan trails off.

” Wait?” Steven asks helpfully. Wallace groans before chuckling and massaging his eyes with his fingertips.

” Yes, yes, wait. I am equal parts thankful and remorseful that I asked you to hold me to account in such a way. Alas, there’s no helping it now; the only thing left to do is…”

“ Wait.”

“ Yes. Wait.”

Every smile Wallace gives Steven is a gift, but this one feels particularly precious, and the geologist can’t help but brush a stray strand of hair off of Wallace’s face before tucking it behind the shell of his ear. The performer giggles—actually giggles—and playfully bats his hand away.

”—we should also have a human playing a special pokemon!” As the two men shared a private moment, the discussion of the play continued, and it was Valerie’s turn to offer her own ideas. For some reason, this makes half the troupe groan and roll their eyes, and the seamstress huffs in indignation before slipping her hands into her voluminous sleeves. “ Yes, yes, laugh at your poor, long-suffering seamstress who even fixes the holes in your undergarments without complaint! Did gajinka representations of pokemon fall out of favor in Victini art circles without my knowing?”

“ That’s because you always wanna insert a pokemon role for yourself in anything we do!” Marshal counters. “ Even when it’s supposed to just be about humans! Nothing but humans! It’s a pest! You’re a pest!”

“ At least I have more than two brain cells to rub together on a daily basis!” Valerie bites back.

Before the argument can escalate, Burgh steps between them, holding up his hands to better push them apart.

“ While Valerie can be incredibly enthusiastic about gajinka representations,” he says carefully, “ I believe that in this particular circumstance, a humanoid representation of a pokemon may not only be appropriate, but fitting!”

Marshal groans as Valerie’s entire being seems to swell and puff—almost as if the seamstress has grown two sizes all at once.

“ Really?” She whispers, scarcely able to believe her good fortune, and actually squeals when Burgh nods. “ Really?! Truly?! And I…I can play them myself?!”

“ Of course!” Shauntal can’t help but simper at the sight of an utterly joyful Valerie spinning in tight circles on her toes. “ No one else could play a pokemon like you, Valerie! In fact, this should be a special pokemon—even magical!”

“ Oh, oh!” Phoebe bounces on the balls of her feet. “ What about a Milotic in honor of Mikuri’s Milotic?! Maybe it’s a Milotic that can only tell the truth, and it’s her unwavering honesty and loyalty to her master, the mermaid, that will be crucial in helping the star-crossed lovers obtain their happy ending!”

Wallace chuckles and clicks his tongue, and Milotic rises up from where she’s been snoozing in Flannery’s lap and wiggles over, winding around her master’s lithe body before resting her head somewhat awkwardly on his shoulder. The courtesan chuckles and adoringly smooches her snout.

” I think she approves.” He says teasingly. “ In fact, I suspect that by the time our performance hits the stage, my glorious, glowing girl will develop an even grander sense of importance than she has already!”

Milotic regards her partner with droll bemusement before snorting in his face with enough force to make his stray tendrils fly everywhere. Wallace squawks and wipes his face with the sleeves of his robe, giggling like a school boy, and Steven warms from head to toe at the sight. He gives Milotic a surreptitious kiss and twirls one of her thin tendrils around his index finger.

“ What about the ending, then?” Siebold finally sets the manuscript aside and rises to his feet. He links his hands behind his back and strolls over to Steven and Wallace, with Rose and Oleana following at his heels, clearly trying to decide if they should be feeling excitement or dread. “ Shouldn’t someone die at the end?”

Steven raises his eyebrows. “ Why? Do they have to?”

“ It would be more dramatic, would it not?” A sigh. “ Then again, I suppose it depends on how the rest of the story goes. We have plenty of time to figure it out, oui, Monsieur Tsuwabuki?”

“ Oui.” The champion’s breath catches in his chest. “ Does that mean…”

Siebold stops in front of the pair and purses his lips in thought. His stern expression has returned en force, but there’s a sparkle to those blue eyes that wasn’t present before; and when he turns his attention to Mikuri, a small but genuine smile graces his lips.

“ After all,” he begins after a moment of thought, “it will take a good few months at least to convert the Moulin Rouge into a proper theater, especially considering the electric wiring and the need for weatherproofing. If we are to tell a story about mermaids, then it would be far more impactful with actual water in the show, and Milotic’s magnificent special effects will be crucial in the play’s success.”

Silent. Everyone in the room holds their breath. Steven watches as Wallace’s arms tighten around Milotic’s body and hold fast.

“ Does that mean…” The courtesan’s voice escapes as a rasp, and he can’t seem to bring himself to finish his sentence, as if one wrong word will break the glorious illusion playing out in front of him. Siebold seems to sense this, and as those strange invisible fingers dance unnervingly up the back of Steven’s neck, the duke reaches out and touches the courtesan’s cheek.

“ Generally,” he says, “ I quite like it.”

The room erupts with unadulterated joy, and for the first time since fleeing Hoenn, Steven can see the outline of a future.

Chapter Text

Rose has an investor, the Victinis have a show, and Wallace has an escape rope.

Maybe he even has more than that. Probably. Certainly? No, no; the past ten years of Wallace’s life have more than taught him to not expect certainty unless it exists. Tonight. Tonight will bring certainty, one way or another, but he won’t breathe easy until he hears the words. Until he says them back.

To think of it; Wallace is so close to freedom he can taste it, and yet all he can think about is him.

It’s long after the Victinis, Rose, and the duke have filtered out of the copperajah–after the last of the patrons have departed the club, willingly and unwillingly, and the complex has gone dark and silent–that Wallace turns off his own lights and starts to undress. It’s funny, really, because Wallace is pretty sure this is the only time he’s ever seen a client and ended up in the same amount of clothing. Usually, after the deed is done, he simply throws on a robe until the pleasantries are over and the last of the money changes hands (half up front, with Rose, and half with generous tips at time of service). Yet Duke Siebold–pleasant enough, kind enough, smart enough, and handsome enough, with a pleasantly surprising fondness for and knowledge of water types–had insisted that Wallace should get some rest after his unexpectedly long day, and they’d work out future arrangements in the near future. Then, he kissed the back of Wallace’s hand as if he were a noble and not a whore and followed Rose and Oleana out of his room, leaving the courtesan to marvel about how he somehow clinched the most important business deal of his life without taking off his clothes.

It’s a dangerously exhilarating feeling. It’s something he can get used to if he’s not careful, and certainty doesn’t exist without certainty, not in the underworld.

Still, if Wallace considers this a simple novelty, then he’s free to relish it as such. Now that he’s given himself permission to enjoy himself, the courtesan settles in front of the fireplace and begins to disrobe, starting by slipping off his hideously uncomfortable shoes and chucking them against the opposing wall with prejudice. The stockings come off next, followed by the garters with their belts, and Wallace takes a moment to wiggle his freed toes against the plush carpet before standing and carrying everything but the shoes with him to his dressing area.

(He’ll pick up the shoes later. And burn them. Maybe he’ll invite Steven over for the occasion if things go well tonight.)

Over the years, Wallace has come to consider the outfits he dons to seduce his clients akin to protective shells, much like those grown by pokemon such as cascoon and metapod to raise their defense that are shed once the battle is won. He wonders if such pokemon feel the same satisfaction and relief he experiences when he strips off his own armor: satisfaction at a job well done; and relief at being able to live another day. He makes a ritual out of wiping off his makeup with oil, removing his bobby pins one-by-one and arranging each in the chipped teacup he uses to hold them, and arranging his earrings by type and color in one of his many jewelry boxes. Then, he whistles for Milotic, and he gulps down greedy lungfulls of air as she grabs the back of his corset with her teeth and rips it off at the closures. The buttons scatter everywhere on the floor, and Wallace makes a mental note to pick them up later as he rubs his sore ribs, wincing when his fingertips come into contact with the bruises budding on his skin. He’ll burn the torn corset with the shoes and breathe in the smoke with rapture.

Sensing her master’s disdain, Milotic spits the offending piece of fabric and boning into the waste bin, and Wallace gives her a smooch and stroke in thanks before shooing her off to the other side of the room. Once he’s alone, he removes the last of his undergarments and tosses them into his hamper before padding into the bedroom, enjoying the unrestricted expansion of his chest with each tender breath.

After a night with a client, Wallace is usually too tired to make an affair out of bathing, and he settles for quick but thorough showers before collapsing onto his bed with Milotic. Tonight, he’s rested and jubilant, so he decides to treat himself to a long bath with all the trimmings he reserves for his days off. He quickly showers off his sweat and preparation and washes his as the tub fills, then takes his time topping the steaming bath with all the salts and oils his heart desires; after all, tonight is a night of celebration, and he wants to smell nice and have the softest skin possible. Not just for himself, but for him.

Steven deserves better than a prostitute, but if he’s chosen him regardless (which all but absolute certainty says he has), then Wallace is going to make damn sure he never regrets it.

What, he thinks helplessly, am I going to do with that man?

There’s no answer to his silent question, and with a huff and pout to no one, Wallace climbs into the tub and sinks down to his chest. The relief he feels when he makes contact with the perfumed water is instantaneous, and he groans in bliss as he sticks out his legs and rests the backs of his calves on the rim of the tub, which allows him to submerge the rest of his torso until only his head is sticking out. He reclines as best he can in such an awkward position and allows his eyes to flutter shut.

“ Maybe,” he says out loud, “ Rose will finally invest in a longer tub for me now that I’ve almost single-handedly saved his failing enterprise–both through the duke and my knowing Steven, though he doesn’t know that yet, and he never will if I can help it.”

He chuckles.

“ Poor Steven. It seems like he, too, is at the mercy of the whims of others–though, given his position, he probably doesn’t have much of a choice other than to go where the wind takes him.”

Wallace can hear Milotic trill in the other room, followed by the splash of her exiting her pool and the slide of her glossy body as she approaches the makeshift partition. His dearest partner has long since learned that her master talking to himself means that he’d really like to talk to her, and he laughs as sure enough, her elegant head soon pokes through around the edge of the curtain. He whistles and lifts out a hand to beckon her over.

“ I never expected him to love me back,” Wallace whispers, stroking her forehead and fronds once she slithers over and rests her head on the edge of the tub. “ You know that. We’ve talked about it dozens of times. I would have just been happy having him as a friend–something brilliant and beautiful that was untouched by my profession–and yet…here we are. He knows and he doesn’t care. He actually helped me get ready, and he was adorably embarrassed, but…not by me. What do you think about that?”

Milotic coos and noses his temple, making Wallace laugh and playfully splash at her face.

“ Oh, yes, I know! I should be happy! And I am! I just…” Wallace sighs and tips his head back against the rim of the tub to look up at the dim ceiling light. He’d deliberately requested a weaker bulb from Volkner, if only because too much artificial light all at once bothers his eyes. It’s the main reason he suffers from migraines after at least half of his shows. “ I wasn’t expecting this. I wasn’t expecting him in the first place, but…certainly not like this. I’m not used to the universe giving me something I want so badly without much of a fight. I don’t trust it.”

The courtesan closes his eyes and trails his fingers idly up and down his partner’s snout.

“ Steven is one of the least intimidating people I’ve ever met,” he says after a moment of thought, “ and yet I fear him more than anyone else. I fear what he makes me feel. What he makes me do. And to think that he’s one of the Warmonger’s blood on top of it! The heir to the conglomerate–or, at least, was.”

Milotic churrs and delicately licks at Wallace’s wrist, making him giggle and flick the bridge of her snout.

“ Oh, I know; I too am looking forward to knowing the full story behind that whole affair. Still, while newspapers certainly exaggerate more often than not, I can’t imagine Steven not being stupidly honorable and good at his own expense.” The courtesan chuckles and slides down until the tip of his chin touches the surface of the water. He breathes in the sharp aromas of grapefruit, sea salt, and olive leaf and curls his toes in pleasure. “ I suppose I’ll have to tell him everything myself, though, won’t I?” He glances over at Milotic and smirks. “ How do you think he’ll react when I tell him my last name?”

A trill. Wallace’s face falls.

“ Ah. That is a good point. Would he even believe me, even if I show him the picture?” The performer sighs and pushes his sodden locks off his face. “ Who am I kidding? Of course he’ll believe me. He’s believed everything I’ve told him up until this point.”

A beat.

“ Then again,” Wallace realizes, “ the fact is that I haven’t lied to him at all. I haven’t had to lie to him at all, have I? He steps back whenever I pull away. He doesn’t try to shuck me open when I clamperl up. He doesn’t weedle for words when I fall silent. He just…lets me talk when I want to talk, and lets me not when I can’t. I don’t think…” The courtesan swallows thickly as his throat suddenly grows hot and tight.

“...I think, Li-Li, that he may be the only human in my life that I don’t have to lie to. That I don’t feel I have to lie to.”

His heart skips in his chest.

“That I don’t want to lie to.”

Lying is Wallace’s job. He’s paid by the hour and the act to make men and women believe whatever they want, and the performer will mould himself to their whims, saying and doing things he’d never even consider were it not for a price. Sure, calling it ‘acting’ makes it sound pretty, but lying is lying and Wallace has never been hesitant to call a spade a spade. He lies to his clients. He lies to his scant amount of friends. He lies to his far greater number of self proclaimed ‘rivals’ that turn tricks for the club. He especially lies to Rose and his simpering sycophant of an assistant. Yet with Steven, he hasn’t had to lie, not once. Why would he? Wallace has so many false versions of himself, each of them tailor-made to person and situation, but his friend has only ever longed for the true core of him.

Steven knows everything now (well, almost everything), but he still loves the him that steps off the dance floor and slips out of bed, and Wallace doesn’t know what to do about it. He never thought he’d be in this situation.

He never thought someone would actually give a damn about him beyond his body and what he can do for them. Not anymore.

Annoyed at himself and his inability to simply be happy about his beloved loving him back like a normal person, Wallace sucks in a breath, puffs out his cheeks, and slides completely underwater. The motion pushes his legs up and out until the soft backs of his knees are pressed into the hard porcelain rim of the tub, but any discomfort Wallace feels at the contact is figuratively washed away by the intoxicating mixture of exhilaration and relaxation he feels when completely submerged, with the warm, softened, and scented water embracing and enfolding him like a security blanket. One by one, all of his worries and fears are dissolved like so much dirt, leaving the courtesan with only himself and the water. Here he is safe. Here he knows what to do.

Wallace hasn’t seen the ocean since coming to Kalos ten years before, but even while the aching in his bones for sea and salt has never truly left him, he has his baths and he has the Seine; and the water takes care of him, as it always has. The water soothes him. The water comforts and protects him. The water sets him free.

Now, the water has brought him a priceless gift, and Wallace has never been one to reject Rayquaza’s blessing or Kyogre’s boon. He may not deserve Steven Stone, but for some inexplicable reason, he has him.

Sometimes one must simply flow with the tide, and Wallace is tired of fighting it at every other turn. Let it carry him where it may when it comes to love.

As always, it’s Milotic that rouses him from the water before his lungs even feel the slightest burn, dipping her head underwater and nudging his shoulder until he yields and comes up for air. He gasps for the sake of it, not because he needs the air, and checks the clock on the nearby wall. How long was he under for? Five minutes? Ten? Fifteen? He hasn’t kept count since he was a child.

If Wallace didn’t value his life, he’d try to take a breath underwater, just to see if he’d actually drown. How fitting it was that Steven imagined him a mermaid from the start. Not a sea witch, or a siren, but a mermaid–something beautiful, mysterious, and precious. Something to keep and protect. To think a Devon would hold a Sootopolan in such high regard!

Ugh, he’s pining. He’s pining, the water’s not getting any warmer, and he’s literally going to see Steven in another hour or so. This is ridiculous. When did Wallace get so ridiculous? He could at least be pining while doing something productive. So, after ducking his head briefly underwater one last time, he clips back his glossy wet locks and sets to touching up his nails while Milotic sings and drags her tail frond lazily across the surface of the water.

By the time the water’s cooled enough to become uncomfortable, another hour has passed, and Wallace’s fingers and toes are neatly buffed and polished. It takes a half hour to get Milotic in the tub to bathe her as well, and another to oil his skin and her scales. By now, the celebratory party the Victinis loudly declared they were holding should be winding down, so he throws on the pair of pajamas Steven bought for him a month ago and hurries through the rest of his nighttime routine. Once Milotic has curled up on their shared bed and fallen asleep, he turns off the rest of the lights, slides his feet into his thinning mareep wool slippers, and makes his way onto the landing for the second time that night.

Though the hotel is not quite a hop and a skip away, and the blades of the ever-turning red windmill do nothing to improve visibility, Wallace can see that the windows of the upper floor of the Hotel du Roi, while still lit, are noticeably darker than before. He grabs the iron railing and leans forward to get a better look as his gaze drops to the floor just below.

Sure enough, the lights are on in the large corner room, and the doors to the balcony were flung open. Other than knowing that some of the traveling performers and courtesans would often take up residence there, Wallace has never before paid the Hotel du Roi any mind, but he now studies it like one would a spectacular sight in the distance—and he sucks in a breath when he finally makes out the figure either standing on the balcony or leaning against the doorway. A figure with obvious steel-gray hair, even from such a distance and in the middle of the night.

Steven. Was he trying to see him as well?

Wallace seemingly gets the answer to his question as he watches the figure stand up and move to the edge of the balcony, and though his visibility isn’t the greatest, he thinks that they, too, are holding the railing to lean over the edge. An idea strikes him, then, and he quickly darts inside, pulls up one of the loose floorboards, and removes one of the ornate cigar boxes in which he’s stowed all of the little gifts Steven has given him over the course of their friendship: one box for fossils; one for interesting rocks; and one for gems and crystals. He pops open the ‘shiny’ box, grabs the glowing dawn stone, and replaces the board before dashing back outside.

Steven is still on the balcony, looking, and Wallace thinks he can see him leaning forward as he returns to the landing. With a grin, Wallace warms the dawn stone in his palm—increasing its glow—before rhythmically opening and closing his hands around it at different intervals.

.-- .... . -. / .- .-. . / -.-- --- ..- / -.-. --- -- .. -. --. ..--..

Anyone who grows up in Hoenn—whether on the mainland or in the caldera—learns morse code along with regular numbers and letters. If Wallace—who didn’t grow up with a formal education—knew how to do it, then it was an absolute impossibility that the (once) Devon heir would not.

Sure enough, Wallace snorts in a very undignified manner as Steven vanishes from the balcony through the door, and he returns in a matter of seconds with what Wallace suspects to be a dawn stone of his own. Sure enough, after a few more seconds of waiting, the courtesan begins to receive a message of his own in flashes and timed pauses.

... --- --- -. .-.-.- / .. / .-- .- -. - / - --- / -- .- -.- . / ... ..- .-. . / -. --- / --- -. . / .-- .. .-.. .-.. / -.-. --- -- . / .-.. --- --- -.- .. -. --. .-.-.-

It takes considerably longer for Steven to send his own message, but Wallace is content to wait out the flashes, reminded of his childhood when he and his sister would challenge each other by sending progressively longer messages, patiently waiting to see who would mess up first (of course, given that she was twelve years his senior, his sister always had an unfair advantage). Once Steven finishes ‘speaking’, a whim strikes Wallace, and he darts inside to grab one last item. With a self-satisfied grin, he throws down the blanket rope from earlier and ties it securely to the railing, giving it an experimental tug before picking up his stone again.

- .... . / .-. --- .--. . / .. ... / .-- .- .. - .. -. --. / ..-. --- .-. / -.-- --- ..- / - --- / -.-. .-.. .. -- -... / -.. .-. .- -- .- - .. -.-. .- .-.. .-.. -.-- .-.-.-

Wallace can practically feel Steven’s momentary confusion from the other side of the street. After a few seconds, the flashing begins anew, and the courtesan can’t help but imagine him laughing as he ‘speaks’. Steven has such a lovely laugh and an even lovelier smile with it.

-. --- / .--. .-. --- -... .-.. . -- .-.-.- / .. .-..-. -- / -... .-. .. -. --. .. -. --. / ... .- -. -.. .-- .. -.-. .... . ... .-.-.-

Ooooh! Sandwiches! Wallace has no clue where he’s going to get them at this time of night, and he doubts there’s a kitchen in his hotel room, but he believes in Steven’s methods. He flashes once, and Steven flashes in turn before disappearing from the balcony, leaving Wallace with the most absurd sensation of loss he’s ever felt. He’s literally going to see the man within the hour—and he’s only known him for two months to boot!

Wallace loves him, though, and part of loving is wanting to be with someone all the time. How delightfully infuriating. The only consolation is that, if Steven truly does feel the same way, he’s likely feeling the same.

The courtesan will find out soon enough, and he sighs and rubs his face before slipping the dawn stone into the pocket of his pajama pants and ascending the stairs to the roof, resigned to simply sit with his spheals and await his fate.

He can only hope Steven doesn’t dawdle.

“ Do you have a minute, Steven?”

Steven startles briefly, almost tripping over his feet as he steps back into the room, and he looks up to see a somewhat apologetic Grimsley standing in the doorway. He sighs, suddenly exhausted, and moves to sit at his desk.

“ What do you want, Grimsley?” The geologist leans back in the stiff wooden chair and shoots the gambler a warning look. “ Come to hunt for more manuscripts to steal? I hate to tell you that I’ve only written the one, but you’re more than welcome to rummage around for money, or even my papers. Want to snag one of my pokemon on the way out the door?”

Grimsley whistles.

” Ouch. You’re still cross with me?” When Steven’s response is silence and a sharpening glare, the gambler sighs in defeat and walks into the room, closing the door quietly behind him. “ Look, I’d apologize for rummaging through your coat, and for surprising you like that, if I regretted any of it. I don’t. I made a gamble on you and it paid off in spades.”

Steven’s furrowed brow relaxes slightly. “ I’m more offended on Shauntal’s behalf than my own. That was cruel, Grimsley. You should have seen how destroyed she looked when she realized the manuscript wasn’t hers and found your note.”

Grimsley’s eyes widen. “ She saw my note?”

“ It wasn’t like I had time to hide it, you know. She, Flannery, and Brassius’s friend all but crashed through the window while I was trying to make my exit! I barely had time to think, let alone cover for your muk-like behavior, and I’m not going to save you from the consequences of your actions!”

“ I’m not asking you to.”

There’s a heavy thud above them, followed by loud and somewhat intoxicated laughter, and both Steven and Grimsley wince as they cast their eyes up to the thick planks hastily nailed over the hole in the ceiling. Fortunately, there’s no groaning, juddering, or raining plaster, and the two men sigh with relief before turning their attention back to each other, this time with the tension somewhat cooled.

“ Listen, Steven. I came down here to thank you before you went to bed.” There’s an unusual softness to Grimsley’s voice and what appears to be sincerity on his face, so while any other sane human being would likely take the gambler’s words with a grain of salt, Steven chooses to believe him. “ I won’t apologize for what I did, but…none of this could have happened without you agreeing to help in the first place, or choosing to roll with the punches instead of run.”

Grimsley shrugs and shoves his hands into the pockets of his suit coat.

“ So…thank you, Steven, for helping save the only family I have left. I’ll make it up to you when I can–that much I can promise.”

Maybe Steven really is too kind, forgiving, and trusting–like so many people (including his own sideways sister) tell him constantly–but while he’s far from the best at reading the tells of people he don’t know well, it’s impossible for him to see the weary relief on Grimsley’s face and hear the quiet gratitude in his smile and not take him at face value. Has that gotten Steven burned more times than he can count? Sure. Will he ever stop doing it? Probably not. He doesn’t think he’d ever want to, and not only that, but he’s pretty certain he couldn’t if he tried. That’s just not how his brain and heart work.

Steven’s mother and father always told him that weaknesses in some circumstances can be strengths in many others. The geologist will always hold that precious secret close, no matter how often he’s hurt and used, and no matter how badly it stings every single time.

Besides, he’d rather be himself than someone like the apathetic man standing before him, or his even more burnt-out husband.

“ You don’t have to thank me, Grimsley, but I’ll accept it.” Steven allows his crossed arms to drop from his chest onto the arms of the wooden chair and turns his head to look out the window at the turning blades of the red windmill–then past them. “ I like your friends–especially Marshal and the girls. Brassius and Hassel seem nice, too, and Burgh is a bit…”

“ Flighty.” Grimsley suggests.

Steven chuckles. “ As flighty as an abra in tall grass, but he seems like a good sort, and I want him to succeed. I want them all to succeed–even you and Nanu.” He looks back at Grimsley and frowns. “ Though I can’t say I’m particularly fond of him.”

Grimsley smiles sadly and shrugs. “ He’s an acquired taste–one that’s not for everyone–but…he’s been through more than you can imagine, Steven. Give him some grace if you can.”

“ I’ll give him grace when he gives it to others.” Steven snaps back. After a moment of holding eye contact with Grimsley, however, he relents with a sigh and looks back out the window. “ I don’t want ill for him, or even you. I’m happy you all are happy and I’m happy I could help, but I didn’t just do this for you and the others.”

Steven feels a little thrill as Grimsley coughs on his own inspiration. Serves him right, he thinks; it’s his turn to be on the backfoot.

“ You…did?” Grimsley rasps after his coughing fit ends. Steven tries to feel a bit less smug but fails. “ I have to admit, I wasn’t expecting you to have that perspective. You aren’t just saying it to make me feel a little less like goomy slime?”

Steven shakes his head and squints as he tries to see past the blades to the top of the copperajah.

“ I have no desire to coddle your feelings, Grimsley; so no, I’m not just saying that.” Is Wallace already up there waiting for him? Is he going to get cold so late at night, even though it’s early summer? Should he bring a blanket? “ I would’ve pushed forward even if I didn’t give a damn about any of you. I’m doing this for–”

For him.

“--myself.” Steven says instead. Technically, it’s not an incorrect statement. “ Either way, you don’t have to worry; I’ll write the rest of the play with Shuantal and see this through to the end.”

“ I appreciate it, Steven. Really. You’re a good man to make bets on.”

Steven snorts derisively. “ Try not to make a habit of it. I’m not too fond of being treated like a hand of poker.” He turns back to Grimsley and sees him looking at him strangely, much like he had several times earlier that day–as if Steven’s given him a puzzle he needs to solve. The geologist resists the urge to squirm in his seat and instead turns his head to, very obviously, study the old wall clock. “ Now, if you don’t mind, I was about to head to bed…”

“ So was I.” Grimsley yawns exaggeratedly and pushes himself off the wall where he’d been leaning next to the chest of drawers. “ Point taken, however; I’ll get out of your hair. You’ve been raced like a rhyhorn more than enough today, and tomorrow will be even busier, so we should all get some sleep.” He winces. “ And I should probably convince the others that haven’t gone to bed or passed out yet to do so soon.”

“ That would be appreciated. I don’t want another hole in my ceiling.” A beat. “ Or to be kept awake, of course.”

“ Of course. Until tomorrow, then.”

With that, Grimsley waves lazily before walking the short distance to the door, sliding his hands back into his suit pockets. He removes one to grip the handle…then pauses, and turns once more to face Steven. There’s something dark in his eyes now–dark and biting–and it makes the hairs on the back of Steven’s neck stand up.

“ Before I go, can I give you a word of advice?”

Steven cocks an eyebrow. “ Which would be…?”

“ Don’t fall in love with a prostitute, Steven; it’s a game with no winners.”

Just like that, all of the good will that the champion had been slowly amassing during the short conversation vanished, replaced by first, the horror of potentially being found out; then, confusion upon remembering that nothing’s even happened between him and Wallace yet; followed by the bitter black flames of anger, because how dare he. The normally affable man’s face hardens into the stone of his namesake, and Grimsley actually takes a small step back towards the door as he slowly rises to his feet, gripping the back of the chair with enough force to turn his knuckles white.

“ What,” Steven begins dangerously, “ are you trying to say, Astor?”

“ I’m giving you a warning, Stone.” Grimsley’s surprise quickly morphs into cold cunning. “ Advice from someone who’s lived in the underworld for far longer than you’ve even known it existed. You think I didn’t notice how infatuated you are with Mikuri after only a few hours in his company? Do you know how many men and women have fallen at his feet over the years, lavishing him with money and attention and praise, only to end up being driven mad by jealousy when they continue to do their job?”

Steven’s eyes narrow. “ How is that my problem–or, even, Mikuri’s?” He takes a deep, shaking breath through his nose and exhales it through his clenched jaw and tight lips in an attempt to calm himself, with marginal success. “ Clients are clients and paying someone for sex is nothing but a business transaction. It’s their fault for thinking that he’d fall at their feet just because they paid him for a service.”

“ Well said, Monsieur Stone!” Grimsley’s mocking tone and laugh do nothing to quell Steven’s growing ire. “ Between this and your dressing down Nanu earlier, one would think you’re an advocate for sex workers! Is it a passion project of yours?”

The champion’s jaw tightens to the point of pain. “ I’m fond of all humans being treated like human beings trying to survive in any way they can. You’re a dark type enthusiast, correct?”

“ Guilty as charged.”

“ Then why are you so agreeable at certain humans being treated differently for their occupations when you yourself would argue that dark types are unfairly maligned because of superstition and stereotyping?”

The bemused smile falls off of Grimsley’s face. “ I’m trying to help you, Steven.”

Steven’s eyes narrow into slits. “ You’re not. Leave.”

“ Just. Listen. I’ll leave in a minute, but listen to me.”

“ You have around two minutes before I throw you out.”

“ That’s all I need.” The gambler tosses his head like an irritated liepard as he speaks. “ Don’t fall in love with a whore, Steven. You can respect them, find them beautiful and handsome, even pay them for their time. It’s a transaction and there’s no shame in a transaction. The moment you want something deeper, though…don’t do it, Steven. For your own sake.”

“ You speak like you’re an authority on relationships with prostitutes. Is there something you’re not telling Nanu?”

“ I’ve known men and women that have killed the sex workers that reject them.” That statement gives Steven pause. “ And no, I’m not saying you’d ever do something like that, Steven. I’m saying that jealousy does horrible things to people, and I don’t want to see you suffer because you fall for someone who can’t–and won’t–stop sleeping with other people for you.”

Steven closes his eyes and grips the back of his chair to the point of pain before he can say something he regrets. Grimsley is trying to help. He seems sincere. He’s not surprised that his infatuation with Wallace was noticed, especially after his behavior during the show, and the fallen noble has, indeed, lived a life in the shadows considerably longer than himself. Steven knows that jealousy can twist people into desperate parodies of themselves. He knows this advice is coming from a place of experience. He’s trying to help. He’s trying to be kind. He’s trying to save him grief.

The geologist repeats all of this in his head, silently, until his breathing calms and the cords of his neck relax. He lets go of the back of the chair and opens his eyes just in time to see Grimsley sag in relief. What, did he think Steven was going to throw the desk chair at him?

“ I understand,” Steven says, because he does. “ And I appreciate your concern. You have nothing to worry about, however, because I’m not infatuated with Mikuri. I know I likely gave you that impression today, and I admit that he’s very lovely to look at, but I have absolutely no interest in Mikuri otherwise.”

Grimsley smiles weakly. “ Good. I’m not sure if I should be happy or concerned that it’s so easy to tell when you’re being sincere.”

“ That’s because I’m being sincere.” Steven shrugs and turns to set his chair back at the desk. “ I’m not interested in Mikuri, Grimsley, so go to bed and leave me alone.”

“ Fair enough. Have a good night.”

Steven waits until he hears the door close behind him before letting the last of the tension bleed from his body. He wastes no time in locking the door, sliding the curtains shut over the open balcony door, and turning off the room’s lights. All that’s left for illumination is the dawn stone he takes out of his pants pocket and the little Illumise–who’s apparently his pokemon now, he guesses–peeping curiously from the bed he’s made for her on the nightstand out of some towels and loose mareep wool AZ had been more than happy to provide for the hotel’s newest guest.

“ It’s true, though,” Steven explains as he gathers his pokeballs from the dresser and clips them to the inside of his long coat. “ I’m not interested in Mikuri. I didn’t even know Mikuri existed until today, and what Grimsley doesn’t seem to realize is that Wallace isn’t Mikuri, and Mikuri isn’t Wallace. Mikuri doesn’t even really exist.”

Illumise chirps in what seems to be agreement, and she shivers as Steven runs a finger between her little antennae, her body pulsing with a soft warm glow.

“ I don’t like how he treats Wallace as if he’s the problem.” He murmurs as he strokes her head. “ It’s not his fault that people fall for his act. They pay him to do it and he does it. Do they simply forget about the transaction? Or do they just think they’re somehow special?”

A tired chirp is his answer, and Steven chuckles as he sees the little lightning bug’s eyes start to droop. There’s a thud, and a crash, and more drunken laughter from the floor above, but Steven pays them no mind as he covers Illumise with one of the towels and gives her head a tap.

“ Not sure when I’ll be back, but be good while I’m gone, okay?”

Illumise nods before disappearing into her bed.

With one last glance at the ceiling, Steven throws on his coat and creeps through the curtains onto the balcony, shutting the doors closed behind him. Fortunately, the revelry above is still going strong enough to drown out all but the loudest of bangs and brightest of flashes, so he quickly makes sure the street is clear before calling out Skarmory and having him glide him down to the ground.

As anticipated, AZ is sitting at the hotel’s front desk when Steven enters the lobby from the street, his inhumanly long legs draped over the counter as he hums along to a loudred-transmitted performance from L’Opera Nationale de Lumiose on the radio. Floette is washing the petals of her flower in her favorite chipped shallow dish, and there’s a paper bag on the counter, which Steven takes with a grateful smile and a stroke to Floette’s head.

“ My thanks, Monsieur AZ.” Steven reaches into his pocket for his wallet but is quickly waved off by the proprietor.

“ No need, Monsieur Tsuwabuki.” AZ smiles wearily and reaches out to fiddle with the volume knob on the radio. “ Consider it part of my apology for not ensuring the structural integrity of your ceiling.”

Steven laughs and rubs the back of his head with his free hand. “ In your defense, no one would expect a conkeldurr to literally hammer a hole through a floor.”

“ A good owner would make sure they wouldn’t have to worry about it in the first place.” AZ huffs out a laugh of his own and turns up the radio as the interlude melts into the primadonna’s second aria of the show. “ Hopefully I won’t have to patch up another hole tonight. Should I expect you back before dawn?”

“ I’m not sure.” Steven hums and glances at the grandfather clock abutted against the end of the counter. “ But if I’m not back, would you try to make sure none of the others come knocking until I am? Make up any excuse you want.”

AZ hums. “ I’ll think of something. Stay safe, Monsieur Tsuwabuki.”

“ I will. Have a good evening, Monsieur AZ.”

The complex of the Moulin Rouge is dark and surprisingly unguarded, and Steven makes quick work of the stone fence, climbing over it with the ease of someone who’s been prowling through caves and canyons since boyhood. He does catch sight of a few burly types patrolling the courtyard once inside, but none of them seem particularly enthused about their job duties, and they seem to be deliberately avoiding the immediate area surrounding the copperajah. At first he thinks that Wallace may have instructed them to keep a wide berth, but such instructions would incur suspicion, so maybe it has something to do with the past issues Wallace has had with prowlers.

Steven reaches the copperajah with only some occasional ducking behind bushes and trees, and sure enough, the blanket rope is ready and waiting for him. There’s a bit of internal debate over what to do about the bag of sandwiches, but Steven decides to literally grin and bear it, taking the top in his teeth before grabbing the rope and scaling the leg of the beast.

By the time he reaches the landing, his jaw is aching and quivering from the strain of holding the bag, and he ‘spits’ it onto the platform the moment he can cant his head above the railing. He hauls the rest of himself onto the platform after, and as takes a moment to massage neck and mandible, he can hear the excited barking of six rambunctious spheals filtering down from the roof.

Wallace’s wary voice reaches him next. “ Who’s there?”

“ The sandwich man!” Steven picks up the bag and holds it up as a familiar green-haired head pokes out over the copperajah’s nose and peers down at him. “ With sandwiches in hand! Were you expecting someone else?”

“ Oh, Steven!” Wallace laughs and rubs his face. “ You’d be surprised at how many people have attempted to sneak up to see me over the years!”

Steven blinks up at him. “ So you threw down a blanket rope and let it hang?”

“ Maybe I wanted to see you more than I feared anyone else making use of it!”

Before Steven can respond, Wallace’s head disappears, though he continues to call down to him. “ Can you make your way up on your own? I’d come to greet you, but there are currently six spheals who are very excited to see you again, so I’m making sure they don’t send you tumbling down the stairs!”

“ Of course!” Steven pulls up the blanket rope and stashes it out of sight before making for the staircase. “ It would certainly make things awkward if you had to call for an ambulance!”

Wallace’s laughter sounds like chimes in the coastal wind. “ It would, but try to pick up the pace! I only have so many arms for too many spheals!”

Sure enough, by the time Steven reaches the top of the landing, one of the spheals was rolling over to greet him after escaping from Wallace’s overloaded arms. With a laugh, Steven snatches it in mid-roll like one would a kickball and tucks it under his arm as it yips and wiggles its little flippers.

” I’m used to Sally slipping away to meet new people, but Beatrice is usually pretty reticent.” Steven looks up to see Wallace standing on the lined, neatly trimmed strip of grass stretching from the back of the copperajah’s prominent crests to the foot of the ornate howdah sitting near the end of its back. He’s carrying three barking, wiggling spheals in his arms, and he has the other two caged between his ankles. To say he’s relieved that he can release his brood is an understatement. “ And Laurence can be cagey. They’ve cottoned onto you in such a short period of time…though, I can’t say I blame them. You’re quite magnetic, Steven Stone.”

Steven feels a blush creeping up his neck but can’t find it in himself to care. “ You say that as if you’re not one of the most magnetic human beings in existence.”

“ Bah!” Wallace waves a dismissive hand at Steven as he stands up straight from letting the rest of his spheal three. The five waste no time in waddling over to Steven, who kneels and sets down Beatrice before offering his hands to the others, giggling as their cold noses push into his palms and snuff his fingers. “ You’re biased, though it’s a charming bias, I admit.”

Unlike his powdered and painted perfection as Mikuri earlier that day, Wallace is ready for bed and stripped of all pretense, and Steven finds himself thrilled to see that he’s wearing the blue silk pajamas he’d bought for him after the other man mentioned never wearing any to bed (which now makes so much sense but is still sad). He’s wearing slippers so well-worn that the inner wool lining has almost completely thinned away, and his freshly washed hair is free to cascade down his back and over his shoulders like a waterfall, glossy in the twinkling white lights strung through the howdah and warmed in the red glow of the windmill. He somehow looks even more enchanting without makeup. A near unbearable pressure builds behind Steven’s ribs.

I love you, I love you, I love you.

“ Food first?” He says instead, holding up the bag. Wallace’s eyes light up.

” Yes, please!” He reaches out and snatches the bag from Steven’s hands with uncharacteristic eagerness, and the geologist tries and fails not to laugh as the courtesan all but rips the paper seal off in his haste. “ Oh, hush up, you! You have no earthly idea how famished I am at the end of nights like this, and I didn’t even sleep with the duke!”

Steven’s eyes widen. “ You didn’t? But I thought that after we left, you and he would…”

“ That was the assumption I made, but the duke said it had been a long day and that I should get some sleep, and that was that.” Wallace sticks his hand in the bag and doesn’t look up from his rummaging as he wanders over to a blanket he’d laid out on the grass. The spheals, meanwhile, waddle and roll alongside Steven as he follows behind. “ Granted, I’ll have to sleep with him sooner rather than later, but given my plans…I’m glad I got a break tonight.”

So am I, Steven thinks, watching as Wallace settles on the blanket and primly tucks his legs up and to the side. He waits until his friend is tucking into the bag in earnest before plopping down next to him, crossing his legs and bracing his hands on his shins as he tries not to look as nervous as he feels. Fortunately, the other man is too busy pulling out the food to notice the geologist’s anxious fidgeting.

” You’ll have to sleep with him eventually, right?” Steven asks hesitantly. After all, Wallace seemed pretty firm earlier about keeping Steven and his job as separated as possible, and he probably doesn’t want to discuss work ‘off the clock’.

Fortunately, Wallace doesn’t seem to mind, and he hums in delighted agreement as he unwraps a meat, cheese, and vegetable masterpiece sandwiched between a crusty baguette half.

” Oh, yes, I’m sure.” Wallace tears off a large hunk of sandwich with his teeth and chews with relish before swallowing. Steven can tell from the way his slippers shift that he’s curling his toes in delight. “ I’m certain he’ll want an exclusivity agreement, too.”

Steven blinks. “ Exclusivity agreement?”

” Oh, yes; I would be terribly surprised if Duke Siebold were agreeable to the idea of his whore sleeping with other clients.” Steven can’t help but shudder at how casually Wallace dismisses his autonomy, and his friend must notice his discomfort, because he pauses in his voracious devouring of the sandwich to reach out and take the shorter man’s hand. “ No need to fret, darling; frankly, this is the best case scenario for someone in my situation. If I were to simply be an actor under Rose’s umbrella, it would be difficult for me to branch out from the theater here, but becoming Duke Siebold’s paramour would net me a patron with means and status. He would fund my career, travel, and wardrobe and use his influence to help me obtain roles that otherwise would be hoarded for those with better reputations. If all I have to do in exchange is be sweet, fawning, and physically available, then I’ll have reached a status most courtesans could only ever dream of obtaining .”

Steven nods and swallows thickly as Wallace gives his hand one last pat before letting go. The champion immediately moves to grip his shins once again and watches as Wallace takes bite, after bite, after bite, eating as if he hasn’t eaten in a week. He himself has suddenly lost his appetite.

” How long would you be…”

Another swallow.

“…bound to him?”

“ Until I’m established enough as an actor to make it on my own name and merits, or until he grows tired of me, whichever comes first.” With half of the sandwich now in his stomach, Wallace stops to take a breath, rubbing the butcher's paper between his fingers as he speaks. The uncharacteristic shyness from early creeps onto his face. “ It won’t be forever, if that’s what you’re concerned about. Or is this…”

Steven frowns. “ I mean, I wouldn’t want you to be forced to sleep with someone your whole life, if that’s what you’re asking.” He idly picks at the cuffs of his pants in lieu of his stim rings. “ I don’t want you to be an actor forever, either. I want you to have what you want, and staying a courtesan and becoming an actor aren’t what you want.”

Wallace’s expression—which sharpened when Steven began speaking—melts and softens with fondness and yet more relief. His shoulders descend from where they’d crept closer to his ears. “ You’re right. Neither is what I want. I want to be a coordinator more than anything in the world…”

He shakes his head.

“ No. The one thing—the only thing—I want more than that is to be able to make that choice. To be my own again. Or, maybe, for the first time. I was fifteen when my parents made the trade, after all.”

Steven nods, and thinks, and picks his clothes as he watches Wallace all but inhale the last of the sandwich without further interruption. Once he finished, the geologist unwraps his own, tears it in half, and hands the biggest piece to Wallace. “ Here.”

“ Oh, Steven, you don’t need to—“

“ I’m not really hungry,” Steven insists, pushing the sandwich into Wallace’s reluctant hands. “ I like eating larger lunches than dinners. Besides, you’re starving, Wallace. You didn’t even eat with the duke.”

” And risk unflattering noises? Crumbs? Smears and stains?” The resignation in the courtesan’s voice wicks away all that’s left of the champion’s appetite. “ Perhaps you think I’m vain, or silly, but people don’t pay for someone who burps or smacks their lips a bit too loudly. They pay for an illusion–a sexual fantasy brought to life–and even the slightest imperfection can break the spell. No, it’s far safer for me to simply pretend to nibble or use my glass to gesture, and then eat and drink when I’m finally alone.”

“ Or with friends.”

The light returns to Wallace’s eyes. “ Yes, of course–the most precious of friends at that.” He cradles the sandwich half in his hands as if it’s a fragile pokemon egg and chews on the inside of his cheek. “ Are you sure, dear?”

Steven nods. “ After everything that’s happened, I’d feel worse if you didn’t eat more, so please–if only for my own sake.”

“ Oh, alright, you fantastic worrywart.”

With a dramatic sigh, Wallace relents and begins to eat his sandwich half, and it’s clear from how eagerly he chomps it down that Steven made the right choice. With his worry significantly abated, Steven finally starts to nibble on his own, because he knows that Wallace will grouse if he doesn’t eat at least something of his impromptu dinner.

They’re silent until they finish eating, and as Wallace brushes the crumbs off his lap and mouth, Steven reaches into the pocket of his long coat and pulls out what looks like a silver dance card holder–albeit a bit larger and with the emblem of the Interregional Pokemon League etched and embossed on the lid.

“ Here.” Steven holds it out to Wallace, who takes it after a second of hesitation, turning it over in his hands the way he himself would gauge the weight and density of a geode. “ Proof.”

Wallace sighs. “ I would’ve believed you without this, Steven.”

“ I know, but you deserve proof, especially after I crashed into your personal life unannounced today.”

“ Which wasn’t your fault, but…I appreciate the sentiment.”

With the same care he used to handle the sandwich, Wallace takes the badge and turns it over and over in his palms, gauging the weight and running his fingers over the edges and the ridges and dips of the cover. Finally, he pops the tiny latch and opens the case, thumbing over the thin metal relief etching used to list Steven’s IPL credentials instead of plain paper. The only engraved portions are the seal and signature of the chairperson, with not a hint of wax or external ink to be found, no matter how much pressure the courtesan applies as he rubs.

“ I’m guessing,” he hums, “ that this helps prevent forgery. The process used to craft this badge must be terribly complex as well as time-consuming.”

“ Each IPL champion gets awarded one when they take the job, and they have to receive it personally from their headquarters, from the chairperson’s hands.” Steven extends his legs before bringing them to his chest. He wraps his arms around his folded shins and rests his chin atop his knees as he watches Wallace greedily pour over his personal information. “ When you lose it, you have to go all the way back to headquarters and request it personally, and they have to make alterations to the design and send out the differences to officials around the world to make sure someone can’t find your old badge and pass themselves off as you. If your position is dishonorably vacated, they take the badge and melt it down, and you can face hefty legal and financial consequences if you try to keep it. Otherwise, you keep it for life, even when you step down and have a new top champion take your place.”

Wallace whistles, clearly impressed, and his reaction gives Steven a rush of confidence that he usually only feels in the middle of a pokemon battle. He resists the urge to figuratively (or literally) puff out his chest and reaches out for Sally, who has rolled over to say hello and is now butting his hip with her nose, snuffling and flapping her tail. He adjusts to sit cross-legged once more and sets the young spheal into his lap with an exaggerated oof.

“ Is it true, then?” Wallace’s soft question draws Steven’s attention away from scratching the bases of Sally’s flippers. “ That IPL champions partner with Interpol at times.”

Just like that, Steven’s confidence evaporates, and he finds his mouth dry and tongue fat as he watches his friend trace the sharp edges of the badge holder with the pad of his thumb. He rubs his face, rests his hands atop Sally’s blubbery back, then lifts her off and to the side so that he can more freely stim with his rings. Wallace, ever patient with him, closes the badge and sets it on the blanket between them before shifting his body to better face his friend.

“ Sometimes.” Steven finally manages. Even though looking into Wallace’s eyes is unusually easy most times, he feels like staring directly at anyone’s face right now will shake something in him apart, so he keeps his gaze fixated on his stim rings. “ On paper, we’re the heads of the regional pokemon leagues and their official representatives to the IPL, but we’re also meant to act as bridges between our regions and the larger interregional organizations. The United Regions, the Interregional Courts of Arbitration and Justice, and…”

“...the Interregional Police.” Wallace finishes for him. “ Interpol.”

Spin, spin, spin. “ Yes. In fact, we’re mandated reporters when it comes to any intraregional conflict or issue that could have interregional consequences, or if a crime or incident occurs that extends beyond an individual region’s ability to manage it itself.”

“ And that’s where the trouble began.”

Steven nods. He spins his rings. Wallace waits, and waits, and he eventually reaches out to risk laying a hand on Steven’s knee. His hand touch is cool and gentle, and though he keeps the contact tentative, the geologist finds it as grounding as a fault line. He relaxes beneath Wallace’s hand and feels all the steadier when he rests more of its weight on his leg.

“ I have something else,” Steven finally says, “that I’d like to show you.”

Wallace watches with his all-seeing emerald eyes as Steven puts his badge back into his coat pocket, then reaches into what looks like an ordinary seam to the casual observer but what turns out to be an entrance to a secret pocket, pulling out a small but thick paper file pouch, weathered and secured with twine. He hands it to Wallace and nods for him to open it when he hesitates, ignoring the loss he feels when his friend moves his hand to open the envelope, dropping several photographs and numerous folded and unfolded papers onto his lap.

“ Careful.” Steven whispers. “ Those are the only hard copies in existence. Interpol has taken photos and transcribed all of it, but if it goes to the interregional court, they’ll want the originals–and my original testimony.”

“ So the papers weren’t exaggerating when they talked about the conglomerate being under one of the largest interregional investigations since the creation of Interpol.”

Steven nods and casts his eyes back down to his lap. He spins, spins, and spins, and he listens to Wallace rummaging through the literal pile of evidence for what feels like hours, unfolding papers with obvious care and muttering intelligibly under his breath as he reads notes to himself and tries to piece together just what exactly he’s looking at in the photographs.

The small eternity goes on, and just as Steven starts to wonder if maybe all of the information is too technical for a layperson to understand, he hears his friend gasp quietly. Then, there’s the sound of him setting whatever papers or photographs he’s holding back into his lap, with a small rustle indicating shaking hands, and more muttering under his breath–only this time, it sounds like Sootopolan cursing. Or maybe a soft prayer. A knot loosens in Steven’s chest.

Of course his dear friend understands; even without a formal education he’s one of the most brilliant humans Steven has ever met. He loves him, he loves him, he loves him.

“ Steven.” When Wallace finally speaks, his voice is thready and weak, and Steven forces himself to look up from his lap and into his friend’s horrified eyes and color-blanched face. His shivering fingers are curled lightly around the papers in his lap, conscious of the importance of what he’s holding and the risk of it being damaged, even if the way he’s holding them a few millimeters above his lap indicates his reluctance to be touching it at all. “ Am I looking at what I think I am?”

Steven swallows thickly. “ What do you think you’re looking at?”

“ The ramblings and ravings of a madman.” Wallace neatens the papers with uncharacteristic clumsiness and slides them back into the envelope before handing it back to Steven. “ Photographs of madness given shape. Most of this is not your handwriting…your grandfather?”

A nod. Wallace exhales heavily and pushes the heels of his palms into his closed eyes.

“ I’m not surprised. Even as a child, I knew Archibald Stone was a bastard, but this is…” He drops his hands and opens his eyes. When he looks at Steven again, it’s with a strange expression of wonder, even as his face remains as pale as a Cursola’s calcified shell. “ How did you find out?”

Steven shrugs a shoulder and tucks his badge and the envelope back into their appropriate pockets in his coat.

“ My grandfather made an announcement to the board a year ago,” he begins, looking down at the blanket between his crossed legs. “ About how he was on the cusp of a technology that would replace all forms of energy generation in Hoenn. No more coal, no more gas, no more burning firewood or even generating steam from Mt. Chimney. It was the first time Dad and I heard about it, too, and he was tight-lipped about his progress. He said he’d tell us everything when it was ready to go into production.”

“ Is that when you grew suspicious?”

Steven chuckles bitterly. “ As you said, my grandfather is a bastard, Wallace. Everyone knows it. I know this. I know this more intimately than most people. Not more than my poor father, but…I’ve seen enough. Experienced enough. Know enough. I’ve been afraid of him since I was eight years old and he struck me in the face in front of the board because I couldn’t look him in the eye–”

Wallace sucks in a breath, and though he can’t yet look up at him, Steven finds himself smiling.

“ I’m alright now, and Father punched him in the face right then and there for the trouble. Bloodied him in front of the entire board. He tried to keep me away from him as much as possible from that point forward–until I became an adult and was expected to start participating in the conglomerate’s affairs.”

The smile withers.

“ Devon only made the transition to peaceful technology alongside weapons production because of my father; he’s a brilliant inventor who has no desire to make anything that could cause harm, and Grandfather likes the publicity and public relations elevation of transitioning from ‘war to peace’, so to speak.”

“ So when you heard this…”

“ It scared the hell out of me.” Steven says flatly. “ Scared the hell out of Father, too, but he has a lot less room to maneuver as the direct heir and more to lose. I had a job to do, however, so I started doing some investigating without letting him know. I didn’t want him to go down with me if I did find something that had to go to the interregional authorities.”

Wallace gnaws on his lower lip and glances over at his pool of five snoozing spheals (out of sight from below, of course), then at Sally, who continues to arf and roll anxiously from side to side. He pats the blanket next to him, and the youngest spheal almost immediately waddles over, making both her master and his friend laugh as she claps and thwaps her tail in a cry for attention. The ominous shroud that had descended upon them begins to thin.

“ Do you really think he’s found it…?” Wallace whispers as he pets Sally’s back the way one would a finely-groomed pedigree persian. “ Infinity energy. The technology used to create the ultimate weapon three-thousand years ago.”

Steven licks his dry lips and nods. “ I know he has. I have eyewitnesses who provided me with written, sworn testimonies, and I bribed the factory manager to sneak me into the undersea cavern beneath Mauville…saw the set-up with my own two eyes. Took those pictures you were looking at.”

Wallace sucks in a breath. “ Rayquaza’s whiskers. So it’s real. It’s not just a warmonger’s deranged fantasy.”

“ Yes. I even studied the equations–made sure I had something myself. I’m not an electrical engineer, or a mechanical one, but being raised by one allows you to get a general idea of both.”

Steven looks over Wallace’s shoulder at the red windmill behind him.

“ When I knew that…that this was real, I…I didn’t tell Father anything. I didn’t tell him I was actually looking into it and convinced him the whole time to not do it himself. I didn’t want to bring him down with me. So when I got word that the project was close to being finished, I…I broke into Grandfather’s office when he left for a two week business trip to Johto and went through all of his files and drawers. That’s when I found the notes–found the plans not just for power, but for weaponization.”

“ And you went to Interpol.”

“ I would have even if I hadn’t been a mandated reporter.” Steven drops his gaze to Wallace’s drawn face and smiles sadly. “ A weapon that allowed a king to commit a near complete regional genocide three-thousand years ago, with my grandfather–a warmonger from the line of Warmongers–planning on making a version to ship to other regions under false flags and pretenses…if it were for entirely peaceful purposes, which I believe is entirely possible, then I wouldn’t have scorched the earth. It wasn’t. Even if he had said it was, I would’ve known better than to believe him. So without telling Father or even my sideways sister, I took all of the evidence I gathered and flew for two days to reach Unova on my own power. I handed them the evidence, spent the rest of the week giving testimony, then went back home and told Father what I’d done. He knew what would happen to me. I did, too. We both knew what Grandfather would do when returned home and was confronted with an Interpol investigation. He would know who gave up the ghost.”

“ And he’d kill you.”

“ I wanted to stay, to see it through, regardless of the consequences. Father, though…he begged me to save myself. That he’d just lost Mother three years ago and he couldn’t bear to lose me, too, his only biological child.”

Steven angrily brushes away the tears that have gathered in the corners of his eyes.

“ So I said yes, only under the condition he wouldn’t stick out his neck and make himself a target, too. He shoved some money from his personal account into an overseas one and shoved me on a boat to Kalos. I’m friends with Diantha, the champion, who more than agreed to help me lay low and keep an eye on me. The moment Grandfather came home, he told his contacts to find me and kill me, no matter where they had to go or what they had to do.”

Wallace picks at the grass at the edge of the blanket. “ You’re certain?”

“ Unfortunately, yes.” Steven sighs and tips his head back to look up at the night sky. It’s a shame at how much the city’s light pollution mutes the light of the stars; back in Hoenn, he could always take a quick boat ride or flight to find a glittering, flawless tapestry of physics and possibility. “In spite of its close cultural connections and trade with Hoenn, Kalos has numerous laws meant to protect local industry and guard against monopolies and predatory foreign investment, so Devon’s never been able to gain any foothold here. Diantha used her own connections and influence to keep my presence as tightly under wraps as a cofagrigus, and while my name is well known in more than a few circles around the world, my face is generally unknown outside of Hoenn. As long as I lay low, use a pseudonym, and avoid stirring up trouble, I should be able to stay hidden and alive until the investigation concludes and Grandfather is put on trial. If he’s convicted, his position as heir of the conglomerate is forfeit, and the bounty on my head will evaporate.”

“ How long will such an investigation take? Before it goes to trial, I mean.”

Steven sits up straight and sees that Wallace has gone back to worrying his lower lip. He frowns and reaches out to tap his jaw. “ You’re the one who’s always complaining about your lips being ragged and dry. Stop that.”

“ Don’t change the subject, Steven Stone.” Wallace does, however, relinquish his lip. “ How long?”

“ Anywhere from two to five years.”

The courtesan nods slowly. “ And…if he’s not convicted? Or if there’s not enough to bring to trial for violating the Interregional Compact on Weapon Non-Proliferation?”

“ You really are one of the smartest people I’ve ever met.”

“ Steven.”

“ I’m complimenting you! I mean it! You’re extremely well read! I don’t think anyone else who works at the Moulin Rouge has even heard of the Interregional Compact on Weapon Non-Proliferation!”

“ Thank you, but darling, please. Don’t mince words with me and don’t beat around the bush. What happens if Archibald remains a free man and in charge of the Devon Conglomerate?”

Steven smiles sadly. “ Then I hide until he dies or until Father gets enough support from the board to take control–whichever comes first.” He reaches out to touch Wallace’s hand when the answer makes him grimace and his head as if struck by a boufallant prod. “ Hey, hey, none of that. It’s…it’s not okay, but it’s okay, Wallace. Really. I…I knew this would be one of the only two endings for me when I went to Interpol with my evidence. No matter what happens, Grandfather will never be free of interregional scrutiny, and Interpol will monitor his activities as long as he remains CEO. There will be no second coming of the Ultimate Weapon and no future populations that will die if its power is sold to the highest bidders. I’m not…happy about the situation I’m in, but I’ve made peace with my choices, and I wouldn’t go back and change a single one.”

Wallace chokes on his tears–when did he start crying?--and drops Steven’s hand to cover his face with his own. His shoulders quiver as he whimpers and whines, and as makes several failed attempts to speak through his staccato breaths, the geologist desperately tries to think of what he said wrong and–more importantly–what he should be doing with his hands right now. Why is Wallace crying? Is he sick? Is he afraid of being around Steven now that he knows he has a target on his back? Should he just save Wallace the trouble of rejecting him and swanna-dive off the copperajah himself?

Maybe he should start by offering him a handkerchief. Yes, that sounds good. With his heart beating as fast as a cutiefly’s wing flaps, Steven searches his coat pockets and finds a clean if slightly wrinkled pocket square, and he awkwardly smooths it out on his thigh as he waits for his friend to calm enough to drop his hands.

“ Why…” Wallace’s words are soggy and muffled when he speaks. “ Why are you like this, Steven?”

The geologist’s heart plummets into his stomach. “ Like what?”

“ Like…this!” Finally, the courtesan drops his hands, and Steven is struck dumb by the fact that Wallace doesn’t look angry, or hurt, or even sad. In fact, even though his emerald eyes are sodden and his cheeks and jaw are drenched with tears, he’s smiling at the champion as if he’s the most wonderful person he’s ever seen. As if Steven has made not just his day, but his week, and his year, and maybe even his life. “Breave and honorable and kind to the point where it may very well get you killed; and yet you stare down that fate and you accept it without complaint, because you’re just…”

Wallace sniffs loudly, and Steven–thrown more than a bit off-balance by the emotional whiplash of the past few seconds–hurriedly passes him his handkerchief. The performer warbles his thanks and presses the cloth to his eyes as he visibly tries to collect himself.

“...you’re just a good man, Steven.” He warbles. Steven feels as if he’s been struck by a thunderbolt, and for a moment he can only stare at his friend as he dabs his face and eyes until they’re clean and dry, then lightly blows his nose. “ You’re such a good man that…that sometimes I just can’t stand it, you know?”

Even a gun to Steven’s head wouldn’t be enough to force his brain to describe all the emotions sloshing around his stomach, but even though the feeling is slightly queasy, it feels overwhelmingly good. It feels good and warm and right, and when Wallace finishes folding up Steven’s handkerchief and holds it out to him, Steven grabs his whole hand instead, clutching it in both of his own.

“ Wallace, I–”

“ Wait!”

Steven rocks backward when Wallace yelps and wrenches his hand free, and just like that, his emotional roller coaster is back in freefall. He stares at Wallace–trying and failing not to look and feel hurt–as he clutches his hand to his chest and pants as if he’s just run a mile. Sally barks and flaps in confusion, and even one of the sleeping five spheals wakes up and peers over the edge of the pool, though they soon drop back down to sleep.

“ I’m…” Steven doesn’t know what to do. “ I’m sor–”

“ Don’t!”

Steven flinches and falls silent as Wallace’s voice lashes out like a whip.Once he forces himself to look up, however, he’s relieved to see that his friend seems stricken rather than angry; in fact, it’s such a heartbreakingly lost expression that he almost reaches out, again, in an attempt to comfort him. He stops himself the moment his hand shoots out and lays it back in his lap.

“ I’m sorry,” Wallace breathes, his voice shivering at the edges. “ You have nothing to be sorry for, Steven. I just…please, just…before you say…before you say anything, say that, I need to…”

Wallace’s hands fumble along with his words, searching the inside of his pajama top for…something. Before the champion can even really register what’s happening, there’s a photograph being pushed into his hands: slightly crinkled at the edges and yellowed from age. He blinks down at it, then up at Wallace, who’s back to downcast eyes and lip chewing. Steven frowns at the sight but doesn’t tap his face again.

“ Look at it, please.”

Steven shrugs, turns the photograph over, and examines it in the ambient light of the complex.

“ Is this…you and your family?”

Wallace nods. Steven frowns, still not understanding the problem, and looks back down at the picture.

Given the date on the back, it’s a picture that must have been taken the year Wallace and his parents left Sootopolis for Kalos, and Steven can’t help but be charmed by his teenage friend’s fresh eyes and mischievous smile. He’s younger, but still tall and elegant in shape and demeanor, and he holds himself with the grace and poise of his adult self. A grown but still young woman sits next to him, with thick, curly hair a few shades darker than Wallace’s (more forest, perhaps) and her face is so severe that staring at it makes Steven feel like he’s having a performance evaluation with the world’s most inscrutable professor. Given the age, it’s likely this is Wallace’s older sister, Eleni. Steven can’t help but wonder if she wears that expression all the time; it looks quite at home on her face.

Focus, Steven!

Right, the rest. There’s a middle-aged man with seemingly dark green hair and glasses, and a middle-aged woman standing next to him with the sloped features of a mainlander, with coke bottle glasses and flat hair. His parents, then. An old woman wearing a traditional Sootopolan robe stands next to the woman. Probably Wallace’s grandmother. The champion has yet to figure out just what has Wallace so uneasy.

Then he looks at the old man standing next to the old woman–next to the middle-aged man, with a harsh, bitter face and a firm hand clapped on his son’s shoulder–and pauses. This man. This old man. He looks familiar. Is this what Wallace is so concerned about? Is his grandfather known on the mainland?

Think, Steven! Think! Where has he seen this man before? At one of the business meetings or galas he’s been forced to attend throughout his life? In a book? At the university? In a different region? A news article?

It clicks, then–not where he’s seen the face, but to whom the face belongs–and Steven lets the photo drop from his hands as he springs to his feet.

“ You’re an Atlantios?!” Steven’s not sure what kind of emotion he’s feeling, but it’s certainly not pleasant, and it burns hotter and faster with Wallace’s ducked head and embarrased–embarrased!--nod. As if he has anything to be embarrassed about! “ Your grandfather’s the chieftain! Your sister’s next in line! You’re a member of the ruling family–you’re in the direct family line–and they…they left you here?! Your parents left you here?!”

Another nod. Wallace scrunches his shoulders close to his ear and curls slightly around himself, gripping his arms as if he’s been struck by a sudden chill. He’s even shivering, and that sight–and the realization that he’s making his friend feel worse than he already is–that breaks through the haze of what can only be anger, anger, anger, anger and returns Steven to himself. His chest is heaving, his hands are balled into fists, and he can feel sweat prickling on his brow. He screws his eyes shut, digs his palms into the sockets, and breathes. Once. Twice. Three times. Four.

“ I’m sorry, Steven.”

“ Sorry? Sorry?! No, you have nothing to be sorry for! Why are you apologizing?! I…this is…”

Steven drops his hands and violently shakes his head. No, no, no. Wallace has nothing to be sorry for. Wallace has nothing to be sorry for. This is outrageous. This is outrageous. This is outrageous.

“ Why?”

That’s the only word he can think of. The only one that will form. The only one ricocheting around his skull like a bullet. Why? Wallace uncurls just enough to look up at Steven, and whatever he sees seems to be somewhat reassuring, because his shoulders droop down to normal height. He continues to hug himself, however, and he shifts to sit on his knees as Steven drops to his own next to him. Sally watches, then turns and waddles towards the pool, seemingly realizing that this is not a conversation for a little spheal. She’s as perceptive as her master.

It’s bad enough to be all but sold to the owner of a night club by your parents. It’s even more unfathomable if the people that sold you are within the ruling line of a micronation. Do they know about this in the Caldera? Do his grandparents know?

Before he even registers it, Steven has reached out and pulled Wallace’s hands away from his shoulders, uncurling his arms so he can lace their fingers together and let them rest on their touching knees. Wallace hiccups a breath and blinks away a new wet film forming over his eyes.

“ I was…just a teenager when we came here.” Wallace breathes. His fingers clutch desperately to Steven’s own. “ I was…as the secondborn, I was meant to be the future lorekeeper, so I grew up studying and swimming. I can count on my hand the times I left the caldera–with the last being, of course, our trip here. There were…financial problems, not just with my family, but with the whole of Sootopolis. There was a market recession back then, apparently, and work is…hard to come by in the Caldera, simply because of how insular we are. There aren’t enough jobs. There never have been. People go to the mainland to work or run shipping and fishing businesses. I think…there was an investment, and it went wrong.”

Ice cold needles prick their way up Steven’s spine. “ Rose?”

“ Before he opened the Moulin Rouge, he ran a company called Macro Cosmos in Galar. I don’t know all of the details; the bastard certainly hasn’t told me, no matter how much I’ve asked, and his little simpering assistant would rather cut out her tongue than reveal his secrets. No one else who works here knows him from before, and the information that comes out of Galar is…never the most forthcoming or easy to acquire, given their tendency towards isolationism. All I know is that he invested in different ventures that spanned multiple regions, and my family and multiple people in my city were involved in one, only for it to fall apart.”

“ It must have been a very large investment.”

Wallace nods solemnly. “ Rose always tells me I was given away to pay the caldera’s debts. By the time things fell apart, Macro Cosmos had fallen apart itself, and Rose had gone to Kalos to focus all of his time, resources, and attention on the Moulin Rouge. My parents went to Kalos to work for him–to help pay off the debt–and since…well, since I am quite non-essential compared to my sister in terms of succession, they brought me with them.”

Steven doesn’t like this. Steven doesn’t like the sound of any of this. Steven thinks that there’s far more to this story than Wallace knows. Yet Steven bites his tongue and keeps his mouth shut], and he instead holds and rubs and squeezes his friend’s hands, encouraging him with a patient smile to keep talking. Wallace glances up at him frequently, only to cast his eyes back down to their joined hands, frequently pausing in his tale to gather his thoughts and put them into words.

Has he ever told anyone the full story before?

“ My parents were mum about what they were doing for him–they were teachers back in Sootopolis, so it might have had something to do with that. All I know is that I was horribly homesick, but I was in a new place full of lights and costumes and makeup and dancing, and it was thrilling. It was like Sootopolis was an egg, and suddenly it cracked open, allowing me to see all the bright and fearsome beauty and possibility of the outside world. My parents left me to my own devices most of the time, so I spent my days watching the dancers and the acrobats, who noticed my interest and began teaching me. Apparently, I was so talented that the other performers told Rose, and he watched me practice with them one day before going to my parents and asking them if they’d be agreeable to my performing for some extra…repayment.”

Steven feels like he’s going to be sick. “ That didn’t include…”

“ No, no.” Wallace shakes his head for emphasis. “ Like I said earlier, I wasn’t asked to start selling myself until I was sixteen, the legal age of consent–and it was a choice I was free to make. Originally, I just danced in the non-cancan routines, and I quickly became one of the star attractions. The money began to come in from ticket sales and tips on the floor, and one day, I woke up to find that my parents were gone.”

“ What do you mean gone?”

“ I mean one day, I woke up alone in my old room in the club, and Oleana was knocking on my door, asking me to get dressed and be ‘right quick’ about it. She took me to Rose’s office, and that’s where he told me that my parents had signed over custody of myself to him, and that I would be staying here at least until the age of eighteen as part of a debt repayment scheme: three-fourths of everything I made would go to paying off the horrible debt incurred by my family and the rest of Sootopolis, and I had no choice but to work until I was at least eighteen. Once I reached legal adulthood, he said, I would be allowed to leave with nothing–or I could stay, be well taken care of, and work until the debt was completely paid. At that point, he’d pay for a room on a steamer himself.”

There is a large part of Steven that wants to ask if he’s heard Wallace correctly, or even protest that no, that’s impossible; the ruling family of the City-State of Sootopolis would not give their future lorekeeper to the manager of a nightclub and leave without saying goodbye. Then, he remembers that his grandfather literally has a hit out on him, and the champion has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from making a hysterical noise of some kind. Wallace’s eyes are dry again, but the forlorn look on his face breaks his heart more than his tears ever could, and Steven grips his hands even tighter–as if he’ll be pulled away by something if he lets go.

“ How did they…” Steven’s voice sounds like it’s coming from another person. “ How did they explain it away to your grandparents? Your sister?”

Wallace’s lips twist into a rictus. “ It’s quite simple, Steven; they went home and told everyone I died.”

Steven’s mouth falls open.

“ What?”

“ Oh, I’m sure my grandparents know the truth, but Winona skwovetted a newspaper from Hoenn for me a few days later, and on the front page–a small column, in the right-hand corner–was a blurb that announced my passing from disease during our trip to Kalos.”

Wallace’s nails dig into Steven’s skin.

“ Up until then, I’d been writing frantic, desperate letters every day, begging my parents and my grandparents to let me come back home, or to at least tell my sister that I loved her.”

His head dips heavily between his shoulders.

“ That was the day I stopped writing. It’s clear they weren’t reading them, if they were reaching them at all, and…it was obvious that Eleni would never read them. That’s when I knew I was alone.”

Steven distantly remembers his grandfather making a few passing remarks about someone dying in the Atlantios line around that time–ones which were dotted by some of his ‘colorful’ remarks about Sootpolans, which inevitably led to a loud argument between him and his father. ‘ A child died, Father!’ Joseph had bellowed, obviously recalling all the failed pregnancies that predated Steven’s successful birth. ‘A child your grandson’s age! You could at least muster some sympathy for that! Is there anything left in that chest of yours that hasn’t frozen over?!’

No, there hadn’t been, and Joseph would tell Amoretta over the kitchen table later that night that he should never let Archibald goad him into arguments, because they always ended with him feeling superior to his son. Steven, on the other hand, hadn’t paid the affair much attention. He’d just started university–a young prodigy, one of the youngest students to ever enter a doctorate program in Hoenn’s history–and had been inducted as Champion of the Hoenn Regional Pokemon League just a few months before. It was sad to think about, of course, but there was nothing he could do.

That was that. Steven quickly forgot it ever happened, only for the memory to bloom back into existence a decade later, slamming into him with the force of a meteor mash at the sight and sound of Wallace’s body bowing under the heartbreak of it all. Steven had forgotten, and the grand majority of mainland Hoenn has likely forgotten, and Wallace knows that. He knows that he’s been forgotten. He knows that no one is looking for him. He knows that no one is waiting for him to come home.

What does it feel like, Steven silently asks with every aching cell in his body and every too-loud thought in his brain, to be left behind by your family without them even saying goodbye?

Steven has the privilege of not knowing the answer, so he can’t truly understand what Wallace his feeling; but what he does know is that he can’t stand to let him feel it alone, so he lets go of their hands and drags Wallace forward into the most desperate hug the geologist has ever given–even more desperate than the hug he gave his mother on her death bed. He holds him with everything he has and everything that makes him who he is, and Wallace sobs and clings back, melting his taller, thinner body into Steven’s shorter, sturdier one as if they’re two magnets of opposite poles being brought together at long last.

Never again.

“ This,” Steven utters with the same fierceness with which he clings to Wallace, “changes absolutely nothing about what I feel for you and what I want to say. Absolutely nothing.”

Wallace grips the back of Steven’s coat as if he’s a drowning man clinging to a life preserver. “ Don’t say that. That can’t possibly be true.”

“ You don’t get to decide my feelings for me.” Steven reluctantly lets Wallace go to grip his shoulders and force him back just enough to stare into his wet and wild eyes. The artisan looks uncharacteristically fragile, and uncharacteristically vulnerable, and uncharacteristically hopeful, and uncharacteristically torn–but none of it is uncharacteristic, because it’s him; all of it is Wallace Atlantios, and he loves him. “ I told you I wanted you to decide how the story ends. You decided, back with the others, and it was everything I hoped for. This–”

He gives Wallace’s shoulders a shake.

“ This is everything I hoped for. You are everything I hoped for.”

Wallace’s face screws up. “ You wrote it before you knew me.”

“ I knew you. I still know you. I just know more about you now.” Steven doesn’t have to force the sweet smile on his face. He adores him, even when he’s being stupidly stubborn, such as right now. “ What? Are you worried that my grandfather’s going to kill me if I fall in love with an Atlantios? He can’t want to kill me anymore than he wants to kill me now, Wallace. Honestly, this is probably the best time for us to be together, because the disowning’s already happened. It lets me skip a step and go straight to blood hatred.”

That, mercifully, rips a reluctant but loud laugh out of Wallace. He covers his face with his hands and shakes with laughter, then with something else, before finally falling still. Steven gives him the same patience afforded to himself earlier, and when the courtesan drops his hands once more, the hope in his eyes takes Steven’s breath away.

“ The prince,” Wallace says softly, “ did not truly know the mermaid before he started falling in love.” He reaches out for Steven’s hands, and the shorter man kisses them before pulling them to his chest, resting them over his heart. “ What if he changes his mind after he learns everything?”

“ And has he?”

A small nod. Steven’s smile widens into a grin.

“ Then the prince is going to tell him that he’s got to do much better than that to get him to stop loving him.”

Loving him. Wallace’s breath stutters in his chest.

“ What if the mermaid is a whore, Steven?” The words, while shaky, are the most forceful Wallace has sounded since he showed Steven the photograph. He presses his palms flat against Steven’s chest and allows his eyes to fall to half mast. “ What if the mermaid is a whore, and the mermaid can’t stop being a whore–not for quite some time, no matter how much the prince would like to have him to himself? What then?”

Steven thinks, and thinks, and thinks before cocking his head to the side.

“ I would have you all to myself, wouldn’t I?”

Wallace winces as if a gun has fired next to his ear. “ Steven, have you forgotten the exclusivity–”

“ That’s for Mikuri, though, yes?”

The words die on the courtesan’s lips, and if the situation were a little less dire, Steven would almost feel smug at having made quick-tongued Wallace speechless. Instead, he commits the taller man’s stupefied expression to memory, then removes his hands from his chest to kiss them again.

“ I didn’t fall in love with Mikuri,” Steven says firmly, and he presses his lips to Wallace’s soft knuckles as he gasps. “ You play Mikuri, and you’ll be with the duke as Mikuri, but I didn’t fall in love with Mikuri. I didn’t meet Mikuri on the bridge that night. The prince fell in love with the mermaid he saved and who saved him. I fell in love with Wallace Atlantios. I fell in love with you.”

Time stops.

“ I love you.”

The dam bursts, the thread snaps, and Wallace sobs as he lunges forward and flings his arms around the shorter man’s neck. Steven meets him halfway–wraps his arms around his back and pulls him so tightly to himself that he briefly loses where he ends and Wallace begins–and when the most beautiful lips in the world crash into his own with little finesse and all feeling, Steven simply pulls him down and deeper, deeper, deeper.

Maybe there should be fireworks. Maybe there should be a full moon. Maybe someone should even be singing opera. Yet the courtyard is silent, the sky is unbroken, the moon hangs as a crescent in the sky, and nothing around them matters. Nothing around them even registers. Steven Stone loves Wallace Atlantios, Steven Stone is kissing Wallace Atlantios, and Wallace doesn’t hesitate when they finally break apart.

“ I love you, Steven.” Suddenly, there are tears welling up in Steven’s own eyes, and happiness leaks out of him like steam from a pressure valve as Wallace kisses his cheeks, head, lips, eyelids, and lips again, before pulling back and cupping the champion’s face in his hands as if he, too, is a dream come true. “ You stubborn man. You infuriating man. You oblivious man. You wonderful man.” Another kiss, longer and warmer, and the words are whispered against Steven’s lips. “ What am I to do with you besides love you with everything I am and will ever be?”

Steven sobs as everything hits him all at once. Wallace holds him, sways with him, and loves him. Loves him. Loves him.

“ You love me.” Steven isn’t sure if the sounds he’s making are sobbing or laughter; all he knows is that he is loved, and he is accepted, and he is happy. “ Wallace. Wallace, I love you, and you…you actually love me.”

“ Of course I do. I do. I do.” Wallace sounds just like Steven feels–as if he can’t believe his good fortune. As if a miracle has made itself known. “ I love you, and you love me, and we…oh, darling, we love each other.”

“ We do. We do.”

They kiss, and kiss, and kiss, and clutch each other, rocking gently back and forth as if they’re adrift in a boat on a calm sea with a boundless horizon. They part just enough to smile into each other’s lips, and when Wallace hums in giddy delight, Steven can feel its thrum all the way to his fingertips.

How wonderful life is, Steven thinks, now you’re in the world.

When Steven wakes up, he himself tucked underneath a blanket on the bed in the red room.

It’s a bit confusing at first, because the last thing he remembers is laying on his back on the blanket, with Wallace tucked into his side as he taught him about Kalosian constellations. They’d spent what felt like an eternity on top of the copperajah, kissing and hugging and touching and laughing because neither of them could believe in such a joyful reality. Wallace had even asked Steven to pinch him once, and when he balked at the thought of causing the courtesan pain, he rolled his eyes and announced exasperatedly that this must be the waking world, because only Steven Stone would balk at a simple pinch. Then they’d met each other's eyes, and laughed, and laughed some more as they grabbed each other and rolled around on the grass like children having confessed their crush.

The very last thing Steven remembers is the heaviness of his eyelids and the puffs of Wallace’s warm breath against his skin from where he was nuzzled into his neck. He must have drifted off after that, and given his location and the fact that his coat and shoes are absent, the geologist can only assume that Wallace carried him down from the roof and put him to bed. Steven can’t remember the last time he was carried and cradled–likely when he was still a child small enough to be hefted around by his parents–and the thought of Wallace doing so is less embarrassing than he thought it would be.

Instead, it feels mostly…warm. Warm and safe. Any doubt he still held of Wallace also finding him precious and worth protecting is washed away by the smells of sea salt and citrus wafting from the blanket, and with a happy sigh, Steven rolls over and throws out his arm–

–only to frown and sit up when his hand comes into contact with nothing but cold pillows. Sure enough, after his eyes adjust to the lack of light, he finds only cold and undisturbed sheets on the other side of the bed. Where on earth has Wallace gone?

There’s a soft, Milotic-like noise from the other side of the room–past the closed curtain–and Steven finds himself remembering something he’d brushed off just a few hours before. Before Wallace had shooed him out of the ‘room’ to finish his makeup, he asked the geologist to carry a large, rolled-up collection of what felt like blankets and padding and shove it into the closet, out of sight and out of mind.

“ Unlike the spheals, Milotic likes to sleep on solid land,” Wallace had explained. “ I just like to tuck her bedding out of the way for when my clients inevitably snoop around for interlopers. Having a bed on the floor simply raises questions I don’t feel like answering.”

It had been easy enough to accept at the time, but given the evidence presented to him at this moment, Steven has a new and somewhat concerning hypothesis of his own. So, quietly and carefully, he slides out of bed and creeps around the room towards the curtain, grateful for the still-smouldering coals of the fireplace for providing enough illumination to save him from ramming his toes into furniture. Once he reaches the curtain, he lifts up the edge and pokes his head inside, just far enough to confirm his suspicions.

Sure enough, the thick mass of bedding has been laid out and arranged on the floor near the window, and the entire length of Milotic’s body is curled so that it contours the edges and avoids the center of the bed. There’s another long lump in the middle, almost completely buried in blankets, with the slightest bit of emerald green peeking out. Steven isn’t sure if he wants to laugh, groan, or roll his eyes; so instead, he pulls back the rest of the curtain and slips into the room. “ Wallace?”

There’s a jerk from the middle of the bed, then Milotic trilling in her sleep as Wallace pushes himself onto his elbow and scans the room, eyes bleary and hair absolutely everywhere on his head. The sight makes Steven smile in spite of his concern.

“ Steven?” Wallace croaks when he finally sees him. “ What’re you…weren’t you asleep?”

“ I was. Then I woke up.” Steven pads forward until he’s standing at the foot of the makeshift bed. “ Did you…not want to sleep in the same bed with me, then?”

Wallace chews on the inside of his cheek and glances away shyly.

“ I don’t…like sleeping where I work, Steven.” He admits softly. “ I never have.”

Steven’s heart lurches in his chest. Oh, Wallace.

“ Why not bring me in here with you and Milotic, then?” Steven looks to where Wallace’s partner is sleeping with her head resting on the pillow to his right. “ Does she move around too much in her sleep? Or do you think she’d get jealous?”

Wallace chuckles huskily and shakes his head. “ None of that. I just don’t like the idea of my beloved sleeping on the floor, haberdash mattress or no.”

Beloved. Warmth floods Steven’s chest and spreads to his fingers and toes. I’m Wallace’s beloved. With a smile as besotted as he feels, the geologist maneuvers around the bed until he’s standing at the unoccupied left side, watching as Wallace lies back down and turns his head to follow him with his eyes.

“ You know, traditional bedding in the Deep East is on the floor,” he says conversationally. “ They can be just as comfortable as Western-style beds with all their springs, frames, and posts.”

“ Steven…”

“ I’ve also slept on cave floors, Wallace.” Steven grins as his lover rolls his eyes. “ What? It’s true! I’ve slept in caves and gotten quite used to the hardest, most uneven, and most uncomfortable sleeping surfaces as a result.”

Wallace frowns. “ Are you sure, darling?”

“ I would rather sleep with you on the floor than alone in the actual bed.” Steven knows he’s hit his mark when Wallace smiles in spite of himself. “ But only if you want me to; if it’s too much, I’ll go back to the actual bed. Whatever makes you feel more comfortable.”

After a few seconds of thought, Wallace makes a very dramatic ‘ugh’ of pique and relents, opening the covers and gesturing for Steven to join him. “ Don’t complain if you wake up with a sore back or neck.”

“ Somehow I think this is going to be more comfortable than a cragged cave floor.” Steven grins and wastes no time in dropping to his knees and crawling into bed. “ At least there are no zubats and swoobats nesting in the corners. Or water dripping from stalactites. Or the distant groaning of pokemon you don’t think you’ve ever heard before.”

“ Yes, thank you, you’ve made your point.” In spite of his grousing, Wallace wastes no time in scooting over to Steven’s side once he’s pulled the covers up, and he wraps his arms and legs around the shorter man the moment he’s settled on his back. “ Is this alright?”

“ More than alright.” The bedding is firm, as is common for floor beds, but soft enough to allow for relaxation and adjustment. More importantly, Wallace is resting his head on Steven’s shoulder, and he thinks that even a mattress filled with rocks would be comfortable with his beloved’s warmth and weight enfolding him. He shifts and maneuvers Wallace until he’s almost laying on top of him, and oh, he’s never going to need another weighted blanket again. “ Are you comfortable?”

Wallace sighs in sleepy happiness and curls his toes against Steven’s shins. “ Deliciously comfortable. You?”

“ It’s a bit better than a cave floor, I admit.” Steven huffs out a laugh as Wallace weakly smacks his side. “ I’m joking, treasure. I think you’ve ruined me for sleeping alone for the rest of my life.”

“ Treasure?” Wallace opens his eyes and blinks groggily up at Steven. “ Is that what you want to call me? Am I your treasure?”

“ You are.” Steven’s insides melt into puddles of goo at just how sweet Wallace looks when he’s half asleep–sweet, soft, and so readily trusting that it makes heat build behind Steven’s eyes. He’s pretty sure he’d fight Arceus bare handed for the dulcet curve of his lips. “ You’re the greatest treasure I’ll ever discover, Wallace; you shine more brightly than any gemstone in existence.”

The courtesan giggles as Steven kisses his lips, then his forehead, nose, cheekbones, and eyelids. He presses a wet, sloppy kiss to the corner of the geologist’s mouth in return before dropping his head and peppering drowsy kisses along his exposed collarbone. Steven is certain that he’ll love this man until the end of time.

“ I can’t believe you love me,” Wallace murmurs, because he always seems to know what Steven’s thinking. “ You absolute idiot. I was going to spend the rest of my life simply pining for you like a responsible person, and then you go and write me a love story, of all things.” He curls closer and sighs happily when the shorter man kisses his temple. “ Your life’s already hard enough right now, Steven, and I’m not going to make it easier.”

“ Who said I wanted my life to be easier?” Steven presses his nose into Wallace’s hair and falls nearly boneless as sea salt and citrus fill his nose. He hopes he smells this as he falls asleep for the rest of his life. “ I mean, other than my grandfather trying to kill me, of course.”

There’s another weak slap, this time to his chest, and Steven muffles his laughter in his beloved’s messy hair.

“ Stop joking, Steven.” The champion doesn’t even need to be looking at his face to tell he’s pouting. “ I’m being serious.”

“ And I’m being serious, too…mostly.” His hands trail up and down Wallace’s spine through the silk of his pajamas. “ I’ve never wanted an easy life, Wallace, only a good one; and you…you’re one of the best things that’s ever entered it. My point is that maybe, just maybe, you’re the sort of difficulty I never knew I needed until now.”

” That doesn’t make any sense.”

“ Maybe you should try thinking about it when you aren’t falling asleep on my shoulder.”

“ Rude. Completely and utterly rude, when I have done absolutely nothing wrong in my entire life, ever.”

There is absolutely no bite to Wallace’s complaints—only fondness and fatigue—and he presses his lips against the soft skin just above Steven’s clavicle. He kisses it once, then twice, before rubbing his cheek against his neck as he settles down for the night.

” You’re going to be bad for business,” Wallace whispers, smiling against his skin. “ I can tell.”

The next day, as the residents of the Moulin Rouge rise with the sun and the morning workers start streaming through the gate, the Duke of Monrath meets Rose in his office with contract in hand.

“ I hope you don’t mind, but I took the liberty of having my lawyer examine the contract earlier this morning, and he made a few additions based on our mutual opinions.” Siebold’s smile is coy as he sits across from Rose at his desk and pushes the small stack of papers towards him. He had removed his top coat and hat upon entry and hung them up on the rack near the door, but his white dress gloves remain on his hands, and he idly picks at the cuffs as Rose takes the papers with a curious air. “ The majority of the document is incredibly sound, it seems, and my lawyer was especially impressed with the frankness and openness of the financial aspects. Apparently he’s not used to such honesty from your type.”

If Duke Siebold were anyone else, Rose would unleash a torrent of sickly sweet sarcasm and belittlement; unfortunately, the former chairman needs him—badly—so he simply chuckles and shrugs.

” There are all types in ‘my type’, I’ll have you know.” He picks up his half-moon reading glasses and slips them on his nose before arranging the papers in front of him. “ Hopefully, we’ll be able to sign today and have it over and done with.”

The duke’s smile widens. “ Indeed. I would prefer that myself.”

Oleana picks up Rose’s empty teacup and turns to their new sponsor. “ Would you like some tea or coffee, Duke Siebold?”

“ Coffee would be wonderful, Mademoiselle Cosgrove. My thanks.”

“ My pleasure.”

With that, the room falls into silence, punctuated only by the ticking of the clock, the flick of paper as Rose skims through the contract, and the bustling of Oleana as she pours tea and coffee and sets out some biscuits on a plate. By the time she’s finished, Rose has evaluated half of the contract and found it entirely similar to the one he’d handed the duke the night before, and he’s surprised to find the investment and return numbers and rates entirely unchanged. If this section was not the issue, then what was?

Just as he starts to wonder, he flips to the next page, and he makes a little ‘ah’ of understanding as he comes to an entirely new section in slightly different font and ink compared to those of Oleana’s trusty old clunker of a typewriter. It doesn’t look to be a particularly long addendum—though there are lines for three signatures on the second and final page—and Rose starts reading properly as Oleana serves them their drinks.

The duke accepts his coffee and the biscuits with a small smile and quiet ‘merci’, and as he blows and gives his drink a careful sip, his cool blue eyes regard the nightclub owner with interest over the rim of the cup. It almost seems as if he’s searching for something on his face—a reaction, most likely. To what, however?

The answer comes in a matter of breaths as Rose flips over the first page and moves onto the second. As he reads, his green eyes narrow in confusion before popping wide, and he reads and re-reads the two pages as if trying to confirm that the words on the paper are, in fact, legitimate and not a hallucination. He blinks and rubs his eyes. The words do not change. His mouth opens into a little ‘o’ of shock.

Siebold allows himself a brief smirk behind the cover of his cup and takes one last sip before setting it down and lacing his gloved fingers together on the table.

” You…” Rose is hoarse at first, but he takes a quick sip of tea and collects himself, all while Oleana grows visibly more worried by the second. “ You want me to sign over the deeds to the Moulin Rouge?”

Oleana sucks in a quiet breath and takes a small step backwards, her normally impassive expression cracking in horror as she stares at Rose, then at the clearly unrepentant duke. Her throat bobs as she, too, realizes that he isn’t joking.

” I know it seems…extreme,” Siebold begins, “but the conversation of the Moulin Rouge into a theater—especially for the types of multimedia performances you have in mind—will cost a fantastic sum of money. A businessman with your record, Monsieur Quintrell—“

Rose’s jaw tightens.

”—should know full well the value of ensuring compliance in business deals. So in return…”

The duke’s glove-picking intensifies.

“ …I would require an agreement that binds Mikuri to me. Exclusively.” Siebold finally looks up from his gloves and into Rose’s dumbfounded face. His smirk creeps a few millimeters higher. “ I’m not sure why this comes as such a surprise to you, Monsieur Quintrell; we already agreed last night that exclusivity would be part of the deal.”

Rose swallows and takes another sip of tea before answering. “ Of course, my dear duke, but providing you the deeds as security is another matter entirely.”

” And I’m supposed to simply trust a man with your reputation?” In a blink, all of the duke’s good humor and bemusement evaporates, replaced with only sharp eyes and a biting, haughty tongue. Oleana’s fingers curl into fists in the shelter of her crossed arms. “ Don’t think that I’m naive, Rose Quintrell, nee Turner. Did you honestly expect me to fall into a business deal with a nightclub owner without doing my research? Did you think I wouldn’t discover the trail of bankrupt businesses and failed investments you left in your wake at your old company, Macro Cosmos? The one that no longer exists in any public form?”

Silence. The clock ticks. Rose bites down hard on the inside of his lip and Oleana grits her teeth behind her pursed lips. Siebold regards her with frigid disdain before returning his bitter stare to her boss. Even his smirk chills the two to the bone.

“ What exactly did you do with the money from those ventures, Monsieur Quintrell?” Siebold all but spits. “ Did you truly lose it all through legitimate if unlucky means as you declared in all your filings? Or has it been skwovetted away in an offshore account unknown even to the interregional financial regulators? Maybe at a little local bank on some backwater, underdeveloped island in the Alolan Archipelago, perhaps?”

Rose’s bright green eyes narrow into slits. Otherwise, he says nothing, choosing silence over making a scene and losing the money—and his last chance at pulling himself out of the hole in which he’s dug himself—that he so desperately requires. The duke seems to sense this, because the magnanimity returns to his expression, and he takes a calm drink of coffee before setting the cup back on the saucer. Rose rests his fingers on the handle of his own cup but makes no move to pick it up. The furrow grows between Oleana’s brows.

” We have an understanding then,” the duke declares, smiling smugly when Rose—after a second of hesitation and a furtive glance at Oleana—gives him a curt nod in return. “ If you’re honest, then my holding the deeds shouldn’t be a problem, and they will be returned to you—as spelled out in this binding legal document—once you’ve officially made back the money that will be spent on this venture. All you have to do on your end is have a successful show, make money from that successful show, and ensure that Mikuri belongs to me alone—all of which was going to happen at baseline, correct?”

Oleana and Rose share a far longer and more obvious look, and after a few seconds, the woman gives a nod of her own before turning her head back to center. Rose sighs, rubs his temples, and yields.

” Of course. When you put it that way, allowing you to hold the deeds until such a time as you recoup your losses will not be a problem.” He opens his inkwell and grabs his pen before hesitating. “ You can simply walk away if you’re unsatisfied, yes?”

“ If you fail to fill those three requirements—in which case, I will express my disappointment in the only languages you underworld showfolk and nouveau riche charlatans understand.”

Siebold gestures once more to the papers in front of Rose, which go into great detail on the financial and business requirements before vaguely discussing the ‘fulfillment of personal obligations as previously discussed’—extraordinarily vague language which allows for both maximum maneuverability for the duke and maximum deniability of any ‘human trafficking’ concerns—or whatever the United Regions and the Interregional Criminal Court are on about these days. Rose thinks it’s all a load of hand-wringing and bother, but he still considers himself a businessman, and criminal charges and a permanent stain on his reputation will do him no favors. Mikuri doesn’t have to be legally stipulated to provide exclusive sexual favors in exchange for the funding of the theater to know that it’s still a requirement.

The most crucial requirement, it seems, given how the duke’s attention has now been drawn to one of the art pieces of the ‘Enchanting Emerald’ framed and hanging on his wall. Perhaps his gambit was a little too successful.

Does anything actually change, however?

Sure, the signing over of the deeds is far more than Rose bargained for, but the requirements remain the same. Convert the Moulin Rouge to a theater. Put on a successful play. Have Mikuri become the duke’s kept courtesan. The stakes may be higher, but Wallace had been the one to take him by the shoulders and insist that he’d be more than willing to have sex with the duke on multiple surfaces multiple times a day if it meant eventually escaping his current life, so just sign the contract if he offers.

Now there is a contract in front of him, holding the keys to a bright future for the both of them; and while a less desperate individual would seek out Wallace’s continued consent prior to signing, given the changed parameters, Rose is nothing but desperation and cunning at this point in his life. If Wallace keeps the original agreement—which he vociferously declared he would—then he doesn’t have to know about the deeds. Surely nothing has changed for him in the span of a few weeks that would make his abiding by the terms difficult.

“ You’re certainly fond of Mikuri,” Oleana murmurs, trailing the duke’s gaze to the print on the wall.

” Monsieur Mikuri is a gem amongst gravel.” Siebold murmurs. He pinches, pulls, and picks at his gloves with increasing vigor. “ I don’t know where you found him, Rose Quintrell, but I find myself not caring in the slightest so long as he is mine—and he will be mine.”

There’s a shiver of emotion in the duke’s words that sets Oleana’s teeth on edge. She makes no move to voice her discomfort, however, simply deferring to Rose’s discretion in the matter.

” The club will need to remain open for at least another week to allow for word to spread of the impending closure and renovation.” Rose says after a moment of thought. “ However, his performances will strictly be artistic from hereon out, with no further clients to be placed on his schedule for private services. Is that agreeable?”

Siebold pinches and stretches the left index fingertip of his glove before releasing it and nodding.

” So long as it is strictly dancing.” The duke finally tears his attention away from the print and looks back at Rose, and though the smile Siebold gives him is perfectly polite and pleasant, the warmth does not meet his eyes. In fact, the blue looks even cooler than before, and Rose can’t help but shiver.

” It’s not that I’m a jealous man,” the duke continues, “ but I simply don’t like people touching my things.” Pinch. Pull. Snap. Rose barely keeps himself from wincing. “ You understand, surely, Monsieur Quintrell?”

Rose looks to Oleana, then back to the duke, before sighing and shrugging helplessly.

Oh well. What Wallace doesn’t know won’t kill him.

” I understand completely, my dear duke.”

Without further delay, and with Oleana Cosgrove as witness, Rose Quintrell and Duke Siebold of Monrath sign their names and seal their fates.

Chapter Text

When Steven first wakes up, the sky outside of the copperajah is just starting to lighten, and he has a not insignificant list of tasks for the day ahead swimming around in his head: he has to go back to the hotel without being seen by anyone but AZ; he has to go the museum and hash out the terms of some sort of sabbatical or hiatus (with Lenora herself; he doesn’t trust the head of the geology department to not snatch up the opportunity to be rid of his ramblings for good, no matter how many interesting rocks or fossils he brings them); he has to talk to Burgh and–ugh–Chairman Rose about job duties, deadlines, and an employment contract; and–most importantly of all–he has to talk to AZ about a decision he’d made falling asleep the night before and whether or not he has to move into another room to make it happen.

Simple. It’s a very simple list, and Steven is very good with lists, so he needs to carefully wiggle out of bed without waking Wallace, leave him a note explaining his absence, and use Skarmory to sacrifice subtlety for speed and fly back to the hotel before the sun rises and everyone else starts to stir. It’s not like he won’t literally see his new lover (lover!) in a handful of hours.

And yet.

The moment Steven moves to actually get out of bed, he makes the mistake of looking down at Wallace’s face, and all of the motivation he’s mustered begins to crumble at just how relaxed and utterly content he looks curled up in his arms. His hair is as twisted as a tangela’s vines, there’s a bit of drool crusted on his chin and the corners of his lips, and there are faint imprints from where his cheek was smushed into various parts of Steven’s shirt throughout the night. Yet the champion thinks he’s never seen the courtesan look so lovely before–a loveliness that transcends the unyielding outlines of ‘beautiful’ and ‘handsome’--and when he wraps his arms around his torso to bring him closer (which, really, is the opposite of what he should be doing), his beloved makes such a delightful little noise that Steven can’t help but kiss him.

Steven has only been kissing Wallace for less than half a day, but he’s pretty sure that stale morning breath kisses are going to forever be some of his favorites, and any notion of getting up flies out the window. Instead, he presses a second kiss to the top of Wallace’s head, curls even more around his lithe, sleep-softened body, and sinks back into slumber.

When Steven wakes again, it’s clear from the color of the sunlight that it is far later than he anticipated leaving the club, and he wants to groan at the thought of sneaking out unseen at an hour far closer to noon than morning. He then glances up to see Wallace propped up on his elbow, gazing down at him with guileless wonder, and Steven struggles to find anything left in him to care. He reaches up and glides his fingertips along the curve of Wallace’s high cheekbone and smiles as he turns his head to kiss his palm.

“ You stayed,” Wallace murmurs against his skin, and Steven has no doubt that he’s made the right choice. “ I thought you’d be gone by now. I’m sure you have quite a few things to do.”

“ I thought this was a superior use of my time,” Steven replies, and he delights in the feel of Wallace’s smile widening on his palm. He rubs his thumb along the arch of his cheekbone and allows the courtesan to sneak in one last cheeky kiss before pulling his hand away. “ Though I’m not sure how I’m going to leave without attracting unwanted attention…specifically, attention that could get back to the duke. What, with exclusivity and all…”

Wallace sighs long-sufferingly, waking poor Milotic, and Steven smiles and clucks his tongue as the sea serpent picks up her head and peers around groggily.

“ Yes. I’m sure the two of them have likely worked out the finer details and signed the contract.” Wallace sits up fully and makes a half-hearted attempt to push his hair out of his face before giving up and rubbing his eyes. “ I’ll have to go make sure things are settled. More importantly, I’ll have to find out when exactly they intend to begin construction, because the club won’t be able to stay open once we shutter for renovations. The casino, maybe, but even then…”

“ It would be a tremendous amount of noise and mess,” Steven finishes, pushing himself up to seating with a soft groan. “ I’m sure I’ll have to talk business with Rose later today–maybe even the duke–but first, I have to quit my job–or, at least, arrange for a sabbatical from the museum. It will be alright if I go straight to the director; she’s an old friend of Father’s from his travels when he was young, and I actually interacted with her quite a few times growing up. It’s one of the reasons I chose to stay in Lumiose over anywhere else in Kalos, despite the increased risk of being noticed.”

“ Well, if you think about it, the first places your grandfather would look for you are the most uninhabited and lightly-populated areas in the IPL-linked world.” Wallace, as always, is far quicker on the draw than him. “ So a city is the perfect choice–especially one of the largest in the world.”

“ Well, that makes me feel like a little less of an idiot for choosing to stay here.”

“ Why would I ever call the decision that brought you to me ‘idiotic’?”

The two men stare at each other for a moment, then smile, then chuckle as they scoot closer and meet in the middle with a kiss. Steven can’t help but hope that he’ll spend the rest of his life waking up to Wallace’s sour breath and the beat of Milotic’s tail front against his hip as she stretches and wiggles her long body awake. Maybe it’s that marrow-deep truth that makes him broach the question hours earlier than he originally planned.

“ Will you move into the hotel with us?” Steven asks once they part. Wallace blinks in confusion before cocking his head to the side.

“ Move in? With you?”

Steven flushes and ducks his head. “ Not necessarily me, of course! I was just thinking…you sleep on the floor here, Wallace, even if you’ve made yourself a surprisingly comfortable bed.”

Wallace’s eyes dart to the side in embarrassment. “ I know, it’s silly, but…”

“ It’s not silly at all!” Steven is quick to cut him off. “ I mean, just because I fall asleep at my desk or work bench doesn’t mean I want to sleep at my workplace, and I don’t expect you to feel any different. I think most people in the world would empathize with you.”

“ Even if my job involves a bed?” Wallace asks wryly.

“ Especially if it involves a bed—and a specific bed at that. Right, Li-Li?”

Milotic churrs in both agreement and greeting as she worms her head onto her master’s lap, and Wallace concedes defeat with a laugh and a kiss to one of her red fronds, scratching down the ridge of her snout and around the orbits of her eyes with practiced fingers. Affection swells like the sweetest apple acid behind Steven’s breastbone.

“ You would even have a good excuse to move into the hotel,” Steven continues, waiting for Wallace’s hum of interest before going on. “ Not only would it be too loud and dusty to sleep comfortably in the copperajah during renovations, but it would be much easier for you to rehearse with the rest of the theater troupe in close proximity, especially while a proper stage is being constructed. I’m sure Monsieur AZ–the proprietor–would be agreeable to renting out a room if Rose or the duke agree to pay. Or, even if they don’t, really; I highly doubt he collects rent from Burgh and the others most of the time.”

Wallace turns his gaze up from where they’ve been focused on the wiggling of Milotic’s head fronds to study his lover. After a second, his gaze morphs from curious to sly, and his smirk reminds Steven of that of a mischievous impidimp in a storybook.

“ My own room, then?” He hums. Steven can already feel the blood rushing all the way up to the tops of his ears. “ You told me, once, that you weren’t religious–yet you suddenly want to save room for Arceus. Are you already tired of me, darling?”

Steven chokes on nothing. “ No, of course not! How could I ever be tired of you?!”

” Dearest, relax; it was just a joke.” Wallace—the infuriatingly wonderful menace that he is—chuckles huskily and pats one of his burning cheeks. “ I’m not expecting you to want to share a bed with me so quickly, regardless of whether we’ve known each other for months or not.”

Steven frowns at the way Wallace shifts on his hipbones when he speaks—a surefire tell of insecurity. “ Wallace, if I didn’t want to sleep in the same bed with you, I wouldn’t have come in here last night. I just thought you’d like having a room all to yourself.”

Wallace’s hand hesitates before drawing away from his cheek to rest with the other on Milotic’s neck. “ Don’t I have one now?”

” No, you don’t.” Steven only realizes how blunt he sounds when Wallace’s eyes widen, but the other man doesn’t seem to be offended by it, so he presses on. “ I mean, you can stay here, but…it’s not a room of your own if you have to share it with your clients. The only bed in the room isn’t even one that’s just for you, and I’m guessing Rose won’t bring another one in here for you, will he?”

Just like that, Wallace’s expression switches from playful to pensive, and Steven almost regrets being so frank when he looks mournfully down at Milotic’s head in his lap. The courtesan silently traces the outline of her horn with his fingers, then back, and Steven allows him his silence and thought with a sinking feeling in his stomach. Maybe he shouldn’t have been so blunt. Maybe he should go.

“ There’s not enough room.” Steven is once more pulled out of his own head by Wallace’s voice. “ I know he’s right, really; I barely have enough space to sleep comfortably on the floor with Milotic, let alone consider an entire bedframe.” He scratches the underside of her snout before finding and picking at a loose scale. “ He also tells me that he has the bed cleaned every single night following a client, so he’s not sure why I’m being so…oh, what’s the term that he uses…oh, that’s right, persnickety about my sleeping arrangements.”

Steven would like to find Rose and tell him just where he can shove his persnickety opinions. Instead, he bites his tongue and manages a wan smile as he snatches a pair of tweezers off the bordering vanity, holding them out to Wallace. “ You should invite him to have one of his sex workers use his bed for a night and then have him sleep in it the next day–see if he thinks a thorough cleaning is enough for his delicate sensibilities.”

“ That’s what I’ve told him!” Wallace’s face and voice brighten in the blink of an eye, and he laughs as he snatches the tweezers from Steven, voicing his thanks as he uses them to attack some of Milotic’s more stubborn shedding scales. “ Several times! He simply makes a face and reminds me that the bed I sleep in is nicer than his own personal one–which is probably true, in his defense. My room is probably nicer than his own, too–”

“ Again, he should invite one of his employed courtesans or paramours to do their work in his room, then go right back to bed the next day.”

“ I have. He then tells me that if I despise my arrangements so much, he can move me back to my cramped room with the other in-house workers; and as much as I dislike sleeping in both my place of work and a former opium den, I can at least sleep with my back to the door and close my eyes without fears of a co-worker sneaking in during the middle of the night to sabotage me in some way.”

Steven gulps. “ Is it really that bad with the others?”

“ Not all of them, of course not! I get on fabulously with most of the other performers and the general staff!” Wallace makes a little noise of triumph when the stubborn scale finally comes off. “ There! Steven, there should be an empty powder tin on the vanity right…yes, that, exactly! Thank you, dearest!”

The courtesan takes a moment to deposit the scale in the empty tin before moving onto the rest.

“ As I was saying, I get on swimmingly with almost everyone; but my fellow women and men of the night…that’s a different story.” Wallace picks off a few more dead scales with the tweezers and deposits them in the empty tin as he chatters along. Steven, interested in both the story and everything about Wallace, does his best to hang onto every word–even if the glint of the sunlight off the steel tweezers is stupidly distracting. “ When it comes to prostitutes, it tends to be every person for themself, which I can understand. What I cannot fathom, however, is how attempting to ruin me for my clients is going to help them obtain more of their own. They act as if I siphon off their entire clientele when I only see one or two a night! Granted, mine tend to be extremely high caliber in terms of social standing and are able to pay ridiculous amounts of money for my time, but I know for a fact that many of my usual clients will spend the night with other women and men from the club when I’m unavailable.”

It certainly sounds annoying. And complicated. And so mind-numbingly banal in its origins that it reminds Steven of the worst kinds of boardroom and smoking parlor gossip. The former heir has no idea if he feels better or worse in the knowledge that conflicts originating entirely from pettiness and insecurity are just as common among the have-nots as the haves. He settles on feeling sorry for Wallace having to deal with this sort of tauros-shit along with his daily everything and lets it show on his face. “ Is the copperajah the only other location in the club where you can sleep away from them?”

“ No. Rose offered me a choice between the gothic tower and the copperajah when he first offered my own combined work and living space. Yet the tower…”

Wallace shudders.

“ No, no, absolutely not. It’s cold, and dark, and drafty, and…ugh. No.”

“ Understandable.” Steven nods and takes back the tweezers and tin of scales once Wallace finishes and passes them back. “ All of this gets back to my original point, though, in that this isn’t your own room.”

Wallace quirks his right eyebrow as Steven sets the tweezers and powder tin of shed scales back on the vanity and turns back to face him. “ And a hotel–a temporary lodging that requires daily or weekly rent–would somehow offer me more of my own space?”

“ Of course it would.” Steven shrugs. “ Think about it. You wouldn’t have to share your bed with anyone unless you wanted them in it. The only other person who would have a room key that you don’t give yourself is Monsieur AZ–not Rose, not Oleana, and not the duke. You couldn’t paint the walls, but the troupe has strung lights and artwork and curtains and tapestries all over the walls of their own, and AZ doesn’t even bat an eye. You can move the furniture wherever you want. You can put your clothing wherever you want. There’s even a little desk and bookshelf in almost every room. It’s a little run down, but the rooms are spotless, the linens and towels are always clean, and the water is always hot and has good pressure. It’s surprisingly charming, and…well, I’ve stayed in many fancy hotel rooms in my life, but I think this has to be my favorite hotel of them all.”

The incredulity on Wallace’s face seems to chip away with each word, and when Steven pauses to take a breath, he’s pleased to see that the performer seems to be genuinely considering the idea. He chews on the inside of his cheek and repeatedly winds and unwinds one of Milotic’s long eyebrow fronds around his manicured index finger.

“ Not only that,” Steven says as he readies the kill shot, “ but there’s a lovely little courtyard in the center of the complex that’s not visible from the street–and there’s a large fountain in the center that’s reserved entirely for water pokemon.”

Sure enough, Wallace visibly perks up at Steven’s words, and Steven can’t help but grin as even Milotic picks up her head to stare at him.

“ Really?” Wallace whispers as if Steven’s given him directions to the lost city of gold and not a modest fountain in the center of an even more modest hotel complex. “ Well, I mean…it certainly would be nice to have a place for my precious partners to play that’s not two small pools and a bathtub. Wouldn’t it, Li-Li?”

Milotic rapidly bobs her head up and down before starting to chew on Steven’s shirt sleeve, as if she’s silently commanding her master’s most precious person to take her there, now. Right this instant. Wallace laughs, and Steven until his stomach hurts and his breaths escape in wheezes, and he has to pat and coo apologies to a very pouty water serpent once he calms down. No, no, he’s not laughing at you, Milotic; he’d never laugh at a creature as majestic as you. He’ll give her some pinap berries as a more proper apology later! Honest!

“ You drive a hard bargain, Steven Stone,” Wallace says, watching his irritated Milotic take out the last of her ire on Steven’s shirt sleeve with a relaxed smile. “ Alright, perhaps I would be willing to…discuss accommodations with your Monsieur AZ once you’ve finished running your daily errands.”

Steven’s face lights up.

“ However.”

Steven’s face wilts.

“ However?”

“ However, I…” Wallace blushes and takes a moment to nibble on his lower lip before continuing. “ What if I…still wanted to share a bed with you most of the time…if not all of the time?”

The geologist suddenly finds that his throat has gone bone dry. “ All…of the time?”

More anxious nibbling. “ That is, of course…only if you would like to share a bed with me, dearest. After all, my room would be my room, and your room would be your room. The same boundaries apply, and…I would never impose myself on you, my love, no matter how much I want you. All of you. All the time.”

Wallace sucks in a breath as if he’s been blindsided by his own bluntness. Steven, dizzily, realizes that the tables have very suddenly turned on both of them.

“ Ah, that’s a bit too much, isn’t it? Far too much and far too soon.” The courtesan suddenly wraps his arms around Milotic’s neck and buries his face into her fronds–almost as if he’s afraid of Steven’s reaction. When he speaks again, it’s with his baseline perfect diction, albeit muffled. “ I sincerely apologize for my forwardness, Steven. You’ve already given me more than I could have ever dreamed of, and here I am, greedy for more.”

His grip tightens and Milotic whines in worry.

“ Pay me no mind. I will happily take whatever you are willing to give and nothing more.”

Willing to give? Willing to give? How does Wallace not realize that he’s already given Steven everything he could ever want?

Greedy. Greedy. Want you. All of you. My love.

My love.

Steven’s answer comes without hesitation or second thought.

“ As far as I’m concerned, if you want it, then my bed will be yours for the rest of our lives.” Steven grabs Wallace’s shoulders and eases him off of Milotic and back into a sitting position, and really, no one should be allowed to look so miserable over nothing–especially someone so precious. “ Your bed. My bed. Our bed. No matter whose room you use. It’s yours. All of it is yours.”

In the future, near and distant, the pair will marvel at how this single conversation cemented ‘forever’ for the both of them. In the actual moment, as Wallace smiles tearily and rests their foreheads together, all Steven can think about is new sheets. Softer sheets. A fresh pillow with a sweet-smelling case. A new pair of pajamas so that the other man isn’t constantly having to rewash his only set. Olive oil soap for his sensitive skin. The softest wool-lined slippers he can find.

Steven vows, then and there, that Wallace will never again want for anything kind.

By the time Steven finally sneaks out of the club through the back entrance, it’s half past noon, and his to-do list is now on a bit of a time crunch. However, those who take the long, winding, and arduous path to becoming high champion are used to squeezing success through immense pressure, and Steven relishes even the most banal of challenges. Job, gifts, business discussions, and done before the end of the day.

Fortunately for him, Wallace even let him shower and helped him look presentable before leaving, so the geologist doesn’t even need to risk swinging by the hotel to clean up. Later on, if anyone asks him where he’s been, he’ll just say he’s been running errands since the sun came up. Most of them will likely be too hungover to question it.

Grimsley, though, seemed infuriatingly sober the night before. Steven will figure out a way to deal with him later.

His first stop is the Lumiose Museum of Natural History where, mercifully, Lenora is present and not the head of the geology department. As someone who’s tangentially known him since he was in diapers–and his father for far longer–Lenora Williamson, former travelling archeologist and current traveling museum curator for hire, is one of only five people in Lumiose that knows the full truth about his situation. Because of this, she barely bats an eye when he walks into her office without knocking and slumps into the chair across her desk without even saying hello, rubbing his face as the emotional whiplash of the past twenty-four hours begins to settle squarely on his shoulders.

“ You’re not going to believe me.” Steven grumbles.

With a sigh, Lenora tosses the sail fossil she’s been examining onto her desk and pushes herself to her feet, giving Steven’s hair an absent ruffle as she passes to poke her head out of the door.

“ Hawes? Cancel any appointments I have for the next few hours. Thanks, sweetheart!”

Lenora blows her husband a kiss before closing and locking the door.

“ What in Giratina’s domain have you gotten yourself into now?” She teases–albeit with a small undercurrent of concern–as she sits back down in her wooden swivel chair. Her trusty watchog–having been awoken from his nap by the small commotion–sleepily paws its way up her legs from its bed at her feet, and Lenora waits until he’s curled himself into an oversized fuzzy lump on her lap before reclining backwards and and kicking up her legs.

“ Like I said, you’re not going to believe me.”

Lenora cards one hand through her drowsy watchog’s fur and rests another between her head and the wooden back of her chair. “ Try me, pebble.”

So, Steven talks, and he tries to ignore how utterly insane his story is as he rambles from point to point. Occasionally, he gets somewhere, only to realize that Lenora has no context for what he’s just said and hurriedly backpeddling. He’d wanted to tell her only the barebones basics of the situation and leave his affection for Wallace out of it entirely, but it doesn’t take him long to come to the conclusion that his sudden devotion to the arts can only be explained by his devotion to the courtesan, so he eventually finds himself with no choice but to reveal his secret two month friendship and their resulting nascent affair.

Affair? It makes their love for each other sound so scandalous and clandestine, but with the duke now looming over them all…

Surprisingly, Lenora simply listens to him for most of it, eventually moving from reclining in her chair to sitting at full attention with her elbows propped on her desk and her chin resting on the backs of her folded hands. When he comes clean about his connection to the Enchanting Emerald, she stands to put the kettle on, then sits back down to wait for it to boil. Otherwise, she’s silent until Steven fears he’s going to lose the ability to form words for a few hours if he doesn’t give himself pause to gather some more, at which point he starts stimming and humming under each breath. With a sigh, she reaches out and–after a nod of consent–cards her fingers through Steven’s hair. Her expression, though weary, is as kind as her touch.

“ That explains why your courtesan came snooping around here a few weeks ago.” Lenora says after a few moments of silence. Steven’s head snaps up.

“ He…he did?!”

Lenora chuckles. “ Pebble, you just said he went looking for your book and that’s how he found out your true identity.” She removes her hand from his hair and bops his nose with her index fingertip. “ You really think the museum of natural history wasn’t his first stop–especially when you probably told him you worked as a geologist for a museum?”

“ No, I mean, I just…” Steven stops himself before he can spiral and hums for a few more seconds before risking more words. “ He never mentioned that he found my workplace–and you never mentioned that someone came asking for me.”

“ In all honesty, Hawes and I weren’t sure what to make of it,” Lenora confesses. The kettle starts to whistle, and she gives Steven’s nose one last tweak before gathering Watchog into one arm and standing up, holding him to her hip like one would a child as she moves to the portable fire stone hearth. “ Sure, we were naturally concerned by someone asking for you directly, given your grandfather’s contract on your head…but this Wallace seemed like the opposite of a threat, and we also didn’t want to go prying into your personal life. So we kept quiet for a while.”

Steven swallows and nods.

“ What happened?” He croaks. “ When he came here, I mean?”

“ What, other than his distracting half of the adult patrons and our workers that day?” Lenora snickers as she fills the teapot with water before depositing the basket of loose earl gray into the water. “ It was nothing he did, mind you; he was, frankly, one of the most polite and respectful visitors we’ve ever had. It was just his…everything.”

“ Everything?”

“ He was enchanting, I guess,” Lenora says with a shrug. “ I can see why people call him that. He was dressed impeccably, held himself with the poise of a dancer, and had the manners of a noble. It actually reminded both Hawes and myself of how La Dame Verdant carries herself. It would’ve made him stand out even if he wasn’t beautiful, but…well, someone like him can’t help but turn heads, Steven. He’d be a cut above even in the Caldera itself.”

Steven can’t help but smile at the mental image of Wallace gliding amongst the exhibits. Did he trail his well-buffed fingertips on the glass cases of the exhibits? Did he see some of his own specimens out on display? “ I know. I know. Did he…ask for me?”

Another chuckle drifts into his ears. “ He did. Well, first he asked if we had a copy of your book, and then Hawes–bless his heart, he was on front desk duty that day–started talking about how yes, not only did we have your book, but we also have some specimens on display that you collected. He wouldn’t say who he was–simply called himself a friend of yours–but he was, in Hawes’s words, ‘thrilled to pieces’ that he could see some of your rocks and fossils. Hawes pointed him in the direction of your samples and made the excuse of going to get your dissertation to come fetch me.”

“ You didn’t scare him away, did you?”

“ Who do you think I am?!” Steven laughs at the utterly affronted look on Lenora’s face. “ Even if we were suspicious of him snooping around for your grandfather, we don’t just kick people out of museums if they’re not stirring up trouble, Steven!”

The geologist laughs and holds up his hands. “ My mistake, my mistake! Forgive me for questioning the integrity of your operation, Lenora!”

The archeologist rolls her eyes and turns back to the teapot with a huff.

“ Actually, we had a fantastic conversation when I went downstairs,” Lenora explains as she pours some tea into a pair of her favorite teacups–colorful, heavy-bottomed, and chipped in so many different places that it makes them look charming instead of broken. “ Wallace was studying your samples with an intensity that would envy a geologist, and he actually asked pretty impressive questions for a layperson; that’s when Hawes and I realized he was legitimate, because we could practically hear your voice in some of the facts he shared.”

Steven’s ears are going to burn up for how heated they’ve been getting today. “ I’m going to take that as a compliment.”

“ You should; it was stupidly cute, and it was preeeeetty easy to pick up on just how fond he was of you.” Lenora winks playfully as she sets a cup of plain earl grey on the desk in front of Steven. “ He didn’t want to give his name at first–that was the one time Hawes and I got a little suspicious–but he ended up telling us his real name. I think he was afraid that if he told us his stage name and his visit got back to you…”

“ Of course. I can understand his reluctance.” Steven takes a long sip of tea and watches Lenora sit back down with her own cup. Watchog, somehow, is still asleep under her opposite arm. “ You didn’t give him the book, though? The one with my actual writing pseudonym on the cover?”

Lenora frowns. “ That’s the thing, Steven; we were going to, but something…happened.”

The cup freezes halfway to Steven’s lips. “ What do you mean?”

The curator sighs and re-arranges her partner on her lap before picking up her cup with both hands.

“ When Hawes went upstairs to get the book, I stayed down in the exhibition hall to show him some of the superb annorith fossils you found last month; we’d just gotten them cleaned out and put on display, and let me tell you, you’re the only other looker I’ve ever met that I’ve seen go that starry-eyed over fossils–and don’t look at me like that! You’re grown into a handsome man, just like your father; and the sooner you accept that, the less miserable you’ll be!”

“ Make me,” Steven grumbles, knowing that he’s pouting but not feeling particularly inclined to stop. He swirls his tea and watches as Lenora daintily sips at her own, cupping it in both of her hands as if it’s a priceless chalice and not a ten poke teacup she found at a country pawn shop during an expedition years back that she refuses to throw away.

“ Then?”

Lenora sighs, and for the first time she deflects her gaze, staring at the research notes plastered on the rightmost wall with no small amount of shame. Steven loses any urge to drink and gingerly sets his cup onto its equally weatherbeaten saucer.

“ One of our wealthier patrons–no, I’m not naming names, but know that he’s high society and high reputation–was bringing his family to see the fossilized tyrantrum skeleton we finished stringing up a month ago.” Lenora sags and tiredly rubs her eyes. “ While I was chatting with Wallace, he suddenly sucked in a breath and turned white, and I asked him what was wrong; but before he could answer, I heard…an argument behind me.”

Steven feels like his own color has drained from his face. “ Oh. Oh no.”

“ You see where this is going, don’t you?” Lenora picks up her cup, knocks back the still scalding hot tea in one go, and smacks it onto the saucer as if it’s an empty shot glass. No wonder her cups and glasses look like relics a few months in. “ Hawes and I put this all together after the fact, of course, but it turns out this patron was one of his clients at his day job. Of course, if he’d just continued on as if he’d never met Wallace in his life, I don’t think his cover would’ve been blown. Unfortunately, he must have said or done something that alerted his wife, and she must have recognized Wallace from one of his advertisements or…something.”

She shrugs.

“ I don’t know. All I know is that I suddenly hear her screaming, and I turn around to see this red-faced noble lady breathing fire and brimstone at her mortified husband, all while pointing a finger at Wallace. Hawes had just come down with the book, but he immediately went to go calm her down, which failed. She just kept ranting and raving and pointing at Wallace and asking her husband why he was acting like he wore a scarlet letter in front of a whore. Their children were there, too, and everyone in the hall was staring, and…Steven, it was such a mess.”

At first, Steven had wondered why Lenora and Hawes had failed to mention meeting one of his friends to him over the following months; now, however, he’s grateful that they withheld Wallace’s visit, if only for the other man’s sake. His heart kicks against his sternum like the recoil of a gun, and as his hands start to shake with anger, he immediately takes them off of his cut and frantically spins his rings. Spin, spin, spin.

“ How is his infidelity Wallace’s fault?” Steven hisses. “ How is he responsible for his wife’s bad behavior? Why didn’t they just go home and settle their differences there? What good did it do her to humiliate the man whose only crime was to offer a service for which he was paid?”

“ It wasn’t, and he wasn’t, and because she was an entitled blaireau of a woman that was born with a silver spoon up her ass, and it did not do anyone a single lick of good–especially their children. That’s the horrible thing about what happened, because we couldn’t just kick them out, Steven. The whole affair already risked causing the museum a scandal just from her behavior, and if we made her even more irate by demanding she leave, she would’ve torn us apart to all of her friends–and I’m willing to bet Watchog that all of her friends are high-rolling patrons of the museum.” Lenora sighs. “ We didn’t have to make that decision, though. Before I could go help Hawes try to smooth her feathers, Wallace grabbed my arm, and he begged me to not tell you he was there or that any of this happened before turning and dashing out.”

Steven aches. All of him aches. He can’t bring himself to picture the scene, because not only is the whole thing repulsive at baseline, but it’s a repulsive affair that involves Wallace, and every centimeter of his body and impulse in his brain is recoiling from even considering the undeserved humiliation and shame he must have felt. No wonder he didn’t want him to know–and not just because he didn’t want the geologist to discover his profession. He wants to hold him. He wants to track down the noblewoman and dress her down in public. Strangely enough, he wants to punch Nanu in the face; but aren’t attitudes like his a big reason why incidents such as that occur?

“ I’m guessing,” he rasps after a long moment, “that he never came back.”

Lenora, at least, looks miserable over the whole affair herself. She shakes her head and gently nudges the handle of her empty cup to spin it around on the saucer.

“ No, he didn’t. We calmed down the sour jigglypuff bitch after he left, then encouraged them–very nicely–to cut their museum day short and head home. The husband at least had the decency to apologize while pushing money into my hand as an incentive to never discuss this with anyone.” Lenora smirks. “ I wasn’t going to tell anyone anyway, but I wasn’t going to say no to money, especially money without a paper trail. I used it to fix up some of the fraying wiring. All of the patrons in the main hall at the time scuttled home with their tails between their legs, and given that all the high and low society gossip rags were silent on any dust-ups in the museum in the weeks after, it was easy enough to forget–even for Hawes and I. We wondered long enough to figure out what the heck was going on, and then a day or two later, Hawes went to check out rumors of an authentic Celestican vase at a pawn shop in Montmartre and came back with a very un-authentic but pretty vase and a poster advertising the star attraction at the Moulin Rouge.”

Steven winces. “ The Enchanting Emerald.” No wonder he was so petrified when I found out. Oh, Wallace…

“ Things came together pretty nicely after that, and after discussing it over supper, we decided to respect poor Wallace’s wishes and never bring it up to you unless it…well, came up, like now.” Lenora looks down at Watchog snoozing in her lap and then up at Steven. “ Do you mind…?”

“ Not at all.” Steven nearly jumps to his feet in relief at having something to do with his body that’s not stimming or trying not to scream in indolent rage at Wallace’s treatment. “ Two sugars and two lemon slices?”

Lenora winks. “ You know me well, pebble.”

“ I should. You drag me in for tea if I do so much as breathe in the direction of the museum.”

“ Steven, you come and go like an absentminded abra, leaving the most lovely petrological samples and scattered explanations in your wake. How else am I supposed to keep my promise to Joseph and make sure, regularly, that you’re alive?”

“ I appreciate it, Lenora, really–and I hope you tell him I’m doing well.”

“ I do, though this next letter of mine is going to be a doozy…” Another wink, this one coy. “ Unless you want to share the news that you’ve finally had your gala moment!”

Steven chokes and nearly spills the teapot all over himself. “ I’ll tell him all that myself, thank you very much!”

“ Oh, Steven.” Lenora clucks her tongue in maternal (aunt-like?) sympathy. “ Joseph’s right, you know; twenty-five years old, and you still don’t know how to take a joke.”

Rather than dignify her teasing with an answer (because he can take a joke, thank you very much; he just doesn’t much appreciate jokes at his expense!), Steven engrosses himself in simple acts of pouring tea, slicing lemons, and plucking out sugar cubes. It’s a short break, but it’s a soothing one, and it’s just what he needs to banish the buzzing from his head. Even his anger cools slightly, and when he returns to Lenora’s desk with cups in hand, he’s able to manage a smile and a direct look in her eye.

“ Thank you for being kind to him.” Steven says as he passes Lenora her fresh cup of tea. “ It feels silly saying that, but…”

“ I understand completely. Basic decency should be basic decency, but you know better than most about how people will moralize over something as stupid as the, say, the superiority of land versus water if it makes them feel important.” The archeologist rolls her eyes as Steven sits back down across her desk. “ Give them a millimeter and they’ll run for kilometers–just like they did in the Deep East with their taboos against same sex relationships and all that gendered tauros-shit in those centuries following The Great War. Once everyone realized that telling people how to live wasn’t improving the birthrate, they let that go and moved onto new things. Breeding, beauty, money, education, regionality, social status, how you have sex, how often you have sex, why you have sex–the list goes on, and on, and on. Even some of the old Deep East prejudices are still sticking to our feet like dead pyukumuku guts. It’s just subtler now. Sneakier. Like a zorua in a torchic coop. You see it, don’t you, pebble?”

Steven’s not entirely sure he does, but he understands more than enough to get the gist, and he knows Lenora never fights her corner in an argument unless she’s damn sure she can win. It’s for those reasons that he’s able to smile and nod with the confidence of a scholar. “ I do.”

“ I knew you would. You’re one of the smartest humans alive, Steven, and I know your parents raised you right.” The satisfaction slips from Lenora’s features as she casts her eyes to the support beams crossing above her desk. “ The cold stone truth of it all–no pun intended–is that there are a lot of people out there who only feel like they’re worth something if others are worth nothing. Unfortunately for the rest of us, a good many of those people write the rules we live by, whether we like it or not.”

Despite the frustrating topic, Steven can’t help but chuckle, taking a sip of his bitter black tea. “ What’s that joke the Victinis always tell? The one about how we ‘live in a society’?”

Lenora barks out a laugh of her own. “ They say that?!”

“ Oh yes, all the time! Part of what makes it hilarious is when they bring it up for the smallest inconveniences! The other day, while I was waiting in line at the boulangerie, a Victini woman stubbed her toe on the doorframe and shouted ‘damn it! Why must we live in a society?!” Steven snickers at the memory and he’s relieved when Lenora laughs, too, because he’s been told on more than one occasion that he kills every joke he tells. “ I assure you, it’s much funnier when you hear it for yourself.”

“ I’m sure I’ll be hearing it soon.” Lenora takes another sip of tea and smiles over the rim of her cup at Steven’s confusion. “ What? It’s not every day that someone I know writes a play, let alone a boy I’ve known since he was too little to fit on his mother’s hip. You think I’d miss something like that? Not only that, but your father would skin me alive if I didn’t watch in his place!”

Hope rises in Steven’s heart. “ So you…believe me, then?”

Lenora gives him a look, which forces him to clarify: “ I mean! Not about Wallace, because you’ve met him, so you obviously believe me about him! I’m talking about the…the ‘acting troupe falling through my ceiling, commandeering me to pitch a play to a club magnate and his star courtesan, then finding out my story has been switched with the script, so I’ve become a playwright in the span of twelve hours’ part. It’s…”

He shrugs helplessly.

“ Quite a lot to digest, is it not?”

“ Well, when you put it that way, I can see your point.” Lenora reaches down to stroke Watchog’s ears as he snuffs in his sleep. Perhaps he’s hunting for bunnelbies in his dreams. “ Four things work in your favor, though. First is that you can barely lie convincingly enough to save your own life, let alone when there are no stakes.”

“ Thanks, Lenora,” Steven grumps.

“ You’d be the first person to admit that and you know it.” She chides. “ Second thing is that you really have no reason to lie about any of this. Third thing is that I already know you’re telling the truth about your Wallace, so at the very least, everything you’ve said relating to him is likely true as well.” A small smile flits across Steven’s face. “ Truth to the truth.”

“ And fourth…” With a grin, Lenora reaches into her near overflowing stack of mail and pulls out what appears to be a flyer with a flourish, holding it out to Steven. “ Found this in the mailbox this morning. Almost threw it away or put it in Watchog’s cage, but given what I know now, I’m glad I just put it in the pile with the rest.”

Steven tuts and shakes his head. “ You know, one day, that pile’s going to get big enough to fall on you and crush you to death. Your poor, long-suffering husband is going to wander in looking for you and just see your hand sticking out of some months-old newspapers.”

“ Steven, do you want to see this ‘grand closing’ announcement or not?”

That gives Steven pause. “ Grand closing?”

Lenora scoffs and gives the flyer a pointed shake, and Steven finally takes it from her hand, albeit with a wary glance at the teetering tower of rags and ads. Given the strong smell of ink and the faint warmth of the paper to touch, Steven can guess that this flyer is literally and figuratively ‘hot off the press’, and the message told him as much:

GRAND CLOSING

in preparation for the

GRAND REOPENING

and

GRAND REBIRTH

of the Moulin Rouge!

“ Rose likes his fonts, doesn’t he?” Steven hums thoughtfully.

” Certainly catches the eye, I’ll give him that.” Lenora sips her tea and watches as Steven tangibly examines the flyer in his usual manner—rubbing his finger pads over the ink and edges, weighing it in his palms, and turning over, then over again—before actually reading the words. “ What’s the story, then? I didn’t bother reading it when I brought it in.”

“ They’re staying open one more week before closing for the next few months.” Steven sighs and slides the flyer across the desk for Lenora to read. “ It looks like they plan on a grand re-opening and ‘spectacular premiere’ during Wintertide. I’m guessing they’re referring to the play.”

“ Not a bad idea. People always flock to the theater during the winter holidays.” Lenora holds the paper up to her desk lamp and squints in lieu of finding her reading glasses in her cavernous work apron. “ Let’s see…’Victini theater’, a variety of different performances, including singing and dancing, and then…main event will be your play, which is titled…”

Lenora frowns and glances up at Steven. “ Pebble, I know you’re bad with names, but Spectacular Spectacular?”

Steven sighs and rubs his temples.

“ It’s what Shauntal titled the original play, and given how I unintentionally stripped her production away from her, I felt like the least I could do is keep the name. She says a title works better if it makes people ponder what a work is about.”

“ You’re sweet, but really, maybe see if she can come up with something a little less…vague before the play actually reaches the stage.” Lenora snorts and returns the flier to the leaning tower of neglected printing. “ Though I guess it has a sort of Victini charm, doesn’t it? High emotion and excitement but little substance.”

Steven sputters and claps a hand over his mouth in a desperate attempt to keep from laughing. “ Lenora! These are my companions now! We’re putting on a show together!”

“ Doesn’t mean I’ll ever like the aesthetic, Steven.” The archeologist kicks her feet back onto her desk and strokes Watchog like a villain in a serial would stroke a sly persian. “ I’ll swallow it for you—and because your idea actually sounds pretty damn good, honestly—but I prefer actual substance to my art and literature, and while they love going on about ‘beauty, freedom, truth, and love’, a whole lot of them never actually go into what they are outside of them being good and rebellious.” She snorts derisively. “ Last time I checked, beauty wasn’t exactly counterculture.”

“ Maybe it’s about what beauty is and isn’t, and how it so often is in the eye of the beholder.”

“ I literally read that in a book when I was five, Steven.”

” That doesn’t mean the idea isn’t worth exploring as an adult.”

Before Lenora can reply, there’s a knock at her door, and then the turning of a key in the lock. The only other worker that has access to her office key—outside of the cleaning staff, of course—is Hawes; and sure enough, he pokes his head through the door as soon as it’s cracked open.

“ Hello Steven!” He greets cheerily before looking at his wife. “ Sweetheart, could you come out here for a second?”

Lenora frowns. “ Anything wrong?”

” No, I just wanted to talk to you about something!” For some reason, Hawes’s gaze briefly flicks to Steven, and both the man in question and Lenora notice. “ A private matter; my apologies, Steven.”

“ None taken.” Steven looks at his hands, then back at Hawes. “ Should I leave?”

“ No, just wait right here, pebble. I’ll be back in a jiffy.” With yawn and a shake of her head, Lenora gently transfers her sleeping Watchog from her lap to the bed beneath her desk and stands up, giving Steven’s hair another affectionate ruffle as she passes. “ This won’t take long, will it, Hawes?”

“ I don’t…think so?”

She sighs. “ Well, that’s promising.”

With that, Lenora follows her husband out of the door and closes it behind her, leaving Steven mostly alone in the empty room. Nervousness rankles his stomach, but he does his best to shove it aside and take a few deep breaths, spinning his rings and doing his best to not watch the clock. At first he hears Lenora and Hawes whispering intelligibly in the hallway for a few minutes, then their departing footfalls, and he gives into the urge to bring Aron out of her Pokeball so he has something cool and unyielding to cuddle and soothe his nerves.

As always, Aron’s squeaks and snorts—combined with the delightful texture and firmness of her metal shell—do wonders to quell the anxious buzzing that had started to fill his brain. By the time Lenora returns approximately fifteen minutes later, Steven feels as calm and cool as his favorite type, and he’s hand-feeding Aron a combination of berries and pewter crunchies as she rolls and wiggles on his lap.

” Everything alright?” He queries as Lenora approaches. The archeologist nods and reaches down to scratch Aron’s belly as it’s all but immediately offered to her.

” Everything’s spectacular, actually.” Lenora gives Steven a wry smile and weirdly knowing look as she scratches beneath Aron’s chin. “ Hawes and I just decided to close the museum for our tea break a bit early today and then re-open at the usual time.”

Steven finally looks at the clock after purposefully avoiding it and quirks his right eyebrow towards his hairline. “ It’s almost an hour early, Lenora. Did something happen with your staff, or is there some incident on the floors to clean up?”

Lenora, somehow, looks even more coy than before. She gives Aron one last scratch on the belly and pats her smooth, steel head before standing up straight, resting a hand on her hip and winking at Steven.

” Come see for yourself, pebble. You have guests.”

As Steven approaches the grand staircase leading to the main hall, he hears Shauntal and Flannery before he sees them, and his heart leaps into the base of his throat as he darts to the railing and leans over it just enough to look at the floor below. Sure enough, the two youngest and most exuberant members of Burgh’s theater troupe are peering into several of the glass display cases holding some of the geologist’s newest and most interesting finds, gasping and cooing in awe as they ask numerous questions of a pleasantly indulgent Hawes. Behind them stand Marshal and Valerie, talking quietly amongst themselves; and just off to the side, staring up at the large tyrantrum skeleton wired, pinned, and hung into its full majestic glory, is…

“ Wallace?!”

The courtesan startles—pressing his hand to his chest and whirling his head around as if he’s about to be attacked (or, maybe, denounced as a whore for everyone to see and hear yet again)—before realizing just who was calling for him and looking up. The moment his eyes meet Steven’s, all of the tension seems to leave his body, and he smiles so sweetly at the other man that Steven thinks he might just sublimate on the spot.

” Steven!” Wallace beams and waves up at him, and fuck, Steven wants to thank Arceus and the Creation Triad and the Lake Spirits and the Aurans and the Weather Lords and the Elementals and every other deific being he can’t think of and has never met that he is somehow, inexplicably, the reason the taller man looks so bright and beautiful. At his call, Marshal and Valerie turn and follow his eyes, and the former starts to guffaw and slap his knee as the latter giggles and demurely covers her mouth with one of her characteristic voluminous sleeves.

” There he is! There’s your lover boy!” Marshal’s booming laugh and voice echo through the (mercifully) mostly empty hall. “ Arceus, I wish you could do things with cameras rather than just sit there and pose for fifteen minutes for a shitty image, because that look on your face is worth a thousand poke!”

“ Oh, don’t tease!” Valerie tuts, absently giving the laborer a light slap on the head as she watches Steven scamper down the stairs, taking them two or three at a time. “ He doesn’t even know we know about his relationship with Monsieur Wallace yet.”

Well, the seamstress is certainly correct about that, and Steven yelps as he stumbles and nearly falls flat on his face halfway down the stairs. He manages a death grip on the bannister at the last second and uses it to haul himself back onto his feet once he’s lost his forward momentum. “ You do?!”

Wallace chuckles nervously and laces his fingers together at his waist with near palpable shyness. As he usually does when he meets Steven at the river, he’s pulled his hair up and tucked it under his favorite white cap, and he’s dressed in a loose, neatly tucked silk shirt and crisp, wide-legged pants. He looks beautiful. He always looks beautiful.

“ Them finding out about us was a…a bit of accident, I admit, but…” Wallace swallows thickly and diverts his gaze from Steven to his own polished leather boots. “ I was going to have to inevitably share my real name with the troupe, and…if I am going to live in the hotel, I realized it would be much easier for the both of us if at least some of your friends knew about our secret, so even if they hadn’t…if you’re upset with me, darling, I understand—“

Before Wallace can finish speaking, Steven–who had finished his journey down the stairs and closed the distance between them while the taller man’s attention was focused on the floor–grabs him by the waist and hoists him into the air with the same surprisingly easy strength he’d used to catch him when he fell from the swing. Wallace squawks out a very uncharacteristically undignified sound of surprised delight, and as he’s spun around, he instinctively wraps his arms around the shorter man’s shoulders and his legs around his waist.

“ Steven!” Even as he attempts to sound put-upon, Wallace’s voice is full of laughter, and he gives up all pretense as he rests their foreheads together. “ If there had been people here–”

“ There aren’t. Lenora already told me.” As he finally stops their spin, Steven brushes Wallace’s nose with his own, enamored by how the action makes those long butterfree lashes flutter. “ I’ve known Lenora and Hawes my whole life and they could care less–and something tells me the others won’t give a damn, either.”

“ They won’t.”

Wallace smiles like happiness is trying to physically break out of his body and kisses his beloved, then again, and Steven holds him the entire time as if he was born and put on this earth to hold him. Their height difference is not insignificant, yet the geologist’s work-sturdy muscles barely feel any strain, and the performer’s long limbs and svelte frame drape and mould to him and around him like a picture settling comfortably into a frame. He thinks about what it might be like to actually carry him and feels his brain short-circuit from a sudden surge of euphoria.

“ I knew you could lift me,” Wallace whispers against his lips, reading his mind as always. “ I just knew it. All of that spelunking and rock climbing you say you do…ever since that day you threatened to pick me up, I’ve wondered.” His legs tighten around Steven’s waist. “ Truly, could you carry me like a bride, dearest?”

Good gods, it literally causes Steven physical pain to suppress the urge to do that literally right here, right now. Instead, he tightens his arms around Wallace’s thighs and rasps: “ Ask me again when we’re alone, and we’ll find out–but I don’t think I’ll have much of a problem.”

Wallace’s arms squeeze his shoulders. “ I’ll await with bated breath.”

They kiss again—and one more time for good measure—before Steven remembers that there are other people here, and while it’s obvious they walked in knowing about their relationship (somehow), they also didn’t sign up for such a public display of affection. So it’s with great reluctance that Steven pats Wallace’s hip, and the other man unwinds his legs and stands up straight, albeit with a soft whine of disappointment that puts the smile back on Steven’s face. Wallace’s hat had fallen off during the initial spin, so Steven picks it up and dusts it off before handing it back, and the other man takes a moment to put it on and adjust it just so before they turn to the others.

Valerie stares. Flannery gapes. Shauntal looks like she’s about to either spontaneously combust or float to the ceiling. Marshal is all but suffocating himself with his hands as he tries desperately to stop cackling. Hawes looks like he’s just figured out the ending to a mystery novel, and Lenora simply looks content, leaning back against the wall with her hands shoved in the near bottomless pockets of her apron.

Steven, surprisingly, doesn’t feel nearly as embarrassed as he would have expected he’d be just a day ago. Maybe it’s just because the people who just witnessed them kiss knew already and would almost assuredly keep their secret. Maybe love has made him braver, like his father and mother always declared it would. Or, perhaps most importantly of all, maybe Steven refuses to make Wallace feel as if he himself is a source of mortification—not after learning about what happened during the courtesan’s first visit.

Either way, the end result of all three factors is that rather than blushing and stuttering, Steven feels only the slightest bit of heat in his cheeks. Wallace touches his hand lightly—a shy and silent question—and the champion doesn’t hesitate to lace their fingers together as they move to join the rest of the group. Even the slightest inkling of feeling awkward dissolves at the contact of their palms.

” It goes without saying,” Wallace drolls, “ that this absolutely does not go beyond the troupe, because—as I said before—if this goes beyond the troupe, and the duke finds out, then we all go down together. Are we in agreement?”

Shauntal and Flannery nod repeatedly and with such unrestrained vigor that it makes Steven wince for their neck muscles. Valerie hides her fond smile behind her sleeve and hums in understanding. Given how readily they accept Wallace’s instructions, it’s clear that they’ve had a far longer version of this talk before coming to the museum, and Steven can’t help but wish he’d been a cutiefly on the wall of that particular conversation.

“ I cannot wait to see the look on Grimsley’s face once he finds out!” Marshal sniggers and wipes his nose with his arm. “ I mean, I’m not gonna be the one to tell him, and I’m also gonna suggest that we keep him and Nanu from finding out as long as possible, but Grimsley’s gonna shit a blaziken and it’s gonna be one of the best days of my life! This is great! He can suck it! This is amazing!”

Steven and Wallace blink and glance at each other in confusion.

” Thank you…?” Steven ventures. “ Don’t mind him.” Valerie says with a tired sigh. “ He’s referring to a discussion we had the night before during the party. No need for either of you to concern yourselves.”

Needles of ice prick down Steven’s spine as he recalls his confrontation with Grimsley the night before.

Why do I have the sneaking suspicion, he thinks with no small amount of dread, that I know exactly what they were talking about? He gives Wallace’s hand an extra squeeze and manages a light smile that he hopes is convincing, because Weather Lords, he does not deserve any more grief about an occupation he never asked for. At least Valerie and Marshal don’t seem eager to go into the details, in spite of how the latter’s forehead creases at the memory of the event.

“ I hope you don’t mind us coming to see you!” Flannery, of course, is the first to be apologetic. Steven really is going to have to think of methods to help her calm herself down. “ It’s just that Monsieur Miku–I mean, Monsieur Wallace mentioned he knew where you worked, and we didn’t know you had an actual occupation or anything–let alone one where everyone can see your work!”

Steven can’t help but laugh. “ What did you think I did all day, exactly? Sit in my hotel room and pretend to be a writer?”

“ I don’t know!” Flannery crosses her arms and huffs like a child told they could not, in fact, have dessert for dinner. “ Other than some jobs I took at inns when I first started out on my journey, I’ve never really had an…actual occupation, you know? I wanted to be a gym leader, but…” She shrugs. “ That didn’t work out. There just aren’t enough positions for fire type gym leaders in the IPL to go around right now.”

Given the chaos of yesterday’s everything, Steven had forgotten that Flannery initially set out to break into the interregional league, and his dual champion and pokemon interests can’t help but be piqued. “ Have you ever auditioned?”

“ Oh, a few times, and I did really good! But…” Flannery wilts a bit more. “ Too many fire type trainers ‘do good’, you know?”

“ Fire types are notorious for their saturation, I admit.” Steven sucks in a breath and winces as Wallace ‘subtly’ grinds the sensible heel of his boot into his toes, and both the pain and the surreptitious warning look he receives from the courtesan reminds him that oh, yes, only three of the seven other people present know he’s a champion and it should probably remain as such. “ At least, that’s what I’ve heard from my friends. Still, I wouldn’t give up; there’s no reason you can’t be an actress and a fire type gym leader one day!”

“ I substitute as a normal type gym leader when there are openings in other regions.” The group turns to watch as Lenora pushes herself off the wall and moseys over to stand by her husband. “ And I used to be the gym leader of Nacerne City back in Unova before our children were old enough to travel. I can’t see any reason you couldn’t do the same thing one day–having a ‘normal’ job and a pokemon-related job, I mean.”

Flannery perks up at the older woman’s words. “ Really? Do you really think I could do that, Madame…”

“ Doctor Williamson, but you can call me Madame Lenora if you’d like.” Lenora gives the girl a playful wink and reaches out to ruffle the girl’s mop of thick and wiry red hair. Flannery ‘eep’s slightly at the contact, but she makes no move to pull away, and even Steven notices how she actually presses into the maternal touch like a sunflora bending to the light. How old is she, really? “ And yeah, there’s no reason you can’t, is there? You’re just as strong, capable, and talented as any other trainer–maybe even more so. I’ve never seen you in action. Maybe we could even battle one day if you have the time; I could see how you shape up to the other gym leaders I’ve fought, and give you some pointers if I have any.”

“ Really? Truly?”

“ I wouldn’t offer if I didn’t mean it, Madamoiselle. What do you say? Should we make a date of it?”

“ S-sure! Absolutely!” Just like that, Flannery’s boundless determination and verve flood back in, and the girl’s face and smile light up like a Celestican candle. She shakes Lenora’s offered hand as if she’s trying to knock her arm loose from its socket before turning to Shauntal. “ Did you hear that, Shaunty?! I have an audition of my own! Well, kind of, not really…but close enough!”

Shauntal beams at her friend and takes her hands. “ How very exciting! We’ll have to make sure to put it on before we have to start rehearsing properly–that way, you’ll be fresh and energized and not have other concerns on your mind!”

“ Oh, yeah! Maybe while you and Monsieur Tsuwabuki are still working on the script! We won’t be doing much acting while that’s going on! Maybe you could even battle Madame Lenora after I’m done! You’re so good with Chandelure and your other ghost types!”

“ Do you really think so?”

As Shauntal and Flannery chitter with youthful exuberance, Steven decides that he should at least introduce the older members of the troupe to Lenora and Hawes and vice versa. It’s a shallow introduction, because he doesn’t know much about Valerie and Marshal other than their roles in the troupe, their old professions, and the fact that they met literally yesterday. Fortunately for the geologist’s propensity towards secondhand embarrassment, Marshal ends up hailing from Castelia City in Unova, so he, Lenora, and Hawes are able to have a lively chat about their home region while Valerie fills in Steven on what happened earlier that day.

“ Marshal swore he caught a glimpse of you climbing into the copperajah last night,” Valerie explains softly, “ and he tends to be one who never gets blackout drunk, no matter how much he drinks. Of course, we probably wouldn’t have paid what he saw much mind either way, and Monsieur AZ said that you were still in your room when he and I went to ask in the morning. Marshal swore, however, that he saw you, and…I admit, I may have been curious myself, especially after…"

Valerie trails off and Steven and Wallace share a wary glance.

“ After what?” Steven asks. Valerie sighs and dismissively waves her sleeve.

“ Well, everything. We had many lively discussions last night, to say the least.” The seamstress glances over at Marshall and the girls before sighing with the weight of at least two worlds on her shoulders. “ Well, regardless, he insisted that if had gone to the copperajah last night, you would likely sneak out of one of the back staff entrances, so he insisted we find them and wait.”

Steven blinks. “ Like…a stakeout? A stakeout in a crime serial?”

“ For extra context, many of the others were hungover, but many more were bored and hungover. I find that to be a very dangerous combination.” By now, Steven must be showing some of the dread pooling in his gut on his face, because Valerie is quick to continue. “ Nanu and Grimsley were still asleep, and they’re already…suspicious sorts by nature, and Burgh can be very loose-lipped with secrets, especially when drinking. So we decided to try to keep it between ourselves, Brassius, and Hassel. However–”</>

“ The girls followed you.” Steven says flatly. Wallace demurely covers his mouth with his free hand as he chuckles.

“ As you have learned they’re wont to do.” Valerie nods. “ We were about to give up and head back to the hotel when we saw you slip out. Obviously, you didn’t notice us.”

“ Obviously. Shauntal’s trick room gambit again?”

“ Non–merely a very conveniently-idling mudsdale carriage.

Steven doesn’t even remember seeing a carriage as he left out the small back gate, but the geologist would be the first to admit that he’s not the most observant when it comes to people, so he decides to take her word for it. “ What, did you all decide to go accost poor Wallace, then?”

Before Valerie can answer, the three hear Lenora clearing her throat, and they look up to see her approaching with her husband and the girls.

“ We have around a good half hour before the staff starts trickling back in from their tea break.” Hawes says with a knowing smile. “ So Lenora and I thought it would be fun to take your new friends on a tour of the geology wing. Apparently, no one but Monsieur Wallace had any idea you were a geologist.”

“ Well, we’ve only recently become friends, so I just never had the chance.” Steven says awkwardly. Wallace tuts under his breath and gives his hand a reassuring squeeze.

“ He’s right, though!” Shauntal pipes up. “ We met when we fell through his ceiling yesterday! That doesn’t mean we would not enjoy seeing Monsieur Tsuwabuki’s hard work for ourselves, though!”

Unlike his wife–who’d heard the story from the man himself just an hour beforehand–poor Hawes looks like the picture of confusion in understated glasses. Seeing this, Valerie and Marshal decide to swoop in and deliver an explanation, sparing Steven and his strained social headspace from a second retelling. As she does this, Lenora takes it upon herself to lead the group through the main hall to the right wing of the museum, pointing out the various exhibits while deftly dodging the girls’ more ‘enthusiastic’ questions about Steven and his occupation.

With the wild delcatties somewhat corralled, Steven and Wallace allow themselves to trail the group by more than a few good meters, swinging their hands between each other as the courtesan finishes Valerie’s recounting of that afternoon’s events.

“ I had stopped by the hotel to inquire about a room,” Wallace murmurs, dragging his gaze along an ancient Celestican tapestry depicting the births of the Lake Spirits as they pass. “ I thought it would be far less suspicious to ask the proprietor myself, and I even stopped by Rose’s office beforehand to receive his official blessing, which I obtained without a fight. He didn’t even make a snide comment about how the copperajah’s luxurious decor isn’t good enough for me; then again, he was in a spectacular mood and focused on printing the fliers announcing the closing and remodel.”

“ Lenora received one of those in her mailbox earlier today.” Steven remarks. “ If he was still printing them after I left, then he must be trying to get one into every mailbox in Lumiose. I’m guessing he and the duke have signed all the necessary paperwork.”

And your exclusivity agreement, Steven doesn’t add, doing his damndest to pretend he’s not bothered by the idea of Wallace’s body being all but sold with the stroke of a pen. At least the man in question doesn’t seem to notice his disquiet.

“ Anyway, Monsieur AZ–who was very genial and accommodating, just as you said he would be, and goodness me, you were right about him being ridiculously tall–was more than willing to offer me a room. When he asked me if I had any preference on the floor, however…someone beat me to it.”

“ Marshal.” Steven groans. Wallace sighs and nods.

“ Yes, Marshal, who is a very kind man who seems to be clever in his own way. He was passing through the lobby, then, and informed Monsieur AZ that not only would I want a room on your floor, but I would want a room as close as possible to yours. Of course, I was going to subtly inquire about that possibility myself, but I certainly wasn’t expecting one of your fellow troupe members–”

“ I’m not a member of the troupe.”

“ You protest too much, Steven.” Wallace gives him a playful bump with his hip. “ As I was saying, I was…very startled that one of them knew, and more than a bit frightened about the implications, since you’d told me before you left that you were going to speak on the matter with a family friend and no one else. I must have looked as dreadful as I felt, because Marshal became extremely apologetic, insisting I sit down in one of the chairs in the lobby out of fear I would faint before fetching me a glass of water. I’m not quite sure I was that affected, but his kindness went a long way to steadying my nerves, especially when he reassured me that we were the only three humans in earshot and that AZ only shares secrets with his sweet little Floette.”

“ I see.” Steven can’t help but feel a little bad at being impressed, but in his defense, Marshal doesn’t immediately come across as the emotionally sensitive type. “ I’m guessing he explained to you how he knew and you explained to him why as few people should know as possible.”

“ Yes, and once we were on the same page, I was actually quite touched that he was attempting to act as your wingman–in a sense.” Wallace chuckles and rubs his thumb over Steven’s knuckles. “ Clumsily, yes, but genuinely. He vowed to keep silent about our relationship, and when he introduced me to the others–well, the ones who saw you leave that morning–he made them swear as well. Brassius and Hassel seemed a bit dubious about the idea of us being in a committed relationship, but when I told them we’d met before last night, their demeanors shifted completely. I didn’t go into many details–even though Shauntal and Flannery were dying for them–but the older members accepted the few I gave. I’m sure you’ll be peppered with questions when you get back to the hotel.”

Oh, boy; Steven is so looking forward to that. Is there any conceivable way he can simply sneak in and out of his room via the balcony instead of walking through the Hotel du Roi’s lobby? Or finish writing a script without interacting with the other performers? Maybe he could hide behind Wallace whenever they came near him; the other man is significantly taller, so maybe if he scrunches up–

“ Steven, they won’t bite your head off.”

“ It’s none of their business.” Steven grumbles. “ And I don’t know how much to tell them, anyway. The last thing I want to do is say something you intended to be kept in confidence.”

“ Which is very conscientious of you, darling, but you’re at least allowed to tell them how we met if you want.” A beat. “ Though, I’d prefer if you told them I simply lost my balance that night on the bridge. It's embarrassing enough knowing that I passed out and fell from the swing in front of them; the last thing I need your friends and my fellow actors to think is that I have some sort of wasting disease or terminal nervousness.”

“ We’re not friends,” Steven protests, “ but of course I will. Honestly, I’d rather not tell them anything at all, but I know that’s unreasonable–and that it’s only natural for them to have questions.” He sighs and turns his head to look at an old terracotta replica of a claydol made by a western Unovan tribe as they pass. “ I just hate small talk.”

“ I know, darling.”

“ Especially about personal matters, and especially when I’m forced into the conversation.” Nonetheless, Steven accepts his fate with a resigned sigh, deciding he’d much rather spend his energy on discussing a pleasant topic. “ What about the room? Does this mean…you are moving in?”

Wallace looks down at his beloved and smiles shyly. “ According to Monsieur AZ, there’s one room left on your floor, and it’s right next to yours towards the back. I thought that would be…more than acceptable.”

“ I don’t see why not.” Steven doesn’t bother mentioning that he’s been the only guest on his floor of the hotel since his arrival. Given the mischievous glimmer in his eyes, it’s clear that Wallace knows this as well, and the geologist makes a mental note to buy the hotel proprietor and his partner pokemon something nice as thanks. Cologne, maybe, for AZ himself? Or perhaps one of those atomizers specifically crafted to spritz plant pokemon. “ My room is the only one with a balcony, however.”

“ That’s true, but while that’s certainly a shame, I figured…” Wallace gulps soundlessly and licks his lips before continuing. “ Well, I figured I could simply enjoy the view out of yours, since I’ll likely be spending most of my time in your room rather than my own. That is, if…only if our plans from earlier are still–”

“ I’ll get you a key to my room.”

Wallace stops in his tracks—physically and verbally—and stares at Steven with startled eyes. “ You’ll…what?”

“ I’ll get you a key to my room. That way you can come and go whenever you’d like.” It’s only after Steven finishes speaking that what Wallace was about to say catches up to his brain. “ Nothing’s changed for me, if that’s what you were asking. I…”

Steven licks his lips and looks to see if the rest of the group is out of sight. He looks towards the main hall to ensure that no staff members are skulking back early from their tea break, and once he’s satisfied, he exhales and slips his fingers out of Wallace’s own hand and up his wrist to rest them on the taller man’s pulse. It’s a strong, steady thrum beneath his fingertips, reminding the champion of the ebb and flow of the tide. The static in his brain smoothes and is replaced with certainty.

“ I’m greedy, too,” Steven whispers. “ I’m greedier than I’ve ever been before.”

Wallace’s breath catches in his chest—a subtle stutter followed by an even subtler swallow. “ Oh. Oh. I see.”

The electric lighting of the corridor is deliberately dimmed compared to the rest of the museum, not only to protect against the fading of ancient fabrics and parchments, but to also allow for more dramatic illumination of the individual exhibits by the dawn stones embedded in the bases of their display cases and pedestals. It’s just dark enough to make the emerald green of Wallace’s eyes appear even more vibrant than normal but light enough for him to see all the little things that make the taller man far more beautiful than any gemstone in existence: the small, barely visible scar cutting through his right eyebrow like a seviper in thick underbrush; the way the left corner of his mouth crooks higher than the right when he smiles; the miniscule flecks of aquamarine in his rises that grant those serpentine eyes such spectacular depth and vivacity; the way his long, thin lips curve like small streams cutting through a flawless landscape, and yet, always seem a bit ragged along the vermillion border from where he gnaws when anxious; the shallow second dip in his throat, just above the jugular notch, that looks as if someone lightly pressed a long thumbprint into his neck while it was still forming in the womb. He wonders if, beneath the man’s loose blouse and long tie, his clavicles are just as smooth and regal as the slope of his shoulders.

Even though they’ve only known each other for two months, Steven can already fill a short book with the little nuances he’s identified over the past few months, and he’s suddenly stuck with the heady and exhilarating realization that he’ll soon be able to map out the entirety of Wallace Atlantios the way he does his favorite cave systems at home, with the inarticulable delight of knowing there will always be new chambers to discover–chambers full of never before seen fossils and rock formations and cut with ever-changing and everlasting veins of ore, mineral, and crystal.

What would the courtesan say if Steven said those thoughts aloud? That he wants to figuratively write an entire encyclopedia series on him and not put down the pen until the day they die? Would he find him strange? Obsessive? Would he finally realize that his brain has never worked properly, which means he probably won’t be able to love him properly, even though he wishes he could?

As Steven’s thoughts whirl like a baltoy in his head, he’s startled out of his musings by a cool touch on the wrist of his free hand, and he looks down to see Wallace’s fingers resting on his own pulse point. The geologist just barely manages to swallow down the strangled noise that forces its way up his throat.

“ Your heart is racing,” Wallace whispers, slipping his hand out of Steven’s to take the other one in both hands. “ Do you know how you look at me? Ever since we’ve met, you’ve looked at me in such a way…a way I never could puzzle out.”

Steven gulps. How does he always, always know? Am I truly that obvious, or is it just his special talent?

“ Do I?” He rasps. Wallace nods. “ You do. At first, it bothered me, because it reminded me of how you look at rocks. I assumed it was you studying me under a proverbial microscope, but then I realized that it was actually different, and I was at a loss.”

Wallace hums low and rubs his thumbs over Steven’s knuckles.

“ I can’t tell you how many nights I spent lying in bed, counting the cracks on my ceiling as I tried and failed to place how you looked at me, and what I might have been doing to elicit such an inscrutable expression.” As he speaks, Wallace turns over Steven’s hand and thumbs over the creases of his palm, tracing the lines the way an artist would a stencil. “ Then, I was watching you watch me while I was sitting at my vanity last night, and it came to me all at once. Did you know you have square-tipped fingers?”

“ I…do?”

“ Yes, you do. I always wondered, and now I know for sure. How lovely.”

Wallace brings Steven’s hand to his mouth and kisses it with utmost delicacy before letting it go. The contact is feather-light and fleeting, yet it leaves Steven strangely lightheaded in the aftermath, and he can’t help but stare at his palm as he wonders if anyone other than his parents has ever touched him so gently. If anyone, ever, has touched him so reverently.

“ Do you know how you look at me, then? I’ll tell you: you look at me the way mainlanders look at the caldera when they see it for the first time.” Once again, Wallace is suddenly and strangely bashful, and he wrings his hands together as he glances off to the side. Yet he continues to speak. “ It’s the way I imagine an explorer would look at an undiscovered continent…or even the surface of the moon.”

“ Ah.” Steven’s not sure if he wants to kiss Wallace senseless or melt into a puddle of embarrassment on the floor. “ Does that…does that bother you?”

To the champion’s great surprise and relief, the performer rapidly shakes his head, and he’s treated to the novel sight of pink dusting across those high cheekbones. “ No. No, it doesn’t.”

“ Are you sure?”

Wallace draws his eyes back to Steven’s face and nods. “ Yes. I’m sure. I…quite like it, actually.”

Steven almost can’t believe his ears. “ You…you do?”

“ I do.” The blush creeps further. “ I just…I can’t help but wonder…am I…”

“ Are you what?”

“ Am I the only one you look at in such a way?”

Sweet, soporific Cresselia, Steven silently pleads, if this is a dream, then allow me to sleep forever.

No, it’s impossible for this to be a dream, because Steven could have never imagined someone like Wallace in his wildest flights of fancy. Wallace is real. Wallace is real and he doesn’t mind Steven’s eccentricities. He likes it when he looks at him. He knows what it means when he looks at him. He likes it. For a moment, he can’t find the words, so he laughs like it’s being punched out of his stomach and reaches out, resting his hands on Wallace’s hipbones in what he hopes comes off as grounding and not indecent.

“ I don’t look at anyone or anything the way I look at you.” Honestly spills from Steven’s lips as easily as always. “ There’s no way I could. You’re you, and there’s nothing and no one else in the world like you, and there never will be. It’s you. Only you.”

Wallace’s eyes mist over. “ Truly?”

“ Truly.”

“ Oh, darling, you can’t just…” The taller man’s voice quivers along with his hands as he curls them around the shorter man’s torso. “ If you keep saying things like that…it makes me feel like I’m going to break apart.”

Before Steven can ask if that’s a good thing, a clock chimes in the distance, and Wallace’s hands fall away from his body as he sucks in an alarmed breath. Steven can’t help but mourn the loss, even as he lets go of the other man’s hips, knowing full well that he has very good reasons for not wanting to be caught in this position by strangers–or at all.

“ I should find the others and let them know I have to leave.” Steven hates the shame that’s crept into Wallace’s voice. “ I have one final week of performances before I can say goodbye to Mikuri forever, so I need to return to the club with time to spare, just in case something goes awry while I’m getting ready.”

Steven nods. “ There’s a loading dock at the back of the museum for deliveries that’s unused most of the time, and it opens into an alleyway, so you should be able to slip out without anyone seeing you. I’ll take you there after we say our goodbyes.”

“ Thank you.” Wallace reaches out to take Steven’s hand and twines their fingers together. “ I could get used to holding your hand.”

“ I could get used to your everything.”

Wallace chokes on nothing. “ Steven! Stop that!”

” Stop what?”

” Being so damn charming!”

Steven blinks. “ I’m…I’m not, though. That’s nice of you to say, really, but I’ve never been charming. In fact, I’m probably the opposite of charming on most days.”

” The opposite of…Steven, are you kidding me?!”

Before Wallace can continue to splutter with indignation (which Steven can’t really wrap his head around in the first place), he seems to realize something, and his eyes blow as wide as a startled deerling.

” Oh, goodness me!” He gasps, all of the lovely color he’d acquired just a few minutes before blanching from his face, and Steven can hear him cursing in Sootopolan under his breath. “ I was so caught up…I came here for a purpose, you know, and it completely slipped my mind until this moment!”

Oh. Well. Alright then? On one hand, it’s a relief, because Steven had briefly been petrified that Wallace had figured out he knew about his first trip to the museum; but on the other hand, he has no earthly idea what they’re talking about anymore. At least confusion feels better than dread.

“ You…came to find me, right?” Steven asks haltingly. “ Flannery said you wanted to show her and the others where I work.”

” I didn’t set out to specifically show the others your place of employment, you know; they just ended up tagging along!” Wallace sighs, shoulders sagging, and gives Steven’s hand a weak squeeze. “ I sincerely apologize. You see, I came to fetch you out of concern for the troupe—specifically, Burgh.”

” Burgh?”

” Yes. You see…he’s with Rose and the Duke at the hotel, putting together the troupe’s contract, and…I know I have even less room to talk than Burgh. I know that. I just…I think it would be best if you were there, sooner rather than later, simply because…because…”

“ Yes?”

Wallace hesitates, clearly concerned that whatever he’s about to say is unduly insulting to the painter-turned-actor, and he takes a few seconds to weigh his words and worry his lower lip. Steven is still very confused, but he loves him and is very patient, so he simply rubs his thumb over the knuckles of Wallace’s hand and gives him the silence he needs to speak.

” Steven, do you think the man’s signed a contract for anything in his life? “ Wallace finally blurts out. “ I mean, a contract for anything that’s not commissioning an art piece or two! Do you think he has ever signed one? Negotiated one? Ever?”

It takes Steven an embarrassingly long moment to put two and two together, and when he does, his mouth drops open.

Well. There goes the rest of his to-do list.

” I…don’t suppose he’s hired a lawyer to review it with him.” Steven asks—almost pleads—with a nervous laugh; and his stomach sinks as the other man sighs and shakes his head. “ I, uh, don’t suppose any of the others have contract experience, either.”

” Grimsley is the typical second child of a wealthy family, Steven, which means he hasn’t focused on anything a day in his life—other than gambling said money away, perhaps.” Wallace says with a huff and a frown that would look more at home on a displeased parent than a colleague in the arts. “ I’m not sure what Nanu did in his past life, but I so far have not seen any inkling of a talent or occupational experience that would benefit a theater troupe. Both of them seemingly exist to skulk around and pretend they don’t occasionally look at my legs when I’m in costume.”

Well. That sure is a mental image that Steven doesn’t know how to process. “ And the others are pure artisans or too young to have any sort of experience when it comes to business.”

” Exactly–and I doubt that Hassel fellow is going to buck the trend now that he’s here.” Wallace pinches the bridge of his nose with his free hand before dropping it back down to his side and squeezing Steven’s hand with the other. “ That’s why I thought of you. I mean, I was thinking about you anyway—“

“ You were?”

“ Eyes on the prize, darling,” Wallace teases. “ But yes, I was.”

“ I was thinking about you too!”

“ Focus.”

“ Ah! Yes! Sorry!”

Steven can’t bring himself to feel repentant when Wallace’s laughter sounds so utterly lovely: warm, light, and musical. It sounds like how the spring breeze feels on your face.

“ While I had a very broad and intense education, none of it was in the field of business.” The courtesan continues. “ You, however…even though you did not major in business in university, surely you’ve learned a great deal just by nature of being the future Devon heir. Even just a little bit of knowledge in the matter would make a great deal of difference in these negotiations, if they can even be called that at this moment.”

“ If we get there in time. Here’s hoping Burgh takes his time to read and doesn’t blindly sign.”

(On their way back to the hotel, Steven will tell Wallace about how he grew up sitting in his parents’ laps, learning their respective trades through observation and incessant questions. His mother’s lap had been the school of fossils, artifacts, and jewelry craft; his father’s had been the school of rocks and inventing when down in his basement workshop, and the school of patents and business when in his personal study or at his office at the conglomerate’s headquarters. Of course, little Steven’s retention of the information had been directly correlated with his own special interest, but between the innumerable hours of Steven reading along with his father and the equally innumerable (but far more excruciating) hours he’d been forced to sit in meetings by his grandfather as he grew older, it was next to impossible for him not to his way around a boardroom or legal document—whether he likes it or not.

Steven will also tell Wallace that board meetings triggered and still trigger meltdowns far more often than simply interacting with large groups of people. He’ll tell him that correlates the board room at the conglomerate headquarters with fear and dreadful anticipation, simply because his grandfather was always there, and his grandfather was never shy about how disappointed he was in his grandson. He’ll tell him that when he was five, Archibald insisted he started sitting in on shareholder meetings in order to ‘give him plenty of time to soak up something useful through that thick skull of his’, and that half the time his father would have to take him and leave early because he’d start keening, ripping at his hair, and biting his fingers in an attempt to escape from the pressure of everything he couldn’t understand. After a year of this, Joseph refused to bring Steven with him to meetings outside of the research and development departments—which the little heir always found fascinating—and the last and only other time he attended as a child was when he was eight. He’ll tell him that on that horrible day, he couldn’t look his grandfather in the eye, and he was smacked hard enough to send him tumbling to the floor in front of the entirety of the board.

Wallace will listen, and suck in his breath, and grip Steven’s hand just before the point of pain as his face pales and anger dances in his eyes. Still, he’ll stay silent, giving his beloved plenty of room to speak without pressure or derailment when it’s clear that he wants nothing more than to comfort him—or scream in fury. Maybe even both at the same time. Steven will tell him the hard things with the same ease and trust that he normally reserves for his father and sideways sister, and Wallace will be patient, and kind, and quiet. He will remain quiet up until the point when Steven tells him what happened next: that as he laid on the ground, stunned and whimpering, his father had walked in, almost immediately registered what happened, and punched Archibald squarely in the face.

At that point, Wallace will burst out laughing, and Steven will laugh along with him as the tension pops like an overfilled balloon. He’ll tell him that Archibald’s nose was broken and his lip was split so badly that he spent weeks away from public appearances, and Steven was kept away from the boardroom until he finished his studies at twenty-two, at which point he was expected to start participating in the conglomerate’s daily functions. Archibald and he only spoke when absolutely necessary.

“ I never thought I’d say this about a Devon,” Wallace will muse, “ but not only am I in love with you, but I think I already adore your father, even though we have never met.”

“ That’s funny, because I was just thinking that he’ll adore you, too.”

Wallace will demure, reminding Steven that parents can be lovely people who are very particular about their children’s partners, especially when they come from high social standing. Steven will say nothing, knowing that such a conversation is not appropriate for a bustling Lumiose street, but he will bring the other man’s hand to his lips and give it one last quick kiss before releasing it at the entrance to Montmartre. From that moment on, the act will begin, and the two will play the roles of genial coworkers–nothing more.)

“ Do you realize,” Steven says with no small amount of exasperation in the present, “that this will be the second time in less than twenty-four hours that you and I have pulled Burgh and the rest of the troupe out of hot water? Is this going to become a habit?”

Wallace groans. “ Gods, I hope not. Herding the delcatties of the club is going to be tiring enough; the last thing I need is to be tying figurative leashes to a gaggle of Victini revolutionaries.” He sighs and shrugs helplessly. “ Then again, with how self-professed Victinis tend to be, I shouldn’t be surprised at how high maintenance they are in day-to-day life.”

“ How do they tend to be?”

“ Stunningly brilliant, creative, and passionate, but without the practicality and common sense Arceus gave a psyduck.” Wallace gives Steven a dry look as the two begin their walk down the hallway anew. “ I’ll speak more on the subject later, if you’re interested; the point is that they tend to be a lot of work at baseline.”

“ Maybe so, but it’s nothing we can’t handle, don’t you think?”

“ Of course not–though, we should try to not make a hobby out of saving the Victinis from themselves. I am by no means an expert on the ethos, but given my brief interactions with the troupe and my numerous past clients who self-identified as ‘children of the revolution’, everything about the lifestyle sounds better than it actually is. In fact, it tends to…swallow people alive. At least, the ones with enough money to scrape together to drown their sorrows in a prostitute.”

An strange, ominous chill creeps up Steven’s spine and travels down his limbs, and he shivers and shifts to stand closer to Wallace, who responds with a fond bump of his hip.

“ I would love to hear your stories when we have more time to ourselves,” the geologist says, and whatever cold has seized his body evaporates at the delighted warmth of Wallace’s smile. It’s almost as if half the things he says to the courtesan are pleasant surprises. “ But for now, we’ll just have to work to keep our own Victinis from figuratively self-destructing at the beginning of a battle.”

“ And what about you?” Wallace gives him a surprisingly worried look. “ I can take care of myself, but…you’re entirely new to all of this. Show business, the Victini Revolution, the underworld…you’ll be careful, won’t you, dearest?”

“ Of course I will, Wallace.” Steven does not in turn ask Wallace to be careful; after all, the taller man is both the unstoppable force and immovable object in one human body. A walking, talking force of nature. What right does Steven have to tell him to be careful? That would be patronizing. “ I won’t cause trouble for you. Don’t worry.”

“ That’s not what I…” Wallace starts, stops, and shakes his head. “ Oh, nevermind. I know you won’t, darling, thank you.”

When winter’s chill descends upon Lumiose, Steven will regret not asking Wallace to be careful, too. He’ll regret thinking that Wallace is invincible. He’ll regret not asking him to finish his sentence. He’ll regret everything he should have said but didn’t, and everything he said that he shouldn’t have voiced; and though he’ll know, logically, that there was no stopping the train about to crash, the regret will continue to spin in his head like a phonographic record. He’ll call himself a fool, and hate himself, and regret, regret, regret.

Yet in this present moment, there’s no regret to be found–only Steven and his beloved Wallace, walking hand-in-hand down the museum hallway and into a future neither of them could ever comprehend.

Chapter Text

When Steven and Wallace finally crash into the lobby of the Hotel du Roi, they find AZ waiting for them at the front desk, book in hand and half-prepared tea set resting on the counter. Floette is nibbling on one of the sugar cubes from a tarnished silver bowl on the platter and trills melodically at their arrival.

” They are still talking,” AZ rumbles in lieu of greeting. “ No one has brought out any pens. They asked me to bring some with the next round of tea, but I told them the stove was faulty, and that it may take some time for the water to heat. That was ten minutes ago. I was worried I’d have to hide all of my pens and pretend the courtyard swellow stole them for their nests.”

As he speaks, Floette rummages through a semi-organized rack of papers and pulls out a blank laundry slip, which her master uses to mark his place in the novel. Steven is just barely able to spy the camellia blossoms on the cover before AZ tucks it somewhere behind the desk and out of sight and mind. He cocks his head to the side.

” Have you been…running interference, Monsieur AZ?” The champion queries. “ I’m grateful, I admit, but…I had no idea you were so invested in the troupe and their show.”

A wisp of a smile flits across AZ’s face.

” Monsieur Wallace asked if I would be willing to stall their talks if necessary while he went to fetch you.” The gentle giant rises to his feet and slowly lumbers around the counter to meet the pair. “ He was gone for some time, but Rose likes to hear himself talk, and Burgh likes to share his ideas. They have been talking for just as long as it took for you to find Monsieur Tsuwabuki.”

“ Forgive me, Monsieur AZ; it took me longer to fetch him than anticipated.” Wallace flashes AZ an apologetic smile and the wisp widens in return. Given how hard it can be to pull a smile out of the proprietor, Steven can’t help but be impressed at how open he seems towards Wallace already, but he doubts there are few humans alive that could resist his magnetic-like pull. “ Steven, you go on ahead; I need to finish ironing out the details of my stay with Monsieur AZ, and assisting him with the tea service is the least I can do after inconveniencing him so.”

“ I don’t mind. It keeps things lively.” AZ picks up the tea tray and gestures with his head for Wallace to follow him. “ It’s not very often I have human help, however, so I’ll accept; we can sort out the details of your room while we work.”

” Oh, about that!” Steven decides that he might as well broach the subject now rather than risk forgetting it until a more inconvenient time and place. “ Wallace and I were wondering…would you be willing to give him an extra key to my room?”

AZ stops walking and turns his head to look at Steven. “ An extra key?”

The proprietor’s expressionless stare makes the geologist feel like he’s a dwarf vivillion being pinned to a board. He swallows thickly and rubs his palms on the sides of his pants before nodding.

“ Yes. I would…like Wallace to have permission to come and go from my room as he pleases.” Steven says with a nervous smile. “ I realize this may be an unusual request, but Wallace and I have discussed it several times today, and he and I would be very appreciative if you’d allow it.” He taps the toe of his shoe on the weathered wood floor. “ We would, of course, make sure that no one else has access to the key–I can assure you that.”

AZ’s lips quirk downwards, but to Steven’s relief, it seems to be more of a thoughtful frown than one of disapproval. Floette floats over on her flower to perch on his shoulder and titters, and the giant tilts his head towards her and listens as if she’s speaking in human tongue, humming and nodding once she finishes. His head then turns to look at Wallace, who’s standing silently at his side, hands linked behind his back and gaze turned down towards his polished boots. AZ’s frown deepens slightly.

“ This is something you want as well?” The proprietor’s voice–low and gruff–seems to crack like a vine whip in the awkward silence of the lobby? “ Monsieur Wallace?”

The beautifully soft blush returns to the courtesan’s cheeks, and he nods eagerly and without hesitation, licking his lips before tipping his head to look up at AZ.

“ I would, Monsieur AZ, very much so.” Even though Steven currently feels like the most awkward and out-of-place human in the world, he can’t help but smile as Wallace’s atypical shyness is crowded out by his usual graceful confidence, a reaction that AZ seems to notice out of the corner of his eye. “ I would also like Steven to have a key to my room as well–if possible, of course.”

“ You do?”

“ I do. I want my room to be his as much as he wants his room to be mine.” A soft smile graces Wallace’s lips that’s as sweet as his fading flush. “ Although, I suspect I’ll be spending most of my time in his room, with or without the spare key–if only because of the balcony.”

AZ blinks a few times before humming in understanding. The downward cant of his lips flattens out.

“ Ah, of course. The balcony. Monsieur Tsuwabuki does have the best view on the third floor.” Floette chirps and cheeps excitedly, and AZ cants his head towards her and closes his eyes, nodding along with the ebb and flow of her ‘words’. “ Yes, yes…I think these are special circumstances…yes, they do seem to want this, don’t they? The both of them.”

Floette nods and gestures with her flower as she continues talking–almost as if she’s emphasizing a point. A majority of humans would likely look at a man having such an in-depth conversation with his pokemon and think him mad, but Steven and Wallace have had innumerable conversations with their pokemon that would have earned them more than a few strange looks, so they simply stand and wait patiently for AZ and his partner to complete their deliberations. Sometimes the understanding between a human and their pokemon transcends all language and logic.

“ I would agree that this is very different from the other request…” Whatever AZ hears next pleases him, because his flat face suddenly softens, and his lips lift into a subtle smile. “ They do appear to love each other, don’t they? …yes, very much, even. I can see it, too.”

Steven’s cheeks heat up as Wallace sucks in a quiet breath, but the two men can’t help but share a look and a smile of their own, knowing that the trend of the conversation has clearly turned in their favor. Of course, the champion is very curious as to what AZ means by ‘the other request’, but he doesn’t dare risk the interruption of asking. Perhaps guests have made similar requests in the past that have caused some trouble. He can understand AZ’s trepidation–although, he has the sneaking suspicion that every member of the theater troupe likely has keys to every single room on the fourth floor. What makes the two of them having access to each other’s rooms such a concern?

“ Alright; I am comfortable with this, especially since you are as well.” AZ gives Floette a last fond nod and adjusts the tea tray in his hands before finally turning his attention back to Steven and Wallace. “ As long as you don’t let anyone else know that I have given you spare keys, then I have no problem granting your request. Stop by the front desk before it closes tonight and I’ll have them ready.”

Steven’s heart soars like a swanna in his chest, and given the way Wallace’s face lights up, it’s clear the other man feels the same. His room. My room. Our room. Our room. He wishes he could kiss him now, or even simply hold his hand, but the knowledge that anyone could enter the lobby at any moment (including, gods forbid, the Duke) restrains his impulses. He instead gives AZ a grateful smile and nod of his own as he allows himself a brief rock back on his heels.

“ Of course–Wallace and I will be extremely discreet, and we’ll return all of the keys when we check out.” At this point, Steven has no clue when that will be, but it’s the consideration that counts. “ You have my thanks, Monsieur AZ.”

“ And mine,” Wallace says, holding out his hands to take the tray with an expected smile. “ Please, allow me; it’s the least I can do to repay your kindness.”

“ There is no need, but…” Floette squeaks and chirps insistently, and twitters without words but with a tone that could only be called ‘fondly scolding’, and AZ sighs and relents, handing Wallace the tea tray. “ I appreciate the assistance, as does Floette, who reminds me that I’m not used to having human help with the hotel and should take the opportunity.”

“ Your Floette is very wise.” Wallace gives the floral creature a wink before turning to Steven. “ You’d better go on ahead without me, darling; that contract isn’t going to review itself, and I believe it would be reassuring to Duke Siebold that at least one person on the Victini side of things is competent. We’ll bring in the tea when it’s done.”

Something strange flickers across AZ’s face at the mention of the Duke of Monrath, yet it vanishes in the blink of an eye, leaving Steven to wonder if he simply imagined it. He shakes his head and sets his mind to the task at hand.

“ I’m not a Victini, but…I’m close enough I suppose.” Steven sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “ It doesn’t matter. I’ll find out what I am to this outfit once I make sure they aren’t being fleeced by Rose.” He straightens his cravat, combs his hands through his hair, and rubs his face before taking a deep breath. “ Alright. Wish me luck.”

“ You won’t need luck, Steven,” Wallace murmurs as Steven walks past them and towards the drawing room. “ Yet I’ll wish it for you all the same, my love.”

My love. Steven nearly trips over his own shoes, but he swiftly regains his footing, and he suddenly feels as if could negotiate with every human in the world in a single afternoon without. Even Floette’s melodic giggling and AZ’s throaty chuckle run off his shoulders like water off a ducklett’s back. His beloved’s smile is warm on the nape of his neck, and as much as he wants to turn around and see it for himself, he instead squares his shoulders and strides forward.

No, he doesn’t need luck–not with Wallace in his life. Everything else is just gravy.

It’s a relief when Steven finds the doors to the drawing room unlocked, and when he pushes them open, he’s even more relieved to see a distinct absence of fountain pens. The room itself is similar to the rest of the hotel in its chipped stucco walls, weathered wooden floor, and plentiful natural light streaming in from the generous windows. A large, fading rug depicting the Auran Triad in various states of action is spread out beneath several threadbare but plush chairs and chaise lounges, which are clustered around a low table bearing several half-empty teacups and scattered pieces of typed paper. The central courtyard is visible out the windows, and Weather Lords, Steven wishes he was sitting outside and reading a book by the fountain right now. Or polishing rocks. Or polishing his pokemon. Or sitting with Wallace, shoulders touching, as they watch the spheals splash around the large basin.

Unfortunately, he has an irksome job to do instead, and the utterly bewildered expression on Burgh’s face implies that he’s arrived just in time. Without even greeting the six men and women already in the room, he walks over to the table and snatches the contract out of Burgh’s hands, ignoring his indignant squawk and flailing as he turns his back on the group and begins to sort out the mess—literally.

“ At least you bothered to number these,” Steven mutters, hurriedly shuffling the papers back into order. From where she sits next to Rose in a separate chair, the corner of Oleana’s right eye twitches, and she fixes the champion with a sheer cold glare.

” This is not the first contract I’ve written, Monsieur Tsuwabuki,” she says flatly. Her prim and polished hands spider themselves together in her lap. “ I’ve written every single one of the club’s contracts since we purchased it over a decade ago.”

” That doesn’t mean they’re well-written.” Steven doesn’t have to look over his shoulder to sense Oleana’s glare morphing from bitter to murderous. Rose, on the other hand, can’t seem to resist having a chuckle at his assistant’s expense. He dislikes both of them. “ Did you bring copies?”

Rose quirks his right eyebrow. “ A few.”

“ Then why don’t you have them out?” Steven turns around and gives Rose a knowing look. “ Other than the one in the duke’s hands and this one, I see no others, which gives the appearance of you forcing these three men to read off the same copy. That means you either came unprepared or are withholding them to force these three men to share the same copy, thus dividing their attention, and thus allowing you to sneak more subtle nuances of the contract past them–nuances that may be unfavorable to them but favorable to you.”

The droll amusement falls off the chairman’s face in an instant, and while his eyes narrow into affronted slits, the way his throat bobs in alarm tells Steven he’s hit his mark. Even the normally impassive Oleana’s breath sticks in her chest, and as Burgh and Brassius whisper intelligibly at each other (but with tones that suggest the former is on the defensive and the latter is at the end of his rope), she and Rose shift uncomfortably in their seats and share a look that adds at least one year to Steven’s lifespan from schadenfreude alone. Sitting alone by the fountain suddenly seems like an inferior way to spend his time.

“ Or was your in house printing press so bogged down with making fliers to cover the entirety of Lumiose that you simply didn’t have time to make more than two copies of a contract that may very well need revisions?” Steven asks. “ Unless, of course, this was meant to be more akin to a flame charge than an actual negotiation.”

Behind him, Hassel chokes on a startled laugh; and in front of him, Oleana’s eyes narrow into venomous slits. Still, she says nothing, even as her lips purse and mash as if she’s caught a whiff of rotting trubbish droppings.

“ Be careful, Monsieur Tsuwabuki.” Rose finally finds his voice, and though he tries to come off as bemused, it’s impossible to miss the hard edge of his voice. “ With such behavior, well, one might think you were trying to get yourself fired.”

“ Or, perhaps, he’s just as tired of your machinations as I.” Steven nearly jumps as Siebold suddenly cuts in, and he turns to see the duke reclining slightly in his chair, picking idly at the cuffs of his white gloves as regards Rose with weary irritation. “ I have been here for over three hours, watching you try to dance around the Victinis, and it wasn’t until Monsieur Tsuwabuki’s timely appearance that I finally felt like we would get something worthwhile done. Now, do you have other copies of the contract on hand, or do you not?”

Oleana winces, the color drains from Rose’s face, and another year is added to Steven’s life.

“ Oleana,” Rose finally grits out, “ please hand out the extra copies from my briefcase. The ones I was saving in case of revisions.”

The duke’s eyebrows raise towards his hairline, and to Steven’s surprise, he actually sends him a surreptitious look of exasperation as Oleana hurriedly drags out Rose’s briefcase from between their chairs and pops it open. The geologist still isn’t quite sure how he feels about Duke Siebold–other than his obviously not liking the situation Wallace is in and the man’s very obvious part in it–but he can’t help but feel relieved knowing that no, it’s not just him; Rose Quintrell is aggravating. He gives a slight nod and smirk in return before turning his attention back to the paperwork in his hands, shuffling it absentmindedly and pretending to not notice Burgh and Brassius staring at him as if he’s just teleported in, albeit with more irritation (and maybe embarrassment) from the former and pleasant surprise from the latter. Hassel, meanwhile, is simply observing the events with crossed arms and near palpable awkwardness.

Welcome to my world, Steven thinks dryly, thumbing the numbered corners one last time to confirm that the pages are in the correct order. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Oleana pull three similar sheathes of paper out of Rose’s gilded bouffalant leather briefcase and offers them to Hassel, who gives her a withering look before snatching them from her hands and passing them out to his fellows. Siebold sits up straight and slides forward a few centimeters on his chair as Brassius and Hassel finally tear into the document for themselves.

“ Now we’re getting somewhere,” he remarks, picking at the seams of the fingers of his gloves. “ Take a seat, Monsieur Tsuwabuki; given what I’ve heard and read myself, you have your work cut out for you.”

Before Steven can even react, the doors to the lobby swing open, and Steven turns around to see AZ propping one of them open with his hip to allow Wallace to enter first. The courtesan has the refreshed tea tray in hand, and the proprietor himself bears a tray of sandwiches and pastries in his massive hands, which makes it appear comically small at a distance. Siebold rises to his feet and stares knowingly at Wallace as he approaches.

“ I see your quest was successful.” He remarks. Wallace flushes slightly (with Steven making a mental note to ask him how he learned to blush on command on top of everything else) and gives a demure nod.

” It was…though I apologize that it took me longer than expected to return.” Wallace sets the tea tray down on the table and sighs long-suffering lay. “ And now I can’t even stay to witness the fruits of my labor! Forgive me, Duke Siebold, but I must run across the street and prepare for my act. I hope you aren’t terribly disappointed.”

“ Not at all.” Steven is satisfied to see that Siebold seems to mean his denial, and he even gives the courtesan a little smile and nonchalant shrug, both of which look strange on such a stern-eyed man. “ In fact, I’m glad that you won’t have to suffer through any more of this drudgery. Would you give me the pleasure of walking you to the club?”

Rose opens his mouth to protest—after all, they were about to get to the actual wheeling and dealing!—but snaps it shut at the duke’s icy stare. With a sigh of his own, the chairman relents, slumping back into his chair as he flips wearily through his own copy of the contract.

Serves you right, you manipulative bastard. Suffer. Steven grants himself a private satisfied smirk before turning his attention back to the group, where Wallace has graciously accepted the duke’s invitation with an offered hand and a smile just coquettish enough to be alluring yet subtle enough to be appropriate. Just like the night before, every move, breath, blink, and noise is carefully calculated and executed with ease and precision. It’s enough to leave the champion feeling awestruck for the second time in the past twenty-four hours.

No wonder everyone thinks that Wallace would be an excellent actor. He puts on headline-worthy performances almost every single day.

” I’m certain everyone here is more than capable of starting the negotiations without me,” Siebold says dryly, taking Wallace’s hand before inviting him to slip his arm through the loop of his own. “ Or, at the very least, Monsieur Tsuwabuki is. Do take care to not let the chairman headlong rush you like he was the thespians, yes?”

Steven blinks, disarmed by the sudden praise of a man he barely knows, and he does his best to ignore the skin-crawling sensation of every pair of eyes in the room being focused on him as he replies. At least these looks are easier to stomach than those of the Devon board of directors. “ Of course. This is far from the first contract negotiation I’ve participated in.”

A small nod. “ Of course. Monsieur Mikuri was clearly correct in suspecting you possessed at least some rudimentary business experience; seeing you like this now makes it painfully obvious.” Siebold glances over and up at Wallace, who’s ducked his head in show of shy pleasure, and hums. “ Shall we?”

“ Of course, my dear duke.” Wallace turns his head to look at the others and waggles the fingers of his free hand at the rest of the assembled parties. “ Fret not, everyone! I’ll be sure to take as little of Duke Siebold’s precious time as possible! A bientôt, mes amis et Monsieur Rose!”

With that, the pair depart, and Steven watches the duke and his secret lover leave with a heaviness in his heart that’s only assuaged by the elation he feels upon remembering that not only will they be seeing each other in a matter of hours, but they’ll also be sharing a bed. A bed. Their bed. The concept is so wonderfully overwhelming that the longer the champion thinks about it, the stronger the urge to flap becomes, so he shoves those delightful mental images out of his brain and focuses on the matter at hand.

Contract negotiations. Joy of joys. The impulse to stim promptly fizzles out.

“ Adieu!” Burgh seems a little too enthusiastic about their departure, but given the way he sags in relief once the doors close behind Wallace and the duke, it’s clear that he’s likely relieved that there’s one less intimidating and powerful rich man in the room with him. “ Alright, then! Shall we begin anew, Monsieur Tsuwabuki?”

“ Ah, yes, of course.” As Steven finally sits down, AZ–who’s lingered in the room up until now–is finally able to deposit the tray of sandwiches, pastries, and pens he’s been carrying onto the low table, and he wastes no time in making his own exit. Steven envies him. “ Well, I think we’ve already burned enough hours, so let’s try to make this process as quick and efficient as possible. I have a play to write, after all, and Chairman Rose has a building remodel to arrange–and advertise. Extensively.”

Rose scowls, but Steven ignores him, cheerily passing the pens to the actors before settling back in his chair and uncapping his own.

By the time they conclude negotiations, the sun has started to set, and Steven would be perfectly content to never see any of these people again.

While the Devon heir had never seen an acting contract until that moment, all of the terms, conditions, and clauses he encounters are familiar, as was the subtle (and not-so-subtle) maneuvering woven through the pages. Some of the chairman’s are so obvious that it becomes clear to Steven just how used he was to strong-arming underworld performers that were either too uneducated to grasp the basics of contract law or too desperate to refuse even the most rotten deal. Steven is none of those things, however, and the first hour is spent explaining concepts such as ‘exclusivity clauses’, ‘governing law’, and ‘arbitration and dispute resolution’ to a bewildered Burgh, an exasperated Brassius, and an exhausted Hassel. He spends the second hour walking the actors through every single line of text while offering lengthy explanations of the sections that absolutely required rewriting: the definitions of ‘immoral behaviors’ that would be cause for termination were far too vague; there was no definite end or renegotiation date for the troupe’s exclusivity to the Moulin Rouge; there were far too many scenarios considered ‘force majeure’ on the part of the theater to be fair and balanced; simply having the working hours listed as ‘at the discretion of the employer’ was asking for trouble; and so on and so forth.

The third and fourth hours cut right to the meat of the whole affair. At this point, the duke has returned from escorting Wallace to the night club, and he watches Steven and Rose spar over inconsistencies in the latter’s definition of ‘cause’ and how the proposed base pay is at least forty percent less than that of the average thespian in Lumiose with the air of a man engrossed by a particularly lively pokemon battle. He does interrupt to ask how Steven knows the average pay of thespians in Lumiose, and since the champion can’t admit that he learned it during one of his ‘tea breaks’ with the most famous actress in the world (who also happens to be Siebold’s superior in the league and the Lady Verdant herself), he simply says he’d heard people talking about it in some cafe or boulangerie in Montmartre one day. The duke is mercifully convinced, and he spends the rest of the negotiation session as an unexpected ally in Steven’s quest to keep the troupe from getting fleeced, only inserting himself into the negotiations for the sole purpose of undercutting almost every argument Rose tries to make. The geologist isn’t sure if Siebold has some sort of strange fondness for him or simply wants to make the chairman’s life miserable, but he’s certainly not complaining, especially given how his temples are starting to twinge from all the eye contact he’s forced to make with Rose. The sooner the contract’s decent, the better, and the duke’s intervention is saving him who knows how many hours of maneuvering and bargaining.

Burgh interrupts quite a bit at the beginning, making his own thoughts and opinions very known so as to remind everyone present that he’s the one who makes the final decisions for the troupe, but some borderline malevolent glares from Rose and irritated whispers from Brassius soon cow him into dejected silence. Brassius doesn’t seem too bothered by his friend’s obvious insecurity over being forced out of his own contract deliberations, clearly wanting to leave the drawing room as much as Steven himself, but Hassel spares Burgh a few absent pats on the back and murmurs of encouragement. Otherwise, the newest member of the troupe seems content to watch Steven with an intensity that borders on unnerving, arms crossed over his chest and brow furrowed between his light brown eyes.

Again, Steven is reminded of Grimsley; and again, he shivers and does his best to pretend Hassel doesn’t exist. He’ll worry about it later. He’ll worry about it later. He’ll worry about it later.

Finally, as hour four bleeds into hour five, the deed is done. Steven has used up two pens worth of ink making the necessary adjustments and has even added on a few pages with some hotel stationary helpfully procured for him by AZ. Oleana suggests taking the draft and running back to the Moulin Rouge to formally type it out, but she quickly abandons that idea when faced with the exhausted glares of everyone else present–even Rose. Steven scrawls out a signatory page on the last piece of stationary, slides it into the middle of the table, and nearly trips over the legs of his chair in his haste to move out of everyone else’s way.

The duke is the first to sign, and he too moves out of the way of the others, adjusting his gloves and straightening the lapels of his jacket as Burgh and Brassius bicker over whether they should sign with their legal names, artist names, or both. “ My most sincere thanks, Monsieur Tsuwabuki, for turning a parody of a business meeting into something that was actually fruitful. Where did you learn such acumen?”

Steven resists the urge to gulp. “ Oh…here and there. I’m not a businessman, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“ I’m not quite sure what I’m asking, frankly,” Siebold admits. “ Though I admit you make me curious.” He produces an ornate pocket watch from his pocket, clicks it open, and grimaces at the time. “ Well, I’m not as late as I feared I would be, but I’m still pushing my luck.”

“ Do you have a prior engagement, Duke Siebold?” Steven asks as the duke snaps his watch shut and shoves it back into his pants pocket with an edge of unnecessary violence.

“ Tomorrow is the start of league season.” The words—and their meaning—hit Steven like a bolt of lightning, and Siebold obviously mistakes his wide-eyed surprise with confusion, so he continues. “ As you may have heard, I’m one of the Elite Four of the Kalos Regional Pokemon League, and gym season ended last week. Tomorrow is the start of the champion gauntlet, and until the last qualified trainer passes through our halls, I won’t be able to leave the Pokemon League.”

Of course! It’s mid-summer, after all, which is also the end of the gym challenge circuit in Hoenn. Any sadness and annoyance Steven feels at having to miss both his favorite and the most seminal aspect of his role as top champion are completely washed away by the staggering implications of Siebold’s absence. At least two months. At least two whole months without having to worry about hiding from the duke. At least two months for he and Wallace to simply be with each other without trepidation. Is Steven dreaming? Is a Hoopa playing some particularly mean-spirited ring game with him? Or maybe, after a stretch of some of the most rotten luck a person can have, Arceus is finally shining some light upon the champion’s shadowed form. Two months! Two months!!

Sacred Rayquaza, please let there be an unusually large number of Kalos League challengers that have completed all eight gyms and qualified for the Elite Four, leading to the extension of the champion gauntlet into the third month. Please, please, please, please.

“ I can see why you wanted to have as much ironed out as possible before departing.” Steven somehow manages a neutral enough tone to be convincing, and while he wants nothing more than to flap until his wrists fall off, he’s able to burn enough giddy energy through spinning his rings to keep still. Two months! “ I’m guessing Monsieur Wallace is aware of your absence?”

To Steven’s surprise and confusion, a look of disgust crosses Siebold’s face, though it’s gone within a blink. “ Ah, I keep forgetting that Wallace is Monsieur Mikuri’s real name. I am glad he’s given me permission to continue calling him by his stage name. It would have been a pity otherwise.”

Before the geologist can even process Siebold’s words—let alone ask what on earth he means by a pity—the Duke of Monrath spins on his heel and makes for the door, only to pause and turn his head to look back at Steven.

” Would you mind joining me in the lobby once you’ve finished witnessing the signing?” He asks. “ I have a request to make of you before I depart.”

Steven blinks. “ Ah. Yes. Of course. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

Siebold nods, and with that finally leaves the drawing room, and Steven tries to ignore the sensation of durants crawling in his stomach as he turns back to the others. By this time, Brassius and Burgh have come to a compromise, and Burgh is just finishing signing with both his legal and art names. Brassius is next, then Rose (who’s recovered enough composure to successfully pretend he hasn’t spent the last four hours getting trounced), followed by Oleana. Finally, Steven picks up a pen for the last time that night, and he’s careful to use his pseudonym as he signs his name next to Oleana’s in the witness section. Just like that, contract negotiations are over, and the spool of tension unwinds in the champion’s chest.

“ We have a show, then, gentlemen.” Rose says with a smile. It’s the first time he’s looked and sounded genuinely happy since the geologist entered the room. “ And a theater. May we have a pleasant and mutually beneficial partnership.”

Gods, Steven is exhausted, and frustrated, and overwhelmed. and a new irritation washes over him at the realization that there are probably no boutiques open so late in the evening, which means he can’t even purchase Wallace the gifts he’d been planning on since this morning, because he had to come in and save Burgh from signing a deal with the world’s slimiest morgrem and bringing the whole troupe down with him. That same troupe leader is now looking at him expectantly, waiting for Steven’s answer to the unspoken question of how he knows so much about business, but the champion could frankly care less. All he wants to do is go to his room, turn off the lights, pull the covers over his head, and squeeze Aron in a vice grip as he waits for Wallace to (hopefully) come to his room after his performance. Unfortunately, he still has to speak to the duke; and while a one-on-one conversation with the man in a more quiet area will be far less mentally taxing than the near five hour torture session he just endured, he’s still not looking forward to it, and he wants to be alone as soon as possible.

That’s why, instead of pre-emptively answering Burgh or waiting for him to ask his inevitable questions, Steven simply turns around and walks out of the room without saying a word. Burgh loudly demands for him to come back here and explain himself, but Steven finds it far less mentally taxing to pretend he doesn’t exist, so he does. The angry sniping about how he’s rude, entitled, and elitist mixes with Rose and Brassius’s wheezing laughter as the parlor doors shut behind him.

Just like that, there’s blissful near silence, and Steven sags and hums with relief as the buzzing in his head smooths out. He takes a moment to spin his rings and center himself—focusing on the tick, tock, tick, tock of the grandfather clock and timing it with the ladder of prime numbers he climbs in his head—and by the time he registers that Siebold and AZ appear to be having some sort of low but charged conversation, the world has expanded back to its original boundaries, and he can hear his own thoughts instead of a mental cacophony. His shoulders ease. His hands drop to his sides. He breathes easily and opens his eyes without needing to brace himself for the world.

“…surely you’ve made exceptions in the past.” Siebold’s words now filter clearly through his ears, and though his tone is level, there is an unmistakable undercurrent of annoyance. “ What about the troupe? Surely they don’t have to knock on their separate rooms to be let in.”

“ They do not lock their doors.” AZ replies calmly. “ It was a special request they made when they checked in and one that was easy to oblige, since they rent the entire fourth floor. They do not have keys at all, let alone to share.”

Steven turns to see Siebold standing at the front desk across from AZ, who’s seemingly been interrupted in watering the countless plants that are stacked on the wall shelves behind him, given the comically tiny and adorable wailmer-shaped watering can still in his hands. Floette is seated in her cozy cigar box on the counter, watching the conversation with her flower stem clutched tightly in her hands, and she turns her head to look at Steven with blatant worry as he quietly approaches.

What exactly is going on here? They don’t seem to be having an altercation—at least, one intense enough to cause such concern. Steven stops briefly—weighing the pros and cons of interrupting—before shaking his head and reminding himself that the duke is the one that asked to speak, so an interruption by his intended conversation partner is to be expected. He creeps forward again.

” I’ve explained to you the circumstances—“

“ Yes, you have,” AZ says, cutting the duke off. “ When you first arrived and now. And I have explained to you already that I can’t make exceptions to the rules, no matter who asks me to do so. We do not give out spare keys to guests who are not registered as occupants of the room in question. To do so would set a precedent and open up a can of orthworms, no matter the circumstance.”

Steven is close enough to see Siebold’s eye twitch and the fingers of his right hand digging into the side seam of his left glove. Otherwise, the man remains impassive, aside from the frigid cut of his gaze.

” Besides,” AZ continues, speaking slowly and clearly, “ there are only three keys to each room: one for the tenant; one for myself; and one for the maintenance workers. Even if it wasn’t against hotel policy, there simply isn’t another one available for your use.”

“ If you would simply loan me yours, I could have another made—“

“ No.” The sudden cuteness of AZ’s voice stops Siebold in his tracks. “ There are no exceptions to the rules, Duke Siebold, even for you. I will not be giving you a spare key. Now, is there anything else I can assist you with today?”

It’s clear from the expression on the noble’s face that he is not used to people saying ‘no’ to him—let alone twice—and he seems to be at a complete loss for words as AZ waits patiently and impassively for his answer. When none comes, he turns his attention back to his newspaper, and Steven decides that now is an opportune time to clear his throat.

” Excuse me, Duke, but you wished to speak to me?” He broaches. The duke blinks as if Steven’s words have aroused him from a dream and turns his head to look at him.

” Ah, yes, of course. Follow me; we can speak outside while I wait for my cab.”

” Are you sure?” Steven glances over at AZ—who’s seemingly engrossed in that day’s classifieds—and Floette—who is clearly glad that the conversation is over—and frowns. “ I would hate to interrupt you if you're in the middle of something. I would be happy to wait outside.”

“ No, no. Thank you for your consideration, but that will not be necessary.” Siebold’s jaw and neck tense as he speaks, and though his voice is level, his overall air of displeasure is impossible to miss—even for someone as socially-challenged as Steven. “ It’s clear that any further conversation would go absolutely nowhere, so there’s no point in me wasting my breath.” He snaps the wrist band of his glove against his skin and picks up his gem-topped walking stick from where it was propped against the desk. “ Walk with me, Monsieur Tsuwabuki.”

” Ah…of course.”

Steven tries to catch AZ’s attention, but the gigantic man remains fixated on his newspaper, so he gives Floette a friendly tap on her tiny head before following the irritated duke out the front door.

The dark orange glow of the evening sun has softened and saturated, and the streets of Montmartre are quiet aside from the sounds of semi-wild pokemon that make it their home, with the humans having returned home for dinner before dancing. Several pidoves are perched on the extinguished street lamps and coo curiously at the two men as they move to stand side-by-side at the edge of the sidewalk. The duke reaches into his coat pocket, pulls out a pack of thin cigarettes, and slips one out.

” Would you like one?” He asks, pocketing the pack and pulling out a lighter and a cigarette holder. Steven shakes his head.

” No, thank you, Duke Siebold. I can be sensitive to certain smells.”

Steven hopes that the other man will take the hint, but he’s disappointed when Siebold simply nods and lights the cigarette, taking a long drag before blowing it out. At least the breeze is blowing the smoke down the street and not into his face.

” You,” the duke says after a second puff and blow, “ are a man of breeding and culture, are you not?”

A shiver racks down Steven’s spine. “ I don’t know what you mean.”

” You don’t have to be disingenuous with me. I have no interest in prying into your life and the circumstances that brought you to Montmartre.” Siebold glances down at him out of the corner of his eye and smiles knowingly. “ You’re not the first man of status I’ve met who’s had to run from his mistakes. Or, perhaps, misunderstandings. You seem like a pleasantly plain sort who trips into trouble rather than getting into it on purpose. No cunning. No guile. It’s refreshing–especially in such an inglorious neighborhood.”

Steven has no earthly idea whether Siebold is complimenting him, insulting him, or both. He decides that it’s in his and Wallace’s best interests to think the best of the Duke of Monrath, so he simply nods and turns his gaze to the gates of the club. Is Wallace in the copperajah now? Or is he backstage? Is he thinking about him, too?

“ Yes, you’re trustworthy, aren’t you?” Siebold continues thoughtfully. He takes a moment to savor his cigarette and spins the holder between his fingers as he exhales the smoke–only this time, he deliberately blows it away from Steven, which the geologist assumes is a good sign. “ Honest and good-natured. Someone with manners, pedigree, and proper education. Someone with bearing. Someone whose hair isn’t slopped in pomade and whose cologne isn’t tacky and needlessly expensive, like our dear chairman–or a man who knows nothing beyond his brushes or a stage, like Monsieur Burgh. I believe I like you well enough, Monsieur Tsuwabuki.”

“ I appreciate your sentiment, Duke Siebold,” Steven says magnanimously. He wonders if the man’s compliments are patronizing by accident or if his wording and tone are deliberate choices. It can be hard to tell with ‘old rich’ men and women like the Duke of Monrath, and Steven has long since learned to not care about the opinions of those in his social stratum; yet he can’t help but want to know the man who will also be sharing Wallace’s bed. Will he patronize him, too, intentionally or not? “ Is that what you wished to tell me?”

“ No, but it leads to it.” Another puff, another blow, and the duke carefully taps his cigarette holder on the lamp post to knock off the ash. “ I’ve come to the conclusion, Monsieur Tsuwabuki, that you’re the only person in this affair that I can trust–not just because you’re honest, but because you have a head full of sense, not one overflowing with payday coins or spinda spirals. It’s because of this that I have a favor to ask.”

“ Which is?”

“ While I’m away at the league, could you watch over Monsieur Mikuri for me?”

At first Steven thinks he’s misheard him, but the serious look on Siebold’s face–even more so than his baseline sternness–says otherwise, leaving him floundering for some sort of response. Watch over Wallace? In what way? In what capacity? What does that even mean? Is he in danger now that he’s with the duke? Should Steven buy a gun?

“ Whatever for?” The champion finally chokes out. Siebold studies him for a moment, face inscrutable, before casting his gaze up towards the copperajah.

“ You can see it–can’t you?” He murmurs. Steven stays silent, not quite knowing what he’s asking and unwilling to jeopardize his favor with an incorrect answer–yet Siebold smiles regardless. “ Ah, that’s quite a vague question, isn’t it? Yet I feel like you, too, can see that Mikuri is utterly wasted in a place such as this. Yes?”

“ Ah…”

How is he even supposed to respond? Part of Steven wants to agree, vehemently, that yes; Wallace deserves so much better than the Moulin Rouge. He deserves so much better than Montmartre. He deserves a soft bed of his own and a room with a balcony. He deserves comfortable clothes and shoes. He deserves the space to not worry about how he appears to others and to simply be himself. He deserves a ticket home to see his sister and swim in his home ocean. He deserves a stage of his own. A contest hall of his own. A home of his own. A world of his own.

Steven wants to give him the world. He wants to give him everything.

Yet even beyond the obvious fact that gushing about his beloved to said beloved’s ‘patron’ is a horrible idea, something stills Steven’s tongue–a vague unease that throws him off balance and makes his insides squirm. He’d felt it earlier when Siebold was interacting with Wallace in the parlor–a flare of discomfort that burned out as quickly as it sparked–and he had attributed it to the sheer awkwardness of the situation. Now it’s back, and stronger; and Steven struggles to understand his more complex feelings at baseline, let alone under pressure.

It has something to do with the way the duke talks about Wallace, he thinks–something he doesn’t like. Steven’s not quite sure what it is, but he knows he doesn’t like it, so he chooses his words with the care normally reserved for a board meeting instead of blindly agreeing.

“ Monsieur Wallace is certainly talented,” Steven ventures, knowing that Siebold likely knows or will soon know the courtesan’s real name. “ A talent that’s definitely more suited for a grand stage than the dance floor of a night club. Anyone with eyes can see it.”

Duke Siebold’s nose wrinkles. “ Ah, that’s right; I keep forgetting that Mikuri is a stage name.” He sighs, shakes his head, and takes a long drag of his cigarette. “ No matter. He himself said that he doesn’t mind what I call him so long as it’s what I prefer.”

Steven blinks. “ Do you…not like his real name, Duke Siebold?”

“ Oh, it’s a fine enough name for most people, but you have to admit that ‘Wallace’ is a bit of an underwhelming moniker for a man as incandescent and iridescent as Monsieur Mikuri.” The duke’s smile returns, though instead of putting the geologist at ease, it makes the strange disquiet all the stronger. “ It wasn’t until I met him that I truly understood why so many artists and writers choose different names to mark their work. Wallace doesn’t suit the person Mikuri is at all.”

Wallace is his name, though, Steven barely bites himself back from saying. Mikuri is the name he chose to protect himself from this place and his clients. It’s the name he wants to throw away once he leaves the Moulin Rouge. He doesn’t want to be Mikuri. He isn’t Mikuri.

Does Siebold know that, however–and would Wallace even want him to know that? After all, the courtesan has made it clear that the duke is a client and nothing more, so he likely prefers that Siebold calls him by his work name in the first place. If the duke wants to call the courtesan Mikuri, and if Wallace wants the same, then there’s no harm to it.

Right?

“ Well,” Duke Siebold continues, oblivious to Steven’s internal debate, “ regardless of what name he uses, it’s clear to me that you, too, can see how Mikuri is a gemstone smothered in roughage. The illustrious chairman’s entire enterprise would crumple were it not for him. While I have considerably more faith in the theater project–especially thanks to your writing and the expertise of your companions–it would not shine without Mikuri’s involvement. It will fly no matter what, yes, but Mikuri will make it soar.”

Steven nods. “ I agree. His talent is exceptional. Yet, if you want me to keep an eye on him for you, I take it you suspect that something is amiss.”

“ Not necessarily at the moment.” Siebold sighs and knocks some more ash off of his cigarette. “ I’ll be frank with you, Monsieur Tsuwabuki: I don’t trust Rose Quintrell any further than I can throw him. I don’t trust that a man as oily and odious as he would simply let someone as wonderful as Mikuri slip through his fingers–especially since he, too, is aware that his fortunes are tied to him. I would not have even considered his offer had he not offered Mikuri to me in the first place. You only relinquish a gift such as him by having your fingers pried off.”

“ I see.” Steven doesn’t, and his palms itch, but he says so anyway. He hates this. He hates this conversation. He hates the smell of cigarette smoke. He hates how he and the duke seem to be thinking about the same person in two entirely different ways. “ You suspect Rose will violate the terms of your contract while you’re away at the league.”

“ Yes. At the very least, I worry that he’ll try to squeeze a few high paying customers through Mikuri’s doors while I’m occupied with my duties as an Elite Four.” At Steven’s puzzled head tilt, he elaborates: “ Part of our arrangement is that from today onward, Mikuri shares his bed with myself and no other, even though the club will remain open in its current form for one more week.”

The durants return to the champion’s stomach. “ I see.”

“ Even after the club is closed, private clients can always be arranged, and I don’t trust a man such as Rose to not squeeze as much profit out of him as possible while he still can.” The duke rolls his shoulders and stubs out his cigarette on the lamp post as the sound of wingbeats fills the air. “ The champion gauntlet will take a minimum of two months and a maximum of three. This is Quintrell’s last opportunity to maximize his investment–which is why, if you’re in agreement, I would like you to watch Mikuri until I return from the league.”

“ Watch him?”

“ Yes. Stay close to him and keep watch so that no one dares pull any shenanigans–especially the illustrious chairman.” Siebold drops his cigarette to the sidewalk and crushes it under his shoe as he pockets his holder. The wingbeats grow louder, and Steven sees a talonflame carriage crest over some nearby apartment buildings before beginning its slow descent, taking time to align with the street and make sure it’s clear for landing. “ It should be an easy enough task to complete; after all, not only will you two be working closely together as writer and lead actor, but his room is on the other end of your floor. I can’t think of a more perfect arrangement.”

A perfect arrangement.

Steven’s eyes widen slightly as the pieces finally click into a complete puzzle, and when they do, he has to grab onto his wrists to keep from flapping in excitement. He takes advantage of Siebold’s preoccupation with watching the carriage land to risk a single rock onto his heels then wildly spins his rings. Again, the duke doesn’t notice, so he spins them faster. And faster.

Of course. Siebold is exactly right.

Keeping an eye on Wallace means staying close to him. Accompanying him to his shows and sitting backstage to watch him during his musical numbers. Waiting for him to finish so they can walk back to the hotel together. After the club closes for renovations, it means accompanying him to rehearsals once the stage is built, maybe even carrying his typewriter with him so he can write while the other man performs. Lingering within ear and eyeshot whenever he interacts with the staff from the Moulin Rouge. Rayquaza’s whiskers, the duke has barely interacted with the troupe as a whole, so it would mean sticking by his side during their hotel interactions as well. Spending time in Wallace’s room or Wallace in his room? The geologist is simply following the duke’s orders and the courtesan is pleasantly complying with the wishes of his patron. It would be innocent. Completely innocent and reasonable.

It will be an utterly perfect arrangement. For two months, they’ll have to be as close as possible, and the troupe and the club will swallow their excuse without question out of fear of angering their benefactor. Steven couldn’t have come up with a better ruse himself. Maybe Wallace could have, because Wallace dances around everyone else in terms of cleverness, but Steven isn’t going to even pretend to be half as quick as him.

Perfect. It’s perfect.

“ I understand completely, Duke Siebold,” Steven says. While he doesn’t want to appear elated by the idea, he does want to convey that he’s eager and willing, so he gives the duke a small smile and half bow when he turns his attention back to him. “ Fear not; it would be my pleasure to assist you by watching over Monsieur Wallace in your absence, and I can assure you that he’ll be in good hands.”

Siebold seems a bit taken aback, and at first Steven worries he’s overplayed his hand, maybe coming off as too eager to care for Wallace for a general desire to be pleasant and helpful. His turmoil only lasts a few seconds, however, because Siebold relaxes and smiles with what appears to be genuine gratitude as the carriage touches down in the street in front of them.

“ You have my thanks, Monsieur Tsuwabuki,” he says with a half bow of his own. “ No matter who you are or where you came from, it’s good to have someone I can trust in this outfit–educated and with an eye for quality. I assure you, once I return, I’ll find a way to repay your magnanimity."

“ No need, Duke Siebold; it’s my pleasure to help ensure a smooth and flawless production, for all of our sakes.”

“ Still, your kindness will be repaid, so long as Monsieur Mikuri is untouched when I return.”

The discomfort returns, only this time it spreads from Steven’s palms and stomach to the rest of his skin, making him want to squirm and scratch. He’s overreacting. Why is he overreacting?

“ My thanks.” Steven’s fingers find his rings in lieu of grabbing at his clothing. “ Have a safe journey, Duke Siebold, and good luck with the gauntlet.” He almost wants to ask him to say hello to Diantha for him–having been told by her late last week that she, too, would be absent for the gauntlet–but he can’t think of a non-suspicious excuse as to how he knows her. “ How many challengers will you have this year?”

Siebold opens the door to the carriage and pauses to look back at Steven. “ It varies…but I’ve heard from the top gym leader, Wulfric, that this year had unusually robust challengers.” He shakes his head in frustration. “ Under normal circumstances, I would celebrate the chance for a challenge of my own, but this year…”

“ Of course. Your time and attention are being pulled in different directions.” An idea strikes Steven. “ Why not write letters to Monsieur Mikuri while you’re at the league? It may help you feel less restless and more confident about being away from the Moulin Rouge for so long.”

…and less prone to suspicion, the champion silently adds.

“ Mikuri did mention that he would enjoy a letter from me,” the duke muses aloud, tapping his chin with the index finger of the hand not gripping the doorframe of the carriage. “ I wrote it off as a mere pleasantry, given how busy his days will be, however…”

“ I’m sure Monsieur Wallace would enjoy the chance to get to know his patron.” As would I.

Siebold closes his eyes and thinks for a few seconds. Then, he nods and opens them again, giving Steven a curt nod. “ I will think about this matter in the days to come. Now I must be off. Again, you have my gratitude, Monsieur Tsuwabuki. I hope the actors and the underworld don’t drive you mad in the weeks to come.”

Steven shrugs–because who knows at this point–and watches as Siebold enters the carriage and closes the door behind him. There’s a knock on the window behind the cabbie from inside of the carriage a few seconds later, and with a click of her tongue and a snap of her fingers, the half-dozen talonflame take to the sky with their human cargo. Once it disappears behind the taller building to the west, the band of tension that had wrapped itself around Steven’s chest loosens all at once, and he throws out his arm to brace against the lamp post as his body sags with relief and exhaustion. He rests his forehead against the cool metal, closes his eyes, and takes a moment to simply breathe.

Gods. Gods. He feels like he’s just given a presentation in front of the board of directors, only instead of thirteen inscrutable men and women and his grandfather’s cold disapproval, his audience was the man who holds Wallace’s fate (and dreams) in his hands. At least he didn’t choke up, and at least he was able to convince Siebold of his sincerity, which was aided by the fact that he didn’t have to lie a single time. Not really. Omitting the truth is one thing. Giving a partial truth is another. Lying is something else altogether. Steven hates lying, and his body and face never let him forget it, imploding any attempt at delivering a pure falsehood within a few sentences. Leaning on what truth he can and dodging around the rest is the only way he can pull it off.

It’s over. It’s over, he was successful, and he and Wallace now have at least two uninterrupted months to love each other without fear.

With the gold sunset now completely overtaken by the darkening twilight, the gas streetlights flicker to life, and Steven can hear dwarf and small mothim flying out of the bushes and trees that line the street to flutter around the glass-covered mantle above him. He can even hear a few bumping into the glass–resulting in petulant clicking–and the sounds both make him laugh and galvanize him to finally push off the post and make his way back inside the hotel.

Arceus is a merciful god, because there’s no one in the lobby aside from AZ and Floette, the former of whom looks up when Steven enters. The geologist gives the man a weary nod before moving to make for the stairs.

“ Monsieur Tsuwabuki.”

Steven winces, and as polite as he is, he can’t help but think ‘what now?’ as he turns to face the front desk. “ Yes?”

“ For you.” AZ glances out the front windows—as if checking for something (or someone)—before reaching underneath the counter and pulling out a key with a teal silk ribbon tied around the loop at the end. He slides it across the counter towards him and smiles when Steven cocks his head in confusion. “ The spare key to Monsieur Wallace’s room. I gave him the spare to yours while we were preparing tea.”

“ Ah, yes, of course!” Steven’s sluggish brain perks back to life at the reminder, and he ignores AZ’s amused chuckle as he snatches it off the counter like a child grabbing a free sweet, taking a moment to rub the smooth ribbon between his fingers. “ Is this new?”

AZ hums. “ To help you tell it apart from your own. The color is the closest I had to his hair and eyes.”

“ It’s quite accurate. My thanks.” Steven shoves the key into his coat pocket but hesitates with his hand still inside. “ Ah, but…you told the duke that it’s against hotel policy to have a key to another room you haven’t rented. I don’t want to get you in trouble with the exception.”

“ There is no rule.”

The champion blinks. “ There…isn’t?”

” No. There is not.” With that, AZ picks up his newspaper and leans back in his chair, propping his legs on the edge of the counter as he flips through the pages. “ Have a relaxing evening, Monsieur Tsuwabuki; I will inform anyone who is not Monsieur Wallace that you are not to be disturbed.”

“ Ah…yes, of course. Bonne nuit, Monsieur AZ.” Steven would normally want to ask further questions, but given that he’s mentally teetering on the tightrope of being able to function, he settles for absently patting a satisfied Floette’s head before heading across the lobby.

Mercifully, Steven encounters no guests as he reaches the stairwell, nor as he wearily ascends the two flights of stairs to the third floor. The hallway leading to his room is also empty, which is a bit of a surprise, because he wouldn’t have put it past Burgh or Brassius to literally sit next to his door until his return. Maybe they realized he was exhausted and very much not in the mood to have a heart-to-heart about his business acumen. Maybe they’re exhausted themselves. Or maybe they’re reading through the countless edits to the contract to understand what he actually negotiated–after all, Marshal, Valerie, and the girls have almost certainly returned by now. Steven will have to help walk them through it tomorrow.

Not tonight, though. Definitely not tonight. Not when he feels like his brain will cut off his ability to speak if he’s addressed by anyone that’s not Wallace.

The lights are off and the Illumise has seemingly taken advantage of the open window to go foraging. There are several bits of oran and sitrus berry in her makeshift bed that hadn’t been there when Steven had departed the night before, and he adds a few pinap berries to the mix as he arranges her wooden box of a bed on the balcony’s small table, not wanting her to go hungry while she’s locked out. He feels a bit bad, but the geologist is already teetering on the edge of a migraine, and her natural pulsing light would tip him over the edge. He adds an extra towel and gazes out at the copperajah before closing the doors, locking them tight, and covering them with the blackout curtains that AZ had so helpfully provided upon his request.

Darkness. Stillness. Silence. Only the smallest sliver of light slips through the crack beneath the hallway door. Steven goes to engage the deadbolt, hesitates, and decides against it. Wallace might want to come in after his show–though, given how late he works and how they haven’t had a chance to work out sleeping arrangements, it’s not likely. He didn’t even get to go shopping for him because of fucking Burgh being a fucking pureile, reckless idiot who would have fucked over everyone who relies on him because he was too cheap to pool together money to hire a litigator for four hours.

Unfair? Yes. Mean. Absolutely. Will Steven regret thinking such things tomorrow? Without a doubt. Right now, though, holding back his thoughts and feelings will just push his already fizzy brain to the point of bursting. So he lets himself be petulant and pampered as he releases Aron from her pokeball, sets the others on his bedside table, and grabs his pajamas from the hook behind the bathroom door.

Steven showers in darkness (briefly, just enough to get clean, and with tepid water). He brushes his teeth (with the smallest amount of toothpaste needed for cleanliness) in darkness. He takes pain medication in darkness (and washes it down with more tepid water). Above him, he can hear footsteps and the faintest murmurs of conversation, but AZ had taken it upon himself to further reinforce the patch on his ceiling during his absence, so none of it is overwhelming or even coherent. He puts on his nightclothes, throws his day wear in the direction of the wardrobe, and crawls into bed.

There’s a heavy, coarse covering that’s folded and tucked beneath his bed for this very moment, and Aron has already grabbed the corner in her jaws and pulled it into his reach. With fond coos and kisses, he pulls it over his duvet cover, taking care to make sure the rough edges don’t come anywhere near his bare skin. The weight almost immediately melts him into a hazy puddle, and Aron doesn’t even need to be commanded to climb onto his back the second he turns to lay on his belly. He feels compressed, compact, stable, and safe; and he’s asleep before his sweet girl even finishes lying down.

Steven’s sleep is dark and dreamless, and when he wakes up an unknown amount of time later, he feels like a human rather than a volcano about to erupt. Aron’s weight on his back is now causing his torso to feel uncomfortably hot from where it’s pressed against the mattress, and he bats her off and encourages her to lie next to him, which she does with a sleepy squonk and nuzzle. There are voices coming from the hallway–quiet but clear–and as he rolls onto his side and pulls her into his arms, his brain begins to catch up with the words.

“He owes you nothing–absolutely nothing–yet he’s giving his time, energy, and time spent in his actual field of employment for you and your troupe. Yet you have the gall to stand here and make demands at this time of night? Shame on you.”

The champion’s eyes fly open as his arms tighten involuntarily around Aron, who–being a steel type–is completely unfazed. Is that…Wallace?

“ And you have the gall to expect me to not want answers?!” Burgh’s biting anger comes next. “ He swept in and negotiated our very livelihoods without so much as a hello or a request for consent!”

“ Because I called for him.” Wallace’s words lash out like an ekans striking from the tall grass. “ I’m the one who fetched him, because I knew you know just as much as I do when it comes to the legalities of your profession, which is next to nothing.”

“ How dare you assume you know anything about–!”

“ If you wake him, I will kill you.”

Silence. Aron squirms in concern as she feels her master’s heart hammering frantically against his chest.

“ Was I correct or was I not?” Wallace asks. There is now a threat in his voice–silken and sharp–and there’s another moment of hesitation before Burgh answers.

“...correct or not, I have a right to know just who’s leading around our troupe by the nose.” Burgh’s voice, while passionate, has considerably mellowed in volume. “ My family by the nose. First he’s writing our play, and now he’s writing our contracts? Without asking for a hint of input?”

“ Would you have had anything worthwhile to add?”

Burgh chokes. “ How dare you–!”

“ No, how dare you.”

There’s the sound of heels clicking on the wooden floor–Wallace–and a flatter shoe taking a step back. Then, once again, silence.

“ Monsieur Tsuwabuki didn’t even want to write your fucking play.” The threat has escalated into a warning. “ Or did Monsieur Grimsley not mention the fact that he swapped Mademoiselle Shauntal’s play with his unfinished and personal story with him completely unawares?”

There’s a sharp intake of breath.

“...no, he did not.” Burgh finally answers. The artist’s tone seems to smooth and soften as Wallace’s sharpens and hardens. “ I was…unaware of that fact. Shauntal did not mention that fact last night, only that she was to act as Monsieur Tsuwabuki’s co-writer, and that they’d worked it out beforehand–”

“--because she was embarrassed, you fantastic idiot!” Wallace cuts him off. “ She was embarrassed and humiliated, as was Steven; and frankly, he had every right to walk out of my room that night and tell you and your gaggle of artistes to go fuck yourselves. But he didn’t. He didn’t because he is too godsdamned nice for his own good, and I will not let you forget it.”

Burgh chokes. Steven clutches Aron to his chest with the ferocity of a security blanket as his face burns and his already sticky lips dry further.

“...I was unaware of that, Monsieur Wallace–”

“ That’s Monsieur Mikuri to you. You don’t have the right to call me by my real name.”

There are two more clicks of heels against wood.

“ I have not signed the contract yet.”

“ What do you–?”

“ I mean exactly what I say. I have not signed the contract yet, and if you take one step further down this hallway, I never will.”

It seems to take a moment for Burgh to put two and two together, and when he does, he gasps. “ You can’t be serious.”

“ Do you want to find out?” A heel steps forward. A flat shoe steps back. “ Go on. Take another step, if you’re such a big, brave, and tough man.”

There is no further movement from the hallway.

“ Oh, don’t tell me that you’re frightened of little old me: an uneducated courtesan who only knows how to bat his lashes, smear his lipstick, and lie for a living. Or did you not say that last night?”

Steven’s bewilderment is quickly replaced by anger at the sound of Burgh’s shivering intake of air. It’s only Wallace clearly wanting him to still be asleep that keeps him from leaping out of bed and throwing the door open. Near meltdown who?

“ How did you…?”

“ Marshal wanted to warn me about the challenges I would face when working with my fellow actors.” There’s a defeated heaviness to Wallace’s voice that makes Steven’s chest ache. “ Apparently you and Monsieur Grimsley had quite a lively conversation about me during your party last night.”

“ I…I was very drunk, Monsieur…Mikuri.”

“ Drunk words are sober thoughts, are they not?”

“ No!” Burgh now takes a stumbling step forward as his alarm rings in Steven’s still-sensitive ears. “ No, not in this case! He was ranting and raving about you and I just wanted him to shut up and stop bringing down the mood and I was far more drunk than I usually am when I celebrate; so I thought that if I indulged him–!”

“ Stop.”

Burgh does.

“ If you want to apologize to me, do it tomorrow, and do it at a respectable hour.” Wallace’s voice has the finality of a door closing. “ If you wish to ask Monsieur Tsuwabuki questions about your contract, then ask them tomorrow, and at a respectable hour. I am going to hold off on signing my own contract until sunset tomorrow. All three of those statements are related to each other. Do we have an understanding?”

There’s another few seconds of silence, followed by a sniff, then the choke of a muffled sob. Is Burgh crying?

“ Pathetic.” Wallace all but spits out the word. “ Cry into your pillow and become a better person in the morning. Now, do we have an understanding, or do we not?”

Another voice speaks up then. Hassel. Has he been there the whole time? “ We do, Monsieur Mikuri. Correct, Burgh?”

Another snuffling choke. Then, wetly and warbling: “ We do…Monsieur Mikuri.”

“ Good. Now leave.”

There’s the sound of one pair of flat shoes stumbling over themselves as they all but run down the hallway. No one else speaks or moves until they fade completely.

“ I cannot tell you how sorry I am, Monsieur Mikuri,” Hassel murmurs. “ I can assure you, for myself and Brassius, that nothing like this will happen again.”

“ I value actions, not words.” Nonetheless, Wallace’s tone has brightened in a blink, and he even claps his hands together. “ I will accept and appreciate your apology, however, and wish you a pleasant night…or early morning, I suppose.”

“ You as well, Monsieur Mikuri.”

“ There’s no need for that. Wallace will be acceptable from you.”

Hassel chuckles. “ Noted. In that case, bonne nuit, Monsieur Wallace.”

“ A bientôt, Monsieur Hassel.”

A second and final pair of flat shoes turns and walks down the hallway. Once they’re gone, Wallace sighs heavily, and Steven’s bones ache along with his body at the exhaustion in that one exhale. His still sluggish mind is trying to process everything he’s just heard, but the one thing he understands completely is that Wallace was defending him, and it’s a realization that leaves him reeling. What time is it? How long was he asleep? Has the club closed completely for the night or did Wallace return immediately after his routine? Did he go back to his own room or come straight here–to Steven’s room? Their room.

Wallace was defending me, he thinks again, and the surge of love worry confusion anger confusion love love love he feels has the champion desperately clutching Aron to his chest as his anchor against the tide. Her armor is cool, smooth, and rebuffing; and her little snout and tongue are gentle points of pressure against his cheeks and chin. His mind quiets and centers. He’s still confused, but oh, he now feels so much love that he doesn’t know what to do with it.

He defended me.

It makes no sense. The fact that he genuinely feels like he may start crying makes no sense. True, he did only just bring himself back from the brink of a meltdown, but such a visceral reaction to something so simple is atypical even for his current state. He has spent his life well-loved and endlessly wanted by his family. He never lacked physical or emotional affection. For Rayquaza’s sake, his father punched his grandfather in the face in front of the board of directors to protect him, and he’s crumpling like paper over some strong words? What is wrong with him? It’s not like he’s been doubting the strength of Wallace’s affections!

Has he?

The sound of a key in the lock jolts Steven back to reality, and he hurriedly squeezes his eyes shut and burrows his face into the pillow, knowing that Wallace very much wants him to still be asleep. The door opens, then closes with care, and heeled shoes take a few steps into the room before stopping.

Steven waits, and waits, and waits. Finally, Wallace sighs, and the champion can hear the tell tale slide of a hand against face.

“ What am I even doing here?” Wallace whispers to himself. “ It’s too late for this. I should just…go sleep in my own room for the night. Yes. I’ll speak to him in the morning.”

The heels shift on the floorboards, and Steven bolts to sitting before he can stop himself, with Aron squeaking in surprise as she’s brought along for the ride.

“ Don’t go!”

Wallace freezes, sucking in a breath, and Steven can just make out his silhouette in the pitch black darkness of the room as he slowly turns away from the door and back towards the bed.

“ Oh, goodness me, Steven,” Wallace finally says. “ Please tell me that we didn’t wake you.”

Steven shakes his head and moves to set his squirming pokemon on the floor as Wallace takes a tentative step towards the bed. “ No, I…Aron was sleeping on my back, and sometimes it gets too hot for me to tolerate, which wakes me up. I just…happened to hear you talking when I did.”

“ Grand. Absolutely grand.” Wallace grumbles. “ What a nightmare this is. I’m going to shave all of that man’s hair the moment I see him again and sell it to a wigmaker.”

The mental image of a bald Burgh draws a chuckle out of Steven. “ You want him to whine at us more, Wallace?”

The courtesan laughs as well. “ Fair point, my dear. I suppose we should pick our battles going forward.” He sighs and shifts on his feet, and when he speaks again, it’s impossible to miss the fatigue in his voice. “ I’m sorry. I…I know that we should have finished discussing our sleeping arrangements before I simply let myself into your room, and it’s clear you’re dreadfully tired, so I’ll just go back to my room for the night and we can discuss things in the–”

“ Wallace.”

Whatever Wallace was going to say next dies on his lips. “ Steven?”

The champion slides over to the right side of the bed, throws open the covers on the left, and pats the mattress.

“ It’s our room. Remember?” Steven chides fondly. “ It’s our room, which makes this our bed, so you don’t have to ask permission to sleep in our bed. All you have to do is lock the door and come lay down.”

Steven doesn’t need to see to know that Wallace is probably worrying his lower lip as he thinks, and he’s happy to wait for his beloved to sort out his thoughts, knowing that he has nothing else to do other than fall back asleep–preferrably, with the other man in his bed and arms.

“ Are you…are you sure, darling?” Wallace finally asks.

“ I’m sure.” Steven nods, remembers that the other man can’t actually see the action, and coughs awkwardly. “ Please, Wallace; come to bed…that is, if you’re ready. After all, you likely need to return to your room to shower and change–”

“ No need, dear.” The courtesan sighs and relents, and Steven can hear the sound of him taking…something off, then throwing it on what sounds like the nearest chair. The sound of heels being set aside–possibly under the same chair–is next. “ I figured you were asleep, since I didn’t see your light on when I left, so I took the opportunity to make use of my actual room. You were right about the cleanliness, Steven, and the excellent water pressure; and the tub is actually larger than the one in the copperajah! It was only my distaste for keeping you waiting that kept me from making full use of it. Do you think the one in here is as large?”

Steven can’t keep the smile off his face at the excitement in Wallace’s voice. He sounds for all the world like he’s spending his first night in a luxury apartment rather than a clean room in a shoddy hotel. Tomorrow. He’ll buy him sweet things tomorrow. Comfortable pajamas. Warm slippers. A new pillow. Oh, maybe even a silk pillowcase; Cynthia once mentioned that silk pillowcases are better for hair and skin than other coarser fabrics. He doesn’t know exactly why it’s better, but what he does know is that his beloved has sensitive skin and a tender scalp, and his hair is smooth and glossy. Silk is best for silk.

“ Steven?”

Oh. Right. Wallace is literally in front of him–or was, given that he can now hear him walking to the opposite side of the bed. The soft padding of his bare feet compared to the staccato click of his heels reminds Steven of how a downpour inevitably calms into a drizzle. Gods, he’s still so tired, and he wants nothing more than to curl up with his lover and not have to think about anything at all.

“ I’m not sure. I haven’t seen the other rooms–I mean, not in detail.” Steven yawns and rubs the back of his head as the bed dips next to him. “ Did you confront Burgh in your pajamas?”

“ Yes, but not that he could tell; I threw on a long coat and put on some shoes before coming to find you.” Wallace swings his legs the rest of the way onto the bed and gasps when his hand comes into contact with the burlap-like blanket on top of the duvet. “ That way, if I ran into one of the guests, I could lie and say I was going out for a stroll. What on earth is this, Steven?”

“ Ah…well…” Steven blanks, hums, and scrambles for words that don’t make him sound insane. “ I…when I get overwhelmed, like I’ve told you about, the extra weight…calms me down. Makes me feel like I can fit into my skin.” He winces. “ My body. All of me.”

“ Oh. Oh. I see.” Wallace’s tone immediately switches from concerned to curious, and Steven wants to cry with relief as he hears him smoothing both of his hands over the blanket, even though it must feel awful on his sensitive skin. “ Yes, this is considerably heavier than a normal comforter, isn’t it?” There’s a shift as he slides his legs under the covers and pulls the blankets over them. “ Ah! It does provide a feeling of compression, doesn’t it? Like shoving yourself into a too small sleeping sack.”

“ I suppose,” Steven says, remaining seated even as Wallace settles completely beneath the covers. Aron, now relegated to the floor, has curled up at the foot of the bed and is now snuffling in her sleep. “ I can take it off if it’s too heavy for you.”

“ Not at all. It’s actually quite a pleasant sensation.” Wallace sounds so content that Steven can’t find it in him to argue. “ Though I have to admit that it’s a poor substitute for your arms. Come here, Steven.”

Wallace reaches for him, and Steven yields bonelessly into his touch, allowing the other man to guide him down and over before pulling the covers up to the curve of his shoulders. The bed is so much warmer with Wallace there, and as the two wrap their arms around each other and burrow close, Steven thinks he finally knows what it means to be completely enfolded. He presses his lips against Wallace’s neck and melts.

“ I had a conversation with the duke before he left.” Steven murmurs sleepily. “ He asked me to keep an eye on you.”

“ An eye on me?” Wallace scoffs into Steven’s hair. “ And he asked you to watch me? From who? Or what? And why?”

The champion shrugs. “ I’ll tell you in the morning. What time is it?”

“ Almost two in the morning. The club’s about to close.” The courtesan presses a kiss to his temple before rolling him so that his weight is draped almost completely over the shorter man’s body, and oh, weight upon weight. Steven may die and go straight to Xerneas’s forest. “ I don’t have to work so late anymore, remember? That means I have more time to spend with you.”

The thought makes Steven smile. “ I love you.”

“ I love you, too.” There’s a kiss to his collarbone, then the dip at the base of his throat, and then a contented sigh against the damp skin. “ I’ll see you in the morning, dearest.”

The morning.

Steven can’t wait, and with happiness thrumming like a second pulse in his body, he falls asleep with the world in his arms.