It was the exhibition match, the first of the season. The song of the crowd was cacophonous and ugly, that way harmony was forcefully funnelled by the sheer volume of the mass. A legion of faces—ripe with their grins, their awe, their unbridled intensity—were rendered void, naught but blotches of colour for the two that entered the field.
Milo was all smiles, the way rosy skin complimented the constellation of freckles dotting over plumped cheeks, lifting and arching his hand to a wave, enticing the crowds to shriek and whoop and cheer. Gordie, however, remained as cool and calm as ever, flashing a sidelong smirk and flicking a rogue lick of hair out of his periphery.
But the fact that it was Milo as his opponent thrust less than kind thoughts to bloat his skull.
The battle went just about as Gordie anticipated. Milo was capable of a lot, but he was so soft, so gentle. He’d rather have fun than go all-out. Though almost tripped at certain, crucial points, Gordie ran Milo’s team into the ground. After the debris settled from the final, explosive conclusion, they exchanged a handshake and returned whence they’d came: the locker room. The crowd’s cries grew muted behind closed doors.
“That was a great match, Gordie!” Milo had chirped. “Always can trust you to catch me off guard; though it's fun to fight toe-to-toe like this with you.”
A glare was shot. “Okay,” came Gordie’s response. For something so quick, it wielded all the fatality of driving a sword down unto a fallen enemy; spat out, tongue curling sharp and sour around the ‘k’. And by Arceus, the way Milo nigh recoiled, the way his verdant-green eyes averted and he tugged awkwardly at his scarf, Gordie felt like he’d kicked a puppy.
A yappy puppy, but a puppy nevertheless.
But there something woven deep down in Gordie’s mind that lurched skyward, thrashing and kicking and usurping his thoughts with a vice-like grip and spurring them to sour once more: that’s what he wants you to think, came a hiss, curling around the coils of his eardrum, tickling ire and venom like wood cast unto flame.
“Right … I'm … sorry if I said something out of place.” Meek, unbecoming of a man his size. “I'll see you around, then.”
Gordie left without another word.
It was a few days after the match. Gordie had to hustle his way down the platform to reach the train in time; Arceus forbid, if he had to wait two hours for the next one to roll up there’d be hell to pay. The conductor cupped labour-worn hands around her mouth, beckoning the final wave of stragglers for the 10am trip to Hammerlocke.
Gordie managed to just squeeze in.
The train was bustling. More than he’d actually anticipated for the ride this early on in the day. The man squeaked by booth after booth, each one brimming with passengers that were already a flurry in chatter and gossip. Few people caught sight of Gordie and nudged their neighbour, awe flooding many a face and phones snapping candid shots as he passed by. White seared his sight clean away, flash after flash. His eyes winced; his brows furrowed.
He continued his hunt for a vacant spot.
And when he happened upon one, he wished he’d simply stood in the carriage prior. He shoved his travel bag underneath the table that erected betwixt the two seats, and rather than ask if he could assume the seat, he simply did.
And was face-to-face with Milo.
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