#oneshot;

[silverfates]

Il est quatre heures du matin. La zone de combat va à présent être cloturée. Nous vous remercions de votre participation à la Z-A Royale.

About as soon as the red holographic gate disappeared, Lorenz walked out, a hand in his pocket, a heavyset Diggersby following after him. Not too far from the entrance of the Battle Zone, he heard footsteps coming his way.

"Alors, les combats ?" A blue-haired, lanky girl asked in Kalosian, before continuing in Lorenz's own native tongue: "How did it go?"

She tossed a bottle of water at Lorenz's face, which he easily caught. He was used to this at this point.

"No promotion this time. The other guy didn't get his Challenge Ticket. Thanks Soph."

They began walking back. As they waited at a pedestrian light, Sophie looked at the summary of last night's battles with her Holo Caster.

"You know, you don't have to battle every night if you are waiting on a promotion."

"My bedtime's always 6 am anyway." Lorenz answered, deadpan as ever. "Though I guess the competition at this rank almost managed to put me to sleep. But hey, I don't get paid that much for entertaining amateurs in Johto."

"If you don't take the next night off for yourself, do it for Tacchi, please? I'm glad he's having fun with you, but this many all-nighters can't be good for him."

The Diggersby let out a grave squeak, hopping forward to nuzzle the woman's arm as quiet reassurance. She scratched him between the ears, as she'd always done since he was a Bunnelby.

They crossed the road and continued their way to the North Boulevard. One wouldn't be able to tell it was only the crack of dawn, with all the night Noctowls and the early Pidoves crossing path in this lively mess of a capital.

They had almost reached their destination when Lorenz suddenly froze in place. Sophie made a few more steps before realizing he wasn't following. She looked back at him, his expression unreadable behind his dark glasses.

"What's wrong?" She asked.

"Sorry, it's Spec. He got out of my shadow." He turned toward the direction where he still felt the heat-sucking presence of his ghostly companion. "Can you tell me what he's up to?"

Sophie looked ahead. The Gengar was not too far from the two of them levitating a few feet off the ground, staring up at the building towering over that side of the Boulevard.

"He seems interested in the Art Museum."

Lorenz went after him, quickly followed by Sophie and Tacchi. Spec was floating low enough that he could reach up and caress the warm fuzz of the side of his face. The Gengar let out a puzzled little groan, which to Lorenz was cause for some concern. He was never this tense usually...

"Hey, what's wrong?"

"Maybe it's the photo on the facade that caught his eye?" Sophie chimed in, before remembering Lorenz and couldn't see. She read out loud: "Hercule Lavaillance, l'ouverture vers le monde."

"Not familiar I'm afraid."

"That's the ambassador that helped restore the cathedral that became the HQ of our League. There's his daughter next to him, in a kimono, with a Pikachu. You know, he was Kalosian, but his wife was Kantoite!"

After a slight wince at the mention of a Pikachu, Lorenz couldn't hold back a brief snort. He ruffled Spec's fur,

"Really? You saw a pretty lady from our stomping grounds and got homesick? Is that it, bud?"

Spec remained unresponsive. He continued to quietly stare at the enlarged photograph above the museum's gate. Lorenz couldn't see his face, but his partner's silent was enough for him to get the hint of a deep, incomprehensible melancholy.

Lo kept gently caressing his Pokémon, as he turned toward Sophie.

"How about we get a tour when it opens? For once that I got cash to burn."

"If you don't sleep through the entire day again, sure." She sneered.

"Would that be alright with you?" He asked his Pokémon.

Spec finally let out a little growl and turned toward his human. Without any other noise, he buried his face against his chest. Lorenz returned the embrace.

"Yeah. I'm sure you'll find what you're looking for in there, partner."

[marlowavery]

A light sheen of sweat trickled down Avery’s neck, dripping past the collar of his shirt, damp and unsettling. He squirmed uncomfortably in his seat – a sticky stool that he’d been hastily ushered onto by his boss, a thin layer of napkins swiped from the bar protecting his trousers from being completely ruined. His hands were clasped in his lap, none of his surroundings feeling like an especially safe space to place them. He felt out of sorts, surrounded by the sweat and grime of clubbers, the scent of marijuana strong in the air. Smoke seemed to waft from every direction, filling his senses and making his stomach turn. Didn’t the patrons and bartenders here know it was illegal to smoke on the premises? Perhaps they simply didn’t care.  

In any other scenario, they might have been on the receiving end of a very strongly worded email from Avery come morning, but that couldn’t be the case here. The place was obviously a health and safety violation to the highest order, but it wouldn’t be a great look for him. How could he possibly explain why he was here? A gay club in the heart of The Village was not the sort of place a Langdon should be seen. It was deeply inappropriate, and a complete disregard of the core family values his father had instilled in them all. 

But Avery had always been ambitious, had he not? His father had expected it of him. He’d worked them all to the bone as children, had whittled away at any childish hopes and dreams and crushed their whimsy beneath his boot. Avery had married young, the perfect little housewife that could cook and clean for him, be a kept woman and tend to his every needs. Their needs had never been the same, of course. The sex had been unenjoyable for the both of them, their conversations clipped and brief on the best of days. They’d slept in separate bedrooms, only ever putting on a charade whenever Avery’s father came to stay. His ambition had driven him to a well-respected University with a plaque above his door, his name etched into it, a perfectly fine show of his achievements.  

But he hadn’t gotten to where he was on merit alone, had he? He hadn’t worked his way to the top, hadn’t impressed the school board with his charm and charisma, hadn’t talked his way through the interview process by proving his intellect and likeability factor. 

No, he’d bottled his interview. His suit crumpled, the rims of his eyes red-raw from sleep deprivation and an overabundance of pain meds, his hand trembling as he’d anxiously etched markings into the edge of the desk he’d been seated at. Nails jagged, some too long, others chewed down to the bit, he’d been a total mess. He was not the man his father had raised, but a shell of a human, scrambling for recognition, begging to be desired. The Chancellor had found him just an hour later, hunched over the sink in the faculty bathroom, soaked with sweat and willing away the twitch that had burrowed itself behind his left eye. Avery had tried to pull himself together, had tried to plaster on a warm smile for the man, had been desperate to grip onto any semblance of hope that might be out there. 

Chancellor Spencer had offered him an ultimatum, the possibility to take on the position he’d seemingly just blown his chance at. Avery’s chest had ached with something he couldn’t put a name to – was he happy? Hopeful? Devastated? – as he’d nodded politely, insisted he’d do anything. He was desperate, it was true, but he’d never known the lengths of his desperation until that moment. He hadn’t anticipated the way he’d dropped to his knees just moments later, the cubicle door swinging shut behind him as he’d fumbled for the Chancellor’s belt, tugging it loose and pulling down the other man’s trousers, exposing him. He hadn’t anticipated the bile that had risen up in the back of this throat a mere half an hour later, the weight of the other man’s appendage like a phantom at the back of his throat. He could’ve never known that the months following would’ve led him to be seated in a grimy, sticky nightclub with the very same man, both self-proclaimed heterosexual men. He had no leverage here, no ability to say no or put his foot down. He was nothing but a pawn in this man’s game. 

His fingernails sunk deep into the back of his hands, crescent moons tattooing his skin as he ignored the bustle of bodies around him. He felt shoulders brush his own, kept his head low as effeminate men asked if he was single, asked if he was looking for some fun. None of this was fun, none of it was right. A wave of nausea knocked him sideways as he suddenly sprung up from his stool, hip clumsily colliding with the Chancellor’s knee, jolting him out of the conversation he’d been having with a man far younger than was publicly deemed acceptable.  

Minutes had rolled by before Avery made it into the oppressive bathroom, tiny and suffocating as he launched himself into a stall, head bowed over the toilet bowl. 

[silverfates]

The pool was fairly narrow, it really was more of a slippery runway than a proper rink, but it gave her and Adonis enough space to skate, and that was about the only reason she went through the trouble of freezing it to begin with.

The other contestants were all still inside, no one had come yet to watch her rehearse; not that she minded, she hardly liked to be seen wearing sweatpants.

Sliding backward in a semicircle around the edge of the pool, she leaned back and let her Quaquaval grab her by the hips and spin around with her kicking the air, the floating feathers of his rump forming a hypnotic spiral that synced with the music, before he tossed her. She managed to spin through the air, but failed her landing and stumbled on the ice, she quickly raised back up.

Her Pokémon turned his beak upward, as he usually did when she was being sloppy. She resumed the routine as if nothing happened, when the music playing on her phone suddenly stopped, instead being replaced by her ringtone.

Ana stopped in her tracks, Adonis also freezing along with the music.

"Take five." She told her Pokémon. She then raised a hand toward her phone, and it near instantly floated right to her.

She looked at the screen, and smirked when she saw the name of the caller. Of course, she picked up.

"I half expected it to be Papa. But good timing. I was just thinking about you."

"Yeah, I bet your old man's not too happy about his precious daughter casually threatening his political career. Again." Her old schoolmate answered. "I don't know how you can bear being in that sort of trashy program, but, hey, it's working. You're getting people talking about you."

"Everyone loves the mysterious foreigner, don't they? Boosting my presence abroad and making my father squirm over what I may reveal is what makes it worth the trouble. At this point, I kind of doubt I will win, but my second secret is sure to make an impact."

"Yeah, well. Whatever it is, be careful, okay? Oh, speaking of... About the first round..."

"Oooh, did you actually watch it? Is that sort of material not beneath the almighty heir of the Ryuuga clan? I bet you were super into it to the point you annoyed yourself! Were any of the guys your type? You can tell me, I'll hold my tongue."

"Fuck off. But yeah, I wanted to say, your secret... That was a mean one."

Anastasie smirked, casually digging the tip of one of her skates into the ice.

"Oh, because you immediately knew which one was mine, didn't you?"

"Pfff. Of course I did, Shiva."

[silverfates]

The mirror was cracked all the way across, which he managed to notice even in the blurry void of his lessened perception. At least he himself looked presentable enough as far as he could tell. That tank top he got a few years back still suited him. And he liked having it on, during his rare visits to that Arceus-forsaken place.

Felt like it scratched an itch for some kind of twisted nostalgia.

After he felt across his jawline to see if his stubble was getting too long, his hand lingered on the hem of his bandana for a few seconds.

A stray thought came, and in a simple gesture, he pulled the whole thing over his nose, as Guzma's grunts usually did when causing mischief.

But when he squinted at his reflection again, he didn't see what he expected within it. It only struck him just how fast a decade goes by.

"You're too old for this shit."

He pulled the piece of cloth back under his chin, readjusting it to make sure the faded emblem was visible, and left the bathroom.

[marcusmixes]

Charlie had fallen asleep. 

For all intents and purposes, there was nothing strange about the image that was laid out in front of Marcus. The lights of his New York flat had been dimmed hours before, the fluorescent glare deemed to bright by the young Brit, overstimulating him as he’d tried to make himself accessible, his attention being shared by both the mixing desk in the corner of his sitting room and Charlie. The other man seemed to like joining Marcus at work, but in equal measure he seemed to enjoy his company no matter where they found themselves. It was surprising. People as loud and excitable as Charlie rarely gravitated towards Marcus, and when they did, they scarcely stuck around. 

With his curtains drawn, lights down low, and the other man’s chipper voice filling the space, it had stuck Marcus just how right it had all felt. He’d found the perfect equilibrium. Charlie contrasted him and the life that he led so drastically, yet Marcus had been drawn to him from the moment they’d met. Tentative as they’d both been – nerves had been plain on the Londoner’s features, a walking advertisement for mental illness; Charlie, on the other hand, was the polar opposite to him and yet also his mirror – the two men had managed to find a common ground in their music, their passion for it. Fear had enveloped Marcus at the prospect of approaching a strange man in the darkened night club all those months ago, and Charlie’s own uncertainty had been tucked behind all his bravado, his distrust mingled with curiosity. In that regard, they’d been two sides of the same coin. 

It was a strange sensation to feel so accepted, but that was how Charlie made people feel. He was warm and eager to let people in. As cuddly and affectionate as he was, he’d soon adjusted to Marcus and his own aversions to touch, his discomfort when faced with loud, boisterous behaviour. The other man never pretended to be something that he wasn’t, but he adapted and eased Marcus into their friendship – he hoped he could call it that, he hoped Charlie wouldn’t mind being called his friend – and had carved out a safe space for him. He’d shown no signs of mocking or teasing him, had never called him annoying or weird. 

Sufficed to say, Marcus was comfortable. And as he stared across at the other man now, it occurred to him that he’d never been comfortable before. 

So, yes, Charlie had fallen asleep, and it was altogether a strange image for Marcus to process. He wasn’t used to people staying late, and he certainly hadn’t predicted that he’d leave the room for a short time and return to... this. But it was okay, and it was nice, and he found that he didn’t want to disturb him. As partial as he was to a few drinks and a joint with the DJ, it hadn’t gone unnoticed to him that Charlie wasn’t always able to stop – or slow down, even. When he’d stopped by that afternoon his eyes had been red-raw, he’d been jittery and talking at full speed, seemingly with no desire to pause for breath. On the surface it had seemed like the other man hardly even knew how wired he was, that there was a cause for concern. Marcus had been uncertain, but ultimately he’d known he needed distracting. He’d carefully supplied him with glasses of water between cans of coke and red bull – he'd slipped away on more than one occasion to water down the caffeinated drinks, shame buried deep in his gut – and they’d poured over countless demos and new records as Charlie had come down from his high. 

Marcus had only been gone for ten minutes, slipping away to order food. By the time he’d returned, he’d stumbled upon the image before him now; Charlie, with his head slumped against the arm of the sofa, his legs curled up beneath him, hand limp as it rested at his side. In spite of how the afternoon had started, Marcus couldn’t help but smile. If sleep was what he needed, then he wouldn’t begrudge him that. He wanted him to be healthy and safe, to be taken care of and to always have somewhere he could turn. It wasn’t in anybody’s best interest for him to baby the other man, to belittle him and raise talks of cravings and addiction, but if he could draw him away from dangerous substances, distract him with art and life and laughter, then he’d try to do that. 

Charlie’s smile was warm and contagious, just like the rest of him. Whether he was stone-cold sober or wiping white powder from his nose, he never let his compulsions turn him cruel. He had kind words to say to everybody, compassion pouring from him in waves that, at times, overwhelmed Marcus in the best ways imaginable. He was love and light and warmth, and he was his friend. 

With as much care as he could muster, sock-footed and wrapped in the comfort of his own, baggy sweater, Marcus padded across the room, silent footfall against the carpet as he reached for one of the sofa cushions. His touch was gentle as his fingers grazed Charlie’s cheek, fighting off the familiar tremble as he lifted the other man’s head just a few inches higher, releasing it only when he knew there was a soft place to land. He was holding his breath, nervous that Charlie might wake, might be offended by his touch, however innocent. He didn’t stir once, even as Marcus wandered from the room, returning with a few blankets to drape across his body. 

“Goodnight, Charlie,” Marcus whispered. For the first time in years, he felt content. 

[lovesickelodie]

The bizarre thing about memory loss is that all at once you’re somehow both aware of it and not. People make sure you know that there’s something missing, that you’ve forgotten snippets of a past that is just beyond your reach, but you have no inclination as to what those things are, nor any idea as to how you can get them back. And the trouble is that forgotten memories aren’t just stolen days and the occasional minor detail – one that another person could catch you up to speed on – but entire relationships, people who could have once been your entire world, suddenly reduced to a hole in the very fabric of your mind. The flash of a smile that, just for one, fleeting moment, seems vaguely familiar; A home away from home. 

For Elodie, her accident had taken so much from her, including far more than just a couple of insignificant days. She’d lost an entire year of her life, abandoned at the bottom of a mountain – cherished moments being covered over, redecorated with a brand-new layer of snow. Even the days that Théo or her parents were present for couldn’t fully be recounted, not really. She always felt that familiar twinge in her chest as she watched her brother’s eyes light up as he recalled some long-forgotten day, excitement bubbling from lips as he flew through tangents, filling her in on every last detail that he could muster, pride shining through as he handed her a brand-new puzzle piece. Knowing about those things wasn’t the same as remembering, though, and even if her family could provide her with minute-by-minute playthroughs of those days since passed, she still couldn’t remember just how she’d felt, her very thoughts and feelings as she’d stumbled her way through each scenario. 

In truth, for the most part, she actually didn’t care. Elodie was aware of the fact that it bothered Théo; The crease of his forehead, the furrow of his brow just two of the telltale signs that he was worried about her. He thought she was distancing herself from the accident as some sort of coping mechanism, a way to shield herself from the pain of the unknown, but that wasn’t how Elodie saw it at all. To be entirely blunt, she didn’t really see much point in dwelling over things she couldn’t remember, certainly not when she couldn’t have those memories back in the first place. 

Théo had always been the more sensitive of the two, ever since they were younger. Bumps and bruises had never bothered Elodie, both of the physical and emotional variety. She had a very Can-Do attitude to life, always picking herself up and brushing herself off, ready to move past any and all bumps in the road. The only thing that ever truly bothered Elodie was seeing other people being hurt or taken advantage of. She was comfortable enough to know just what she could handle and wasn’t afraid to stand her ground, but Théo didn’t find it so easy. He was shy and often frightened of his own shadow. Elodie had been the one to fight his battles in school, the two of them once having been suspended for three whole weeks when a kid in Théo’s class had called him the F slur, resulting in Elodie breaking their nose as well as blocking one of the girl’s toilets with their Award Winning art project. 

In short, though she had a huge protective streak, very little actually fazed the young blonde about her own life. The only thing that she regularly found herself tossing and turning over, mind running rampant with theories and nonsensical fantasies about the fraying strip of paper that had lived inside her purse for so long. 

It seemed ridiculous to let her mind dwell on something as stupid as a 15cm strip of paper, a miniature collage of photos with a long-forgotten history behind them. Yet, Elodie couldn’t help but want answers. She’d only ever shown it to Théo, the tattered edges of the photo-strip unfamiliar even to his eyes. Her twin brother who she so rarely went anywhere without, and not even he could identify where the images had come from, nor could he provide any answers as to just who was in the photos beside her. 

There they sat – Elodie, as clear as day, looking happier than she could ever recall feeling, and a total stranger. The man in the image had his face turned away from the camera, his lips seeming to pepper kisses along her jaw, finding her lips in the second panel, Elodie’s fingers tangled in his hair in the final panel as he buried his face against the length of her neck. Théo swore that she’d never told him about a secret boyfriend, or even a friend that she might have been fooling around with, and so her search for answers had fallen flat. 

Tracing her fingers along the glossy print, she sighed and tucked it into the corner of the mirror on her new vanity. She felt a pang in her chest, tears springing up behind her eyes as she tore her gaze away from the mystery figure. No amount of theorising could explain to her why she was having such an emotional reaction to the stranger, and yet each time she looked at it she felt that same wave of nostalgia, a sense of longing that she couldn’t quite put her finger on. 

“Get it together, Moreau,” she muttered under her breath, shaking her head as she caught sight of her own reflection. 

Leaning forward, she tugged a tissue free from the box sitting atop her desk and dabbed gently at her eyes, careful not to smudge her perfectly applicated eyeliner. With one last, somewhat dramatic sniffle, she tossed the tissue into the wastebin, took a deep breath, and turned on her heels. There was no use getting upset over something she couldn’t change, so she picked herself up and made her way out of her way, calling for her brother as she did so, eager for a happy distraction. 

[kianmcgrath]

The first time Kian McGrath saw his mother cry had been after a particularly sour fight with his father. 

Andrew McGrath had sauntered through the front doorway, stinking of piss and booze, a growl low in the back of his throat. He’d leered over his wife, spittle dripping from his chin, looking nothing like the man she’d said her vows to just 15 years prior. 

“He’s a dirty, little sissy boy, Maureen!”  

Those were the words he’d said. They’d torn through the atmosphere like a bullet, a crack in the wind as he’d robbed Maureen McGrath of her breath, a sob catching in her throat, disbelief clouding her features. Kian’s mother had always been gentle – she'd hated arguing with her husband, lousy bully that he was – and rarely allowed herself to get upset in front of her son.  

In fact, she hadn’t even known he was standing there. 

Kian was 12 years old at the time. He was young, mostly innocent, both he and his mother none-the-wiser about Andrew McGrath’s other sons across the pond. He’d heard the shuffle of his father’s key in the door, had slipped out of his bedroom in the hope that he might be able to stop him on his way to bed, ask him how his night had been. He loved hearing about his father’s nights out, about the vibrant people that he met. He’d perched at the top of the stairs, waiting eagerly for a chance to pounce on him. 

As voices had become more raised, he’d slipped further down the stairwell, hand sliding down the flaky banister, peeled paint sticking to his palms. His heart had pounded in his chest – it was well past his bedtime, and he knew that if his father was in one of his moods, he wouldn’t be pleased to see him after all – but he couldn’t find it in himself to leave it alone. 

His father’s words had been a dagger to his heart, but he’d taken them in his stride, holding his head up high. If his mother was to see him standing there, he didn’t want her to think he couldn’t handle it. If his father couldn’t step up to the plate, Kian would be the man of the house – he believed he could. 

She hadn’t seen him, though. Kian had watched as his once timid mother had lifted her arm. He’d watched as her palm had collided with his father’s cheek. He hadn’t even flinched as Andrew McGrath had slapped her in return, his palm sliding up to fist her hair, tugging her forward with a force that caused her to cry out. Kian had lunged forward then, his tiny frame moving fast, agile, all his years playing for the Balleyboden St Enda’s youth team paying off. He’d thrown himself onto his father’s back, catching him by surprise, his arm circling around the older man’s throat. 

His mother had screamed and screamed, tears spilling down her cheeks – one of them now tinged pink from the handprint that resided there. His father had stumbled, a mixture of surprise and inebriation, his legs colliding with their dinner table, knees buckling, causing Kian to fall. His back hit the mahogany, and he kicked out wildly. He felt his barefoot collide with his father’s thigh, the sheer force of it toppling him over. 

In truth, Kian barely remembered much else from that night. 

He remembered his mother scrambling forward, pulling him close to her chest as she fought to catch her breath. He faintly recalled her sleeping in his bed with him that night, the two wrapped up together, his bedroom door locked – a deterrent should his father sober up and come looking for them, no doubt. 

He hadn’t apologised – neither Kian, nor Andrew. Kian wasn’t sorry for the way he’d manhandled his father, just as he knew Andrew felt no shame in the way he’d treated his wife and son.  

They never spoke of that night again, not until Kian was much older, his mother far sicker, the memory fresh on her mind as though it was happening to her there and then. 

The second time Kian McGrath saw his mother cry had been the day she’d signed her divorce papers. 

She’d told him they’re happy tears, pet; a watery smile on her face as she’d beckoned him closer. 

It had been accidental. Kian had walked in on her after a half day at school. 14 years old, he’d been bullied to high heavens by his classmates, news of his father’s public, torrid affair circulating even the hallways of Ballyroan Boys National School.  

He was in 3rd year by then, getting ready to take his Junior Cert. He’d arrived at school that day to sit in on his third class of the day, Geography with Mr Ahearn, only to find copies of The Herald and the Irish Times scattered across his desk. His father’s face was plastered across the front pages of both tabloids, his 2-year-old and 4-year-old boys clinging on to him on either side. 

That was the first Kian had ever seen of David and Luca McGrath. At the time, he’d hoped it would be the last he’d ever hear of them. He wanted nothing to do with either boy. 

He’d torn out of the room, barely sparing his teacher a glance, and run all the way home. At the time, all he’d wanted was to see his mother, to be held by her and to hear that everything would be okay. 

When he’d entered the kitchen, she’d been pouring over a stack of papers, tears spilling onto the pages as she obediently scribbled her signature onto each dotted line that instructed she do so. 

The last time Kian McGrath saw his mother cry had been the day she’d died. 

She’d been lucid in her final moments, her eyes wide with recognition as she cupped her boy’s cheek. At 35 years of age, he’d felt like he was just a child again. Wrapped in the comfort of his mammy’s arms, her thumb caressing his cheek. 

Kian had wept alongside her, recounting all of their fondest memories back to her, ensuring that she would go out on a high note. He’d felt her go slack around him, her shoulders slumping, forehead pressed to his own. The sob that had torn from his throat had been animalistic – a coarse, harsh roar, the agony building in his chest too much for him to contain. 

He’d shifted his weight, turning her body over in his arms as he tugged her close to his chest, her hair damp with his own tears. He’d called for her, practically begged her to stay, to come back. 

He couldn’t be without her – he had no idea how to live in a world that didn't house Maureen Walsh. She was his rock, the only true and safe thing that he’d ever known. It felt like drowning, the realisation that she was gone forever. Her beautiful soul ripped from the Earth in one, fleeting second. 

He remembered thinking that it seemed cruel – that he should get to live when she could not.