"Oh my God, Anya, is that Ventis?"

'Shit.' How is it that they always manage to find him? Better yet, why are so many of them cursed with tinny, high-pitched voices that make Klaus want to find the nearest cliff and perform a tuck and roll off the side of it?

It's not like he advertised his presence at the night market, far from it. Klaus is about as dressed down as he can bring himself to get. Dark, non-descript hoodie, jeans, sneakers that cost more than most people's entire wardrobes, but that's not exactly something that the average idiot can tell at a glance.

Seriously, how long does someone have to stare at a poster to memorize his features well enough to spot him in a crowd when he's doing his utmost to blend in and be unremarkable? You know what, scratch that, the answer is probably creepy. He's better off not knowing. Not knowing, and not sticking around long enough to find out how long it will take them to reach him if he stays put, because he is so not dealing with fans on his first proper day off in six fucking weeks. 

Klaus has his phone in hand in an instant, fingers already picking away at a message to Elijah as he makes beeline for the next alley.

I've been spotted.

Refuge needed.

Be there in 5.

And if Elijah decides to give him shit about this, so be it. There are few enough people in Slateport that Klaus can trust not to throw him to the wolves or use his presence as an opportunity to draw in business that he can live through the indignity of letting Elijah tease him a little.

Two girls in their teens are hot on his trail as Klaus weaves his way through the crowd, ducking down yet another alley. 

He doesn't respond to Eljiah's greeting as he ducks inside. And he definitely doesn't feel a wave of relief wash over him as Elijah's tangrowth hides them from view. 

"Oh, you know, just passing through the neighborhood and thought to myself, why don't I visit my favorite surly apothecary and see if he's gotten with the times yet," Klaus fires back without missing a beat. They both know exactly why he's here, and Klaus hates that he finds some measure of comfort in the fact that Elijah seems mildly annoyed that he had to close down shop for Klaus's sake, that Eljiah can never quite be called happy to see him. Or maybe it's the fact that Eljiah doesn't need him to perform. 

Klaus settles himself on a nearby counter, careful not to disturb any of the herbs that have been carefully laid out for perusal. "Though I'll take some of that lemon water if you're in a giving mood." He wonders how far he can push before Elijah throws him out. 

elijah gardner

☉

elijah snorts. gotten with the times, he says. how many times has he heard such things, of how he has both feet stuck in the quagmire of the past.

he sees his obdurate position as a strength. consistency and dedication to his craft.

elijah wonders if klaus is the same as he flees fan and camera flash.

"oh, you're too kind."

the apothecary wrinkles his nose. he heaves himself toward a mini fridge beneath his counter. from it, he pulls out a jug of lemon water, its body a victreebel. the lid, its hovering leaf.

as he pours a glass for klaus, elijah asks, "ever get tired of it all? the running and hiding?"

KLAUS CARTIER // lmk if this is okay!

☉

"What can I say, I'm a thoughtful guy," Klaus deadpans, gaze unwavering as he snatches up a nearby herb with feathery fronds just to give himself something to do with his hands.

Funny, he finally has a chance to drop the façade and instead of leaving him relaxed, Klaus finds himself on edge, uncharacteristically unsure, and very much annoyed about it. He twirls the herb's stem between his fingers as Elijah rummages through the mini-fridge beneath the counter.

Klaus accepts the glass and the question, though he'd rather ignore the second part entirely. Still, he owes Elijah something for going out of his way.

"No, I clearly love not being able to walk down the street or visit my mother's grave without being mobbed by idiots." He suspends the truth in sarcasm because, somehow, that feels less like giving something up, less like laying himself bare before the herbalist, because the truth is he is tired. No, not just tired - exhausted.

Klaus takes a sip of the lemon water and sighs. "I love the music," he admits after a too long silence, "but I think we both know I'm not exactly a people person." He's just built one -the picture perfect idol, ever ready to dote upon on his adoring fans and flash a smile at the nearest camera- and let that creation wear his face, and that was harder. There was no separating Klaus from Ventis or Ventis from Klaus, except for rare moments like this one. Honest moments where no one cared if he was witty, or charming, or unfailingly polite. Where no one cared if he didn't feel like smiling while every other part of him screamed. 

elijah gardner

☉

elijah perceives the lowered defenses. the peeled back leaf. to hide his own nerves, he pours himself a glass of lemon water too.

"you and me both." the apothecary says of their introversion. he raises his glass. "cheers to that."

and then he drinks. adam's apple bobbing deep within his throat.

his tangrowth tightens the vines around his stall.

"what got you into music anyway?" the man grunts. "this a case of a childhood dream meets harsh reality?"

KLAUS CARTIER // lmk if this is okay!

☉

How much truth is too much? What story should he tell? The one of Icarus flying too close to the sun, wings melting away with each foolhardy flap, or something that hits a little further from home? Something less real. Less raw. What's the going rate for salvation these days? For respite? For a place to hide away from the world? It sure as hell isn't more sarcasm, though it finds itself on the tip of his tongue just the same, a familiar defense.

Klaus takes another sip of lemon water and sets it aside. Reaches, instead, for another kernel of truth. Scatters it like breadcrumbs. Never quite enough to be satisfying, but more than either of them is expecting, and certainly more than he's ever given before.

"Boredom, mostly," he begins, but that barely scratches the surface. "I grew up in a farming town." Does he get points for not saying shithole? For not burying Fallarbor in whatever the verbal equivalent of layers of ash is? Burying it the way Mt. Chimney sought to bury it. Burying it the way it deserved to be buried, along with every memory attached to it.

Another sip. "Didn't have much of a knack for farming." 'Did have a knack for mouthing off and getting beaten' he thinks, but he leaves that part out. They aren't that close, and he doesn't need the pity.

"Music was my escape." Another truth, this one closer to home.  "I wanted to get lost in it." In something of his own creation. On wings that couldn't be seen, only felt. To be carried away to another place, a better life. And he had. Klaus had harnessed his talents and risen from poverty, escaped from being dashed against the rocks of someone else's pride. He'd found himself. He'd become a someone. 'But at what price?' a treacherous part of him whispers.

Klaus may not know what the price of salvation is, but he sure as hell knows the price of fame. Everything. All that he is. All that he will be. Every moment spent play acting. Being someone else. Giving of himself because not a single person would come to a show to see Klaus Cartier, the awkward gangly boy from Fallarbor dreaming of a better tomorrow. Singing because it was the only thing that brought him joy. Hell, half of them seemed like they weren't even there for the music. 

Klaus can hear his agent's voice in his head, mocking him. "Sure, you've got a hell of a voice, kid, but it wouldn't matter if you sounded like a toad. Everybody loves a pretty face and, these days, technology can take care of the rest." 

Klaus's fingers tighten around his glass. Shake until he notices and forces them to still. He takes another sip of lemon water to hide his unease. If only it could soothe the rest of him the way it soothed his throat. Coat the memories of his treacherous climb to fame with warmth, and honey, and a way to forget the hurts acquired along the way. If only. But he's not a child anymore. Not a dreamer. No longer looking to share a piece of his soul. To connect in that way. Or is he?

"What about you? I just realized I've never bothered to ask. Why all this?" Klaus makes a sweeping gesture that encompasses the stall. And it's not that he cares, exactly, but he's had enough of skirting his own wounds. It's Elijah's turn now. "Why are you still clinging to the past when everyone else is marching toward the future?"

elijah gardner

☉

"an escape, huh?" elijah makes a face. raises an eyebrow into an amused arch as he looks around at their leafy cage.

his tangrowth shivers. vines rustle all around them, dissecting briefly, the sunbeams that filter in through the gaps.

in this dim light of slateport, klaus' fallarbor life is hidden. there is little elijah can see past the glimmer and glam. for now, at least. for now.

"it's a family business believe it or not. i'm the only one left." the apothecary says before he chugs another block of water. "don't say clinging. makes me sound like some sorta needy bitch."

he snorts.

"i'm honoring it." a beat. "y'know, farming's not all that bad."

KLAUS CARTIER // ALL THAT KLAUS BACKSTORY MMM DELICIOUS

☉

The irony isn't lost on him. Forced to hide if he wants a moment's peace, all Klaus has really done is trade one cage for another. But this one's gilded and that should mean something, shouldn't it?

Klaus meets Elijah's gaze, expression hard and unreadable, as if daring him to point out the obvious. To point out the vines all around them. The fans in the alley just beyond the stall, still on the hunt for someone that Klaus can't bring himself to be right now. To say it with more than just his eyes and break the spell, pull him back from the brink of exposure. 

Klaus doesn't realize how tense he's let himself get until Elijah speaks. He's not going to say it. 

Something in Klaus uncoils. He'd been expecting a dig, finds himself at a loss when it doesn't come.  Instead, he laughs, for once not unkindly. "Needy and bitch are the last two words I'd use to describe you." Which is probably about as close as Klaus is going to get to a compliment. "Short-sighted, maybe. Stubborn, definitely."

There's another word on the tip of his tongue, one with fewer edges, one that doesn't feel safe. Klaus stifles it. He's not about to put himself out there like a fucking sap just because Elijah didn't jump at the chance to drag him while he was down. 

Instead, he wonders if he should apologize the way everyone else seems to when they find out that someone else is alone in the world. Ventis would have done that, played at sympathy. Told Elijah that he was making his family proud, honoring their legacy or some shit. And maybe he was, but what the fuck did Klaus know about honoring family legacies and whatever it was that Elijah's family's might have wanted for him or done to him in their quest for it? It's easier to seize on the other part, even if it means that the ball's back in his court.

"I never said it was," he says tersely. It hadn't all been bad. The pokemon had been kind to him, letting him curl up in the stable with them whenever it was better not to be in the house, and drift off to the smell of hay and animal musk, even if he usually paid for it in the morning. Waking late with school on the horizon and no  time for a shower. That had caused it's own problems. 

No, it's not that Klaus hates the idea of farming itself, not exactly, but some part of him will always be the young boy staring up at this father, face streaked with ash and mud, blood leaking from a split in his lip, whenever he thinks of a farmer's life. Dirt streaked hands and a ruddy face. Dwindling cash and rage. Desperation born of bad weather, too much ash, not enough rain. 

"The ash from Mt. Chimney's good for the soil," he says, a pointless bit of trivia meant to distance himself from all the rest of it, from the pull of memory. It's the sort of thing that Ventis, Prince of Song shouldn't know. "You don't have to fertilize as much."

It's only when he sees the calculating look on Elijah's face that he realizes what he's given away. A farming town on the edge of Mt. Chimney, that definitely narrowed things down a fair bit. Maybe if he finds something to distract the other man his misstep will be overlooked. Forgotten. "So," he says, sliding down off the counter and gesturing to the stall's various trappings, "how much of this is you, and how much is tradition?"

elijah gardner

☉

"thanks."

elijah takes it all as a compliment. like a quiet glutton, he chews over each word, even ones laced with negative connotation until it is indistinguishable cud.

it is hard for him to imagine. imagine klaus as a farm boy. he's too put together. skin pristine. perhaps, if elijah was more observant, he'd find the thumbprints of sun and soil in the smallest pores.

still, it's a delicious truth. tastes of mt. chimney soot and petrichor.

"don't know. guess you could say it's both all me and both all tradition." elijah says. "i'm the culmination of everything my old pop and ma did."

he crosses his arms, weaving their trunks into each other like the tangrowth's vines.

"your family proud of you then? for movin' away from that life?"

he wonders for him. for himself.

KLAUS CARTIER // ALL THAT KLAUS BACKSTORY MMM DELICIOUS

☉

Was his family proud of him? Klaus lets out a bark of laughter - a sharp, clipped thing. Unintentional, and a little bit manic, and thoroughly telling. He can feel the ache of bruises charting an angry path across his skin, invisible phantoms beckoning him home.

"How the fuck should I know?" he wants to say, even as he's fairly sure that the answer is a resounding no. His skin is flawless now. Unblemished. Cared for. Moisturized. Arceus his father would hate that. 

Klaus's father had never been the sort to value anything that wasn't accomplished by breaking your back or "using your own two hands" and Klaus's childhood interest in music hadn't exactly been his favorite of his son's traits. Failings, more like. It was rare that Klaus could do anything right in his father's eyes. And his mother, well, he'd ask her if she were anything more than the hazy memory of a soft voice and a warmth that should have stuck around. 

"How the hell should I know?" he replies instead, offering the words with a shrug, like he couldn't possibly care less what his family thinks of him, like he's above it all - a child of fame and vanity. As for who he's trying to convince...

"Not sure it matters in the grand scheme of things. I've got my life, they've got theirs. Whether or not they're proud of me isn't going to change that." When you run, looking back only gets you caught, and wanting things (love, warmth, understanding, praise)...wanting things is how you slink right back to where you started. And it's not like his father doesn't know where he is these days, not now that his face is plastered all over billboards and magazines.  

elijah gardner

☉

"guess that was a stupid question." elijah tightens the cradle of his arms, dull nails scratching idly at his bare elbows. "too busy being a star after all."

quietly, elijah admires the other's obstinance. it reminds him of himself, his own stubborn trudge through the world. the way he had weeded from his life, the nuisance of judgement, misplaced advice and the temptation of some human warmth.

he searches the cupboards. pulls out a jar, tightly sealed and filled with smooth honey.

"here." elijah says. "been meaning to give you this. combee fireweed honey. made from flowers that sprout after a forest fire. i better see a dedication to me in a CD booklet somewhere."

a half joke.

KLAUS CARTIER // ALL THAT KLAUS BACKSTORY MMM DELICIOUS

☉

"Guess that was a stupid question. Too busy being a star after all." The words lodge somewhere they shouldn't, in a soft place opened up by the brief and thoroughly unwelcome trip down memory lane. Worse, they stick, a reminder of all that he's given up, of how many things he used to crave before he gave in and shut himself away, played his role and stopped deviating from the script like he wasn't fucking starving for something that was always just out of reach. Vapid starlet - warm, charming, polite,  wanting for nothing. Ha!

And Elijah has the gall to stand there with a jar of honey looking so fucking sturdy after upending him like that, after reminding him that whether you take an axe to your roots or not, they remain. Klaus wants to hate him for that, for the stupid fucking question that had thrown the floodgates wide. Wants to tell him to keep his fucking honey and trudge back out onto the street, come what may, but he doesn't. And maybe it's because he's a coward and staying is easier - there's less momentum involved. Or maybe it's because Klaus has finally realized that Elijah deserves better than that. Or maybe, like so may other things in Klaus's life, the reason he doesn't snap at Elijah and leave is complicated, tied up in the rush of seeing, and being seen, and wanting to vanish all at once.

Whatever the reason, he takes the jar of honey and raises a brow at Elijah's words, as if trying to suss out whether or not he's joking, or maybe whether or not he cares, and wonders, not for the first time, if this is what drowning feels like.

"Sure, why not." Klaus slowly rotates the jar, watching the way the slivers of light filtering past the tangrowth's vines play through the honey. Looking at anything but Elijah as he prepares his defenses anew. Cobbles them together out of cobwebs, and mortar, and spite. 

"Just imagine the uproar. To Elijah, savior of my voice, my honey, without whom I couldn't have recorded any of this." Laughter threads it's way through his voice, because of course Klaus would agree only to tease. That's how this goes. How it's supposed to go, all ease and flippant retorts. He's taken a step back again. Settled his defenses back in place, but the fissures are still there, and it's only a matter of time before they crack.  

elijah gardner

☉

elijah is unaware of how his words take root. though his hands exercise utmost care—blunt fingertips instruments of precise detail—his stiff lip hides his clumsy tongue. he's deaf to the turmoil.

as holds the honey jar expectantly, his straight forward gaze remains on klaus like a dull spotlight. finally, it's taken.

it's a genuine product; inside, the honey is silky, scented with the gentlest sweetness.

"savior of ventis, the prince of song's voice. i like the sound of that." elijah says. "maybe business will pick up if you actually did."

a snort.

the vines around the stall shake as the tangrowth, which has fallen into a slight siesta, stirs.

"in a way, i really am saving you." he cranes his neck toward a passing cloud of muffled voices. "and in a way, you're giving me a break too. thanks."

KLAUS CARTIER // KLAUS!!! KEEPING IT TOGETHER!!!

☉