Horrid sun beat down the pair as they labor away at the project: A brick sign. Simple job, easy money. Well, the actual sign itself was easy to make. Layer the brick in an alternating pattern for the base, put the template for the sign up, encase it with more brick. Mix dry grey powder and water for mortar.

Unfortunately, the reason the money is easy is that the temperature breaks a new record today. Who cares if a steady stream of wind carries fine, salty water from the nearby ocean? It does little to make the heat bearable, and even dries Grigoris skin like jerky. He sets down his tools and stops for a water break. Refreshing liquid drips down the side of his jaw.

Thank Arceus for the investment. A tall, wide umbrella drapes shade over most of their work area. It had been Sleigh's idea when the summer heat was little more than a pipe dream, but it pays dividends in these humid heats. If only they could nail a couple more inside jobs. Get that wonderful air conditioning.

Instead, Grigori drops his gallon jug back on the ground and wipes the ever present sweat from his brow. “Mr. Sleigh, how much longer you want to go on today? We’re getting close to three-thirty and I’m losing my fucking mind out here.”

The lanky man cranks his back as far as it can go, having been bent over the mortar mixer for what felt like years. “Don’t need to ask me twice, partner. Could’ve said ‘No work today’ and I would’ve hugged you right then and there.”

“Then it sounds like we finish tomorrow,” he tosses in the metaphorical towel and drops himself onto the finished brick wall. Felt like Poke Marts had sprouted like bamboo shoots in the last month, and each one needed a nice sign. Especially those that lived in fear of potential ocean storms. One day they’d get a job for the actual buildings themselves, but for now the signs would have to suffice.

Sleigh joins him, his actual towel hard at work soaking up every milliliter of sweat in his long, slick hair. “Fine with me, man, fine with me. With all that’s left anyway? We can get this shit knocked out in three hours flat.”

“You said that this morning too,” Grigori reminds him.

“Come on, Grigori, that fucking thing with those fisherman and that Sharpedo? Fucking priceless. Better than the shit they put in theaters,” Sleigh says.

“Speaking of theaters, how’d you date go with July go yesterday? Get kicked out again for–”

“Ay, ay,” Sleigh hushes Grigori down and hunches his own shoulders, now paranoid of his own shadow. “You know she don’t like to talk about that, or your nicknames for her! If she heard you–”

Grigori chuckles deep and low, “Oh ho, don’t you worry Mr. Sleigh. I remember last time. But you two’ve been going out for a while now. It’s been, what, three years? Four?”

“Three and seven months,” Sleigh says. “And I’m not about to have you fuck it up for me.”

“Mason’s honor,” he crosses out his chest and holds up his left hand, “and you know that’s worth its weight in gold. Besides, who got you two started in the first place since neither of you had the balls to ask the other one out in the first place?”

Sleigh rolls his eyes and reaches to his side, “Yea, yea, I get it, you want a medal or something? Sorry, fresh out. Alls I got is…”

“This!” he pulls out the ‘award’, the bird, and holds it proudly to Grigori. “All yours, my good sir. Be sure to show it off to all your friends. Sorry, friend.”

“Wonder what dumbass would ever do something as stupid as that,” Grigori says with a wide smile. “But, come on. Seriously. You ever gonna pop the question? My dad did it after knowing my mom for like, three months. By that standard, you’re super far behind.”

Grigori pulls his water gallon up and takes another mouthful of water. Sleigh pulls at his sticky collar with a redder face. “Well, uh, might not be a thing you need to consider anymore.”

He barely keeps the water from spitting everywhere. “You’re fucking with me.”

“Not this time. Grigori. And they didn’t even kick us out! Just had to pop the question in the snack line. Manager was there, had a stupid look on his face. Should’ve seen in,” Sleigh says. He gains a wistful look on his face, as thought it didn't hapeen just yesterday. “May thought I was fucking with her. Screw the bosses face, should’ve seen her face. Arceus, it was…”

There isn’t a word to describe it.

“Sublime?”

“Grigori. You break out the word on your stupid word-a-day calender now of all times?”

“What? You were struggling, thought I’d help you out– no need to thank me.”

“But seriously, congratulations!” Grigori pats his back with enough force to break it clean in half. “Hell, maybe we could make this thing a three-person company. Imagine someone like May covered in dust and dirt, with her hair full of mortar and–”

“She wants me to quit, Grigori.”

The smile slowly fades from his face. Realization sets in. “Ah.”

Sleigh sighs, “Look, Grigori, I tried. I really did. But she wouldn’t have it. Nearly came to a ‘its either you find another job or I give the ring back’ deal.”

Silence. Gut-wrenching silence. Unless Sleigh could hear Grigori's heart shatter into millions of pieces. “Then what's your plan?” he stammers out.

“She says her dad would help buy that garage I’ve always wanted. Become a mechanic. Work on cars and shit. The dream.”

So he had been doomed from the start. This reality never had any grounds to build upon. Why the fuck had he ever tried? First, the rest of his high school class. Then, his mother with her health issues, and now Sleigh. Grigori couldn’t help but slump his shoulders and watch as his reality crumbles underneath the weight of dreams.

“Come on, Grigori, think of the positives. This… gives you that chance to chase your own dreams,” Sleigh says. He’s the one to give Grigori a pat on the back this time, but he shrugs it off and scoots away.

“Easy for you to say. You’ve got the loaded fiancé. All I’ve got is a wrecked credit score, a mother in the hospital, and a father who can barely afford to keep up himself,” Grigori lays out. May knew all this but insisted that Sleigh leave him in the dust anyway? That fucking bitch. It takes all his willpower to not get up and punch the sign a half dozen times. His fists clench.

“Well,” Sleigh pushes off the other man's shoulder and stands in front of him. He once more reaches into his pocket, but instead of a bird, he pulls out a piece of paper. “I can’t fix that credit score– seriously, who invests in masonry these days– but I can help with those other two.”

Grigori snatches the paper from his hands, unfurls it, and furiously reads it with the speed of a copier. This… this wasn’t… but how… “What the hell is this, Sleigh?”

“I did say ‘almost’ came to that, right? Well, that’s cause I went there first. Told her that I can’t leave you out to dry in some shitty place in every sense of the word. And she is pretty loaded–”

“Sleigh, this is too much. I can’t afford any of this. Housing for dad, covered costs for mom, they don’t give out shit for free like this. There’s a catch, has to be,” he says in pure disbelief. He was dreaming. That was the only logical explanation for all this charity.

“Finish reading it, you dumbass,” Sleigh goads. Grigori angrily rolls his eyes and reluctantly finishes reading the document. Only now does his jaw drop like an Ekans. “How the hell…”

“You got really drunk one night. Spilled your guts in Grigori fashion. I doubt you remember, either, but May did. And more importantly, so did her own mom. You know, the college-slash-pokemon professor. She can get some strings pulled. Get you in and get you loans through the college. You can consider that your ‘catch’.”

None of this was real. Grigori’s vision starts to fade, and the world tilts slightly. Sleigh jumps forward and catches him before he plummets. He gets him back upright and gets on one knee. His joints don’t agree, but he pushes through the twinge of pain.

“Grigori, I’ve yet to met someone as hard-working and perseverant as you. Me, May, her parents, hell, even your parents. We all want you to get somewhere in life, and we can help you get there. You just gotta be a little less of a stubborn ass and let us help you. Can you do this one little knee bend for me?”

Something sticks to his muscles. A thick casing surrounds them, rigid as metal and tough as nails. His vision still swims, black spots appearing in the corner of his eyes. Why couldn’t he say yes? Was it the reality of the situation, or his own stubbornness that froze his neck in place and denies him this one grace?

Defiance against fate is what melts the ice. He manages to nod his head. Sleigh's face lights up like the night sky. “Ok, thank Arceus. May might’ve bet me on this, and I might’ve won a thousand bucks, and–”

Energy returns to his entire body as Grigori grabs Sleighs shoulders. “You’re telling me you fucking bet on me being a hard ass?”

“Hey, you’d do the same! Figured it was only fair. Besides, I bet on you, didn’t I?” Sleigh tries to push him off, but to no avail. “Man, you’re pressing really hard–”

Grigori leans forward suddenly and embraces the man in a death grip. “Thank you, Mr. Sleigh. From the bottom of my heart.”

Sleigh soon wraps his own arms around Grigori. “Don’t sweat it, Grigori. That’s what friends are for, right? We got each other's backs.”

And that’s when Grigoris pipes burst. Tears begin to stream down his face. Thank goodness they were hugging. Otherwise, Sleigh would have to see his ugly face.

If only, if only…

---

Prompt - Aspiration

Word Count - Lol, lmao

Grigori paces the spacious room with an incessant fervor, his robes swishing around his legs like he's wading through water. Each step of his heel echos in the back of the auditorium with precision. A metronome for the band that didn’t need one, but one that gives him the briefest of respites. People around the campus had pointed out his staccato footsteps as a signature trait. Not something he ever paid mind to until this moment.

“‘Greetings, fellow classmates! I’m sure you’ve seen me–’ no, no,” he mutters to the void. Terrible opener. Atrocious. Just because he was the oldest did not mean he had to lean into it. “How about, ‘Good afternoon, everyone! Wonderful weather we’re–’ Arceus, why didn’t I plan this out?!”

Granted, the decision to make him the class representative had come at the worst possible moment: as he scrambled to finish his thesis before the deadline. Caffeine and cold water splashes had been the only thing that got him through the writing portion of the project, and in his daze he completely forgot about the speech. Up until this week, where the deadline drew closer but the words didn’t materialize.

He was still impressed he managed to get most of it down on the e-document as is. But the introduction eluded him then, and it continues to evade his mind now. Five minutes before the big speech. There had been plenty of mistakes during his research, and that misspelling of ‘Scizzor’ still haunts him. But this?

Doomed from the start. No pun intended. Or something.

“Think, think!” he pounds one fist into the other. There has to be that hook! That one thing that bridges it all together into one neat, cohesive speech. What was the first paragraph again, his start that one day at the Poke Mart sign? Maybe bring up masonry?

And get laughed off the stage? Forget it. This wasn’t a fancy-schmancy university, but masonry was well off the map for most of these folk. Not that he blames them– that had been the worst investment of his life so far. Something he brings up in the second paragraph.

Maybe he should fake illness. That sounds better than whatever he’s cooked up so far. His attention diverts to sudden illnesses, much like the ones that infected the wild Scizor he studied. Let’s see, there was the iron-weakening bacteria, the virus that penetrated steel via acidic metabolism, that one prion disease that almost single-handedly killed his sample population--
“Grigori!”

He turns to the sound of the noise. His father, back as stiff as the wall. His gray hairs catches the light as he storms over to his son. “Grigori, you’re almost up! You need to look perfect for this speech, yes?”

Much like his mother used to, his father attempts to fix every minutia of his outfit. His tassel shifts seven micrometers to the left and dangles helplessly, his medals jingle in place. Grigori tries to pry him off, but his father keeps going. Grigori looks at his father's stressed expression with a hint of recognition. They surely share the same face at this moment.

Unfortunately, his father notices too. “What’s with that look, Grigori? Look, I know I can’t make you look as perfect as mom would’ve, but–”

“I-I can’t do it.”

“...What did you just say?” His father whispers quieter than night. Grigori’s blood runs cold.

“This is too much, they picked the wrong person,” he explains. “I can’t go out there and give a speech!”

“But you said you had it all written out,” he says. “All but–”

“The introduction,” Grigori fills in the blank. He pushes his father's worn hands away and tries to find the words. “I haven’t figured it out. I can’t figure it out. I won’t figure it out. I’ll be the laughingstock of the community! No one will hire me after I fuck it up.”

“Grigori, Grigori,” his father reaches out again, “it’ll be ok. Listen, you got this far, and it's just a speech! If you mess it up, no one will think worse of you. So what if you fumble the start? Just finish strong!”

“But it won’t finish strong," he insists harshly. "The start is the most important thing! If that gets fucked up, then who knows what else I’ll fuck up.

"I- have to go, father, Right now,” he tries to push past the man, but his Father does not relent. This push and pull goes on for a few more seconds, where a terrified student attempts to run through a solid brick wall.

Suddenly, his father forces him back. He barely manages to not stumble into the wall as they collide. Now, they’re centimeters apart, face to face. A look in his eyes paralyzes Grigori. This look has been dormant for years, unitl now. Seldom seen since his childhood. But this sparks something unique. Something awful.

It’d never been so intense before this.

“Grigori,” his father starts out, “Enough. What is this actually about? Tell me the truth. Now.”

Millions of sentences spring to mind, but none fit the requirement. Try as he might, Grigori can not think up an excuse or a statement that perfectly encapsulates his feelings. They either fall short, or are blatant lies, or both. But where his mind fails in reason, his heart prevails in subjectivity. It hurts to think, hurts to consider. But it is his reason, and it is his truth.

“I… I…”

“I?”

“I’m a fraud.”

His father remains silent, and gives no visible tells. But those eyes urge him forward. To keep going. “I’m not a class representative. I’m thousands in debt. I don’t come from anything noteworthy. I got here through dumb luck and knowing the right people. Hell, May’s mother gave me a month extension on my thesis! That’s never happened before! How can I go up on that stage, behind that podium, and try to connect with students that got further on less?”

“I don’t deserve this, Father. I just... don't.”

Silence smothers the pair.

And promptly shatters into thousands of pieces. The roar of applause cuts through the backstage like a Sharpedo through water. Panic fills Grigori again, and he struggles against the vice grip of flesh. The grip tightens harder, until it feels like he’s trying to break a bone. Yet he still pushes forward, desperate to escape fate.

A young lady comes back from around the curtain, clipboard in her hands. “Okay Mr. Sokolov, are you ready to…”

His father looks back enough to show one eye, and one eye is enough. “Give us three minutes.”

“B-but we’re on a tight–”

“I did not ask. I told.”

Confusion mixes with apprehension on her face, but she reluctantly retraces her steps back to the front. Grigori’s Father turns back to his son at a glacial pace. Why did he not say anything? Now is the time to disown him, shun him, bully him, anything for what he just said.

Instead, he lets out an ancient breath, raspy and tired. “I will not lie to you Grigori: that feeling never fades.”

His father looks directly at Grigori, but they both know he looks to somewhere else. In the past, or future, is impossible to say. But he tries to look at him anyway.

“It’s something I’ve struggled with all my life as well. Reluctance, the fear of failure, this feeling that I’m not the one. It haunted me when I first met your mother, it haunted me when you were born, it haunted me at rehab, and it sure as hell haunts me right now. I won’t tell you it gets easier, either. We are our own worse critics, and the only things that can kill that voice is alcohol and ego.”

“But it’s not true, Grigori,” he whispers out. Wetness escapes his eyes, but he pushes on, “When I first went to rehab, those first few days were some of the hardest in my life. I was a mess, I felt ashamed for what I had done. I didn’t feel like I deserved the help they offered. And those feelings only got worse as the week went on, until I couldn’t do it anymore. I lied, and said I was going to the restroom.”

“But our group leader caught me in the nick of time, just before my door left the frame. He’d seen it happen a million times before. Knew the signs. He pulls me back in and tells me to be honest with him, and I am. I tell him almost the exact same thing you just said. He sat silently for ten minutes, eyes fixated on the clock. Finally, I ask him what his deal was. What’s going on in that head of his.”

“And he tells me this, he says, ‘Who said that clock could keep on going?’”

Grigori eyes his father with an eyebrow raised. His father bobs his head, “Yea, I thought the same thing. I ask him what he means, it's the batteries or the outlet or whatever. And he immediately responds, ‘Maybe now, but it broke a few months ago. We could’ve tossed it really easily. And just our luck, it broke on Wednesday! That’s trash day, it would’ve been gone and no one would’ve noticed after a few days. But someone took it upon themselves to fix it. This five poke-dollar clock, just about worthless, and someone fixed it. And its still going strong to this day, even if it would’ve been easier to get a new one.’”

“Grigori,” his voice shakes, “We do not exist as ourselves. We exist in a world filled with so many people. Those who don’t know us, those who despise us, who think we’re nothing, who think we’re just wastes of space. But there are also people who care. Want us to succeed. Even if they think we’re no good and need to be thrown out, they keep fixing us. They help us out when even if we don’t think we deserve it. And I know this is gotten off the rails a bit, but what’s important is that you got a lot of people out there that probably don’t know about you that much. I’m sure there’s a couple that hate your guts for taking their spot. But there’s going to be at least ten people out there that know you got where you are through your own work, even if they had to change your wires. Because they did it specifically because you needed the help. And guess what? If you didn’t need the help, this wouldn’t even be a conversation. You’d be leagues above them. Not even a question.”

“Father…”

“I’m proud of you, Grigori, even if you don't think you’ve done anything to be proud of. That won’t change, even if you don’t change either.”

“Mr. Sokolov,” the girl speaks up from behind them both. She impatiently clicks her pen against the clipboard, “You need to get out there.”

Grigori expectantly looks towards his Father, who keeps his eyes firmly on him. “I can’t be there with you on the stage. But you can bet your ass I’m taking the stairs right there and going to the front row, even if people give me dirty looks for doing it. And I’ll be there with you. So will Mom.”

With that, he turns and shuffles towards the hidden flight of stairs. Grigori only watches him go for a moment, before the click of a pen brings him back to reality. He could not push it off any longer. Ready or not, here he comes.

—----------------------------------------

"Now, please give a warm welcome for your elected Class Representative, and, coincidently, the oldest of the class as well: Grigori Sokolov!"

Stage lights blind him as he starts his walk across the stage. As oppressive as the gaze of the crowd of… best not think about it. A lot of people watch him cross the stage awkwardly with a ‘stantler in the headlights’ expression. It doesn’t go away like the thunderous applause of the audience, which echoes in the room for seconds after it finishes.

Arceus, what was he going to say? His weird pep-talk with his father was heartfelt, but if only it helped him figure out what to say now, to a monstrous crowd that watches him with a mix of uninterested to fully invested eyes.

But the only gaze that matters is his Fathers, who he finds after a solid ten seconds of silence and stage fright. He watches with a faint smile on his face, ready to see what he has in store. And he can’t keep standing up here forever.

So, Grigori clears his throat into the microphone. “Thank you again, President of this honestly wonderful institution, for the introduction. And I must thank everyone here, for their decision to elect me as the Class President for the graduating students this year.”

“But for the future, you don’t need to elect the oldest available, you know?” He says. This earns him a few giggles from both the audience and those who sit in chairs next to him. His confidence grows if only an inch.

“But, in all seriousness, what a year this has been. It was hard, it was long, but in the end, we pulled through. And honestly, I can’t help but think of a connection, between this school year and a…”

“Kind of like a Scizor.”

The crowd laughs again, but much more reservedly. Scizor? Oh boy, didn’t he do his senior-year thesis on that? This is a graduation ceremony, not a research symposium! Looks like Mr. Smarty-pants is about to splurge all his data on them like a clueless shut-in. Who voted for this guy again?

But his eyes are firmly locked on his Father, who shows complete interest in whatever he’s about to say. And so is Sleigh, who sits right next to him with a stupid sign that says ‘THAT’S MY CLASS REPRESENTATIVE’ despite him dropping out of high school. And May, as polite and as reserved as ever. And her parents, who give him a silent cheer and vigorous fist shake.

“I know, I know, sounds a little strange. But hear me out: They go by really fast. I mean, really fast. And they’re obviously hard. The obvious is obvious, and you don’t need someone like me to make a comparison like that.”

“But there’s a little something you don't know: they rely a hell of a lot on its group members. Because they don’t always start out as Scizors. They start out as Scythers. And those aren’t as strong. They’re frail. Easily broken down. One stiff blow, and they’re set back so far it’s hard to tell if they’ll ever get to become like those it looks up to.”

“And… that’s where its group members come in. Whether that be it's parents, friends, or even a trainer to get them back on their feet. Without that network, it can be hard to catch back up to the rest of its kind. Something I’m sure we’ve all dealt with more than we’d like to admit.”

“But another thing they’re good for? Telling you not to invest in terrible businesses. Like masonry. I wish mine had done so twelve years ago.”

By the time his speech finishes, and he thanks the restless crowd, everyone stands up and claps their hearts out. From those behind him, to those in the nosebleeds, and even those who’re doing it just because everyone else is.

Yet Grigori can only hear the front row of around ten people. Their claps ring out the loudest and hardest of them all.

---

Prompt - Stepping Up (I guess)
Word count - Please help it's only getting longer D:

Grigori hands can’t stop shaking. Arceus, why did he agree to this? His stomach churns nonstop, like a hundred tops had been unleashed in his bowels. A bead of sweat drips down the side of his face, another drop down the river. Even if it’s autumn, it feels stiflingly hot in there. Doesn’t help that he’s one of three present.

Sleigh sits in the passenger seat. “Alright, Grigori, take it easy, yea? No need to stress, you’re in park.”

In the back seat sits a kid somehow shoved into a car seat twice her size. She must’ve been a Chatot in a previous life. “Yea Gregory, you’re in park!”

“Junebug, don't be more excited than Grigori, okay?” Her father warns. ‘Junebug’ crosses her arms and pouts. “But it's true.”

“I know it’s true, Junebug, you’re absolutely right. But that isn’t the issue here.”

“I don’t get it.”

“That’s alright, Junebug, you don’t need to right now.”

“Sorry to interrupt,” Grigori cuts in, “But did you really need to bring Miss June along for this? And why is she in a car seat? Didn’t she grow out of it years ago?”

“Why am I in the car seat, Dad? It hurts,” she pulls at the straps, to which Sleigh immediately turns around and puts them back into position.

“Because, we can never be too safe with a new driver. If you got hurt, Mom would be very upset. And we don’t want an upset Mom, now do we?”

“My question remains unanswered, Mr. Sleigh,” Grigori once again interrupts.

Sleigh sighs, “Because Mom is at work right now, I took time out of my busy schedule to do this, and Junebug here got sent home from school. Again.”

“That’s not my fault! Matchstick was–”

“I know, Junebug, I know,” Sleigh grates through his clenched teeth, “but they won’t allow you back for another day or two. So you get to hang out with Dad and Uncle Grigori! Isn’t that so much more fun?”

“But I wanna play tag!”

“Later, if you’re good.”

“Okay!” June chirps as she dawns a bright smile. Grigori shakes his head slightly. Took after her Father, it seems. That does not bode well for her future, which May insisted would be as bright as the sun. Must've been permanently night.

But he did not say that, but instead grips the black steering wheel tighter than before. “Let’s get back on track, please. So, what, do I shift the lever? Anything special to it?”

“Yes, shifting, so, you’re gonna want to press on the brake.”

Grigori shoves his shoe into the pedal on the left. The engine revs with the roar of a thousand Pyroars. Sleigh slaps his shoulder as soon as he realizes the issue, “Other one, other one!”

“Oh, sorry,” he slams his foot quickly into the right pedal. The loud whir slowly calms down, still abuzz and furious with Grigori’s misplaced foot. “It doesn’t always do that, right? That loud noise?”

“Only when you slam on the gas,” Sleigh says. “So, when that whirring gets quieter, I’m gonna want you to pull on the shift until you get to D. That’s drive. You will, well, drive.”

“But not when I have my foot on the brake?”

“Not when you have your foot on the brake.”

Grigori follows the instructions to a T, making sure to keep his foot on the brake and carefully shift the stick into drive. The car buckles a touch from the movement of dastardly machinations inside the machine. He didn’t know cars. He knew about Scizor, he knew how to write a research paper. He knew how to operate his own small lab with all the equipment he’d ever need.

This is well beyond his limits. Even worse, they’re in public. Sure, no one watches from the edges of the garage parking lot as they sit at one end. Sleigh had said it was the best they were going to get; no way in hell they went on roads, and no way in hell they practiced in a public parking lot. He was supposed to get a feel for the act, maybe even practice parking if he was comfortable.

But, while Grigori stares down the path, his leg cramping already from the rigid, locked position of his bones and muscles, he thinks that maybe he will be lucky to not crash into the side of the shop.

“Grigori,” Sleigh interrupts his deep thought, “you with me? You need to focus behind the wheel. Now, gently pull your foot off the brake. You’ll start going forward.”

He nods, and once again follows instructions. The car creeps forward, lulled out of hibernation by some ungodly force. Grigori pushes back down on the brakes, and everyone lurches forward suddenly.

“Oh–Grigori, it’ll be fine! Listen, you got the reigns for this thing. It’ll only do what you tell it to do. Just need to, you know. Do that.”

“You’re right,” he agrees. One dry, audible gulp later, they resume their decimeter-by-decimeter drive. He’s doing it! The car isn't going to do anything he doesn't tell it–

At the very edge of the parking lot, to their right, disaster strikes. A Rattata presses itself as low to the ground as humanly possible, but its small purple body against the gray concrete is clear as day. Fear jolts through his nerves, and his hands strain further against the wheel.

“Oooh, a Rattata! Dad, can I catch him?” June asks while her face is fully pressed to the smudge-filled glass.

“What Ratta–oh, that? Maybe later, if it’s still around. And if your Mom says it’s ok,” Sleighs says. He glances over to Grigori and sees the looming disaster in front of them. “Hey, don’t focus on the Pokémon. Eyes on the road, man.”

“B-but–”

The small rodent, hell-bent on whatever grabs its interest at the moment, continues its inevitable war path forward. Now the researcher’s breaths get heavier. “Wha-what do I do, Sleigh?! It’s getting closer!”

“I don’t know, just stop or go around it? It’ll get spooked sooner or later. Keep calm, Grigori, we’ll be fine.”

Nothing is fine. Their paths get closer and closer, until the point of no return is nearly upon them. Grigori only gets more agitated. All is forgotten in those key moments. Moments he spends trying to jam his lock of a foot back onto the brakes. Damn it if all the stuff strewn around the vehicle gets thrown around hazardously, at least he wouldn’t be responsible for the death of this oblivious Rattata.

However, muscle memory takes over. Instead of that unfun but consistent stopping motion, the world gets faster. Sleigh and June jump in their seats, but for opposing reasons.

“WOOOOOOOOO, THAT’S IT GREGORY!”

“FUCK, FUCK, THE BRAKES, THE BRAKES!”

Grigori is not looking forward. He is looking off to the right as the purple body, rightfully spooked, now runs with its tail between its legs. "Thank goodness, we missed the–"

Deafening loudness follows as they plunge right into the side of the garage.

—----

“I’m so sorry, Sleigh.”

“It’s okay, Grigori. Just a car. We can fix those.”

“But the wall–”

“I know, Grigori. We’ll get someone to fix it.”

“But June–”

“Can we do that again, Gregory? Dad never lets us do stuff like that!”

“Junebug, you were never in the car. You hear?”

“But–”

“No buts, Junebug. Mom will be very mad if she knew you were in the car. And you won’t see me for a whole month. You don’t want that, right?”

“No…”

“I’ll pay for it all, Mr. Sleigh. I’m so sorry. Maybe… next time, I’ll not make the same mistake.”

“Grigori, with all due respect, you’re on your own for this one. Sign up for a driving class, or renew your bus pass.”

“Oh… but–”

“Grigori, I’m sorry, but it’s over my dead body that you learn to drive from me.”

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Prompt - Recreation

Word Count - Lol, lmao