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[attr="class","wiingtop3"]REGARDLESS

[attr="class","wiingtop4"]OF WARNINGS, THE FUTURE DOESN'T SCARE ME AT ALL

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You remember the first time that Marco broke your heart. [break][break]

God, how old were you again? Somewhere between sixteen and eighteen, probably, because you hadn't yet graduated. You know this because this memory is wrapped in the sweltering heat of mid-summer, but you weren't stuck working at your mom's cafe yet, so this probably happened during the summer break. [break][break]

The context makes sense, because you and Marco were engaging in the time-honored tradition of gorging yourselves on junk food and taking turns playing games on his Playstation 2. The curtains were drawn because otherwise the glare of the mid-day sun would make the display of the CRT impossible to make out. You sat next to each other on the floor, backs pressed against the side of his bed, sitting so close that you still remember the way the traces of sweat made arms and knees stick to each other. He had a bag of his favorite chips to his left, and you had a pack of beef jerky to your right. It was pure, contented bliss. [break][break]

The selfish bastard didn't have much in the way of two player games, but you both had ways of making the single player ones a collaborative effort. For example, when he booted up the colorful RPG he'd gotten a few months back, he had you make the selection of weapon he was going to start with. He gave you shit for picking the shield over the sword, but you've always wanted to be a bastion that others could shield themselves behind; that he could shield himself behind. You watched how effortless it was for Marco to fight off waves of enemies, their wavering forms like animated blobs of ink in color and shape, even as he continued to tease you for picking the shittiest weapon out of the bunch. You both delighted in the catchy music of the first proper starting area and were awed by the graphical fidelity of the sun-swept beach. When the two of you met the protagonist's friend and rival, you pointed at the crunchy CRT display and said, 'Look, that's you!' [break][break]

Marco scoffed at this because that couldn't be right, he was the protagonist. But the silver-haired boy seemed a much better fit, then and now. Marco was always cooler in temperament and more level-headed then you, and something about the tenderhearted protagonist still resonates with you. You'd never say that part out loud, though, but you weren't given much chance to as the two of you were swept up in remainder of the cutscene. [break][break]

You and Marco continued on like this for some time, quipping and bantering as the story played out, Marco occasionally handing off the controller to you so you could get a chance to play. You were pretty content just spectating, though. He was always better at video games then you were, and besides, the story-driven nature of the game made it feel a little bit like watching a movie. Hell, the writing was certainly better than any movies you'd seen recently. You felt something twinge in your chest as the silver-haired boy on the screen tossed a peculiar star-shaped fruit to the protagonist; it felt poignant, somehow, but maybe that's because for a brief moment, you transposed yourself and Marco over the two polygonal characters. Later, another scene played out, of the protagonist and who you presumed to be his love interest gazing out onto the horizon, the setting rays of the sun washing over the waves like a watercolor vista. It made your heart ache, but that's also something you'd never admit. Getting emotional over a video game isn't something you thought Marco would ever let you live down. [break][break]

As the scene transitioned to a new one of an almost saccharine fairy-tale setting, Marco stopped and muted the TV. When you turned to him to protest his decision, you realized that your faces were far closer than you had anticipated. Soft brown eyes stared into your own, lips just barely parted when he asked you if you'd ever kissed anyone before. You scoffed incredulously at this and tried to deflect; where the hell was this coming from? He pushed the issue but pivoted, very deliberate when he said that he hadn't, and you called him a fucking liar. He was handsome and charismatic and from the outside, had that touch of cool aloofness that would send any girl at school into a goddamn fit. [break][break]

The next thing he said short-circuited the synapses in your brain so dramatically that you were almost surprised that he couldn't hear the sounds of fraying wires and electrical sparks coming from your fucking skull. He asked you if you could be his first kiss. Your face must have been beet red from the way he laughed at the sight of it, but there was a spark of innocent delight in his eyes that almost instantaneously evaporated any perceived malice at the gesture. When he looked back up at you, he had regained his composure, and there was something deathly serious in his expression when he reiterated the question. All you could do was nod dumbly in response, because the part of your brain that governed speech had been thoroughly shot. [break][break]

That was all Marco needed in reply, though. He closed the distance between the two of you, soft lips gently meeting your own. It was a careful, unsteady gesture. You returned it with greater force and gusto with none of the finesse that he probably wanted to receive, but if he had any complaints, he certainly didn't voice them. The two of you stayed like this for a while, trading soft kisses in the darkness of his bedroom, haloed by the light of the CRT, only for him to pull away far too soon when the light from the display suddenly dimmed. He shouted in frustration when he was presented with a “Game Over” screen, the protagonist floating in a void of darkness with a crystalline heart rotating over his supine form. You still think about the image when you recall how the day ended. [break][break]

The two of you returned to your video game until the sun's last fading rays began to sink behind the horizon of the world outside. It wasn't a world you wanted to return to though; you wanted to stay here, with Marco, experiencing this colorful game world with him, with your arm draped across his shoulders. But when he pushed himself to his feet and you did the same, he paused a moment after he flicked on the light. Maybe there was something he saw in you, now exposed by the lamp that brightly illuminated the room with incandescent light, that he didn't see before in the half-light of the CRT. He looked at you, more serious that you'd ever seen him, and implored you to keep the intimate moment shared between the two of you secret. [break][break]

As you've grown, you've come to find that you could never deny Marco anything, no matter how much it hurt you. This was probably the start of it, when you emphatically replied than any secret left with you would be safely kept. He smiled, with that soft, boyish look of his, thanked you, and saw you on your way out of his home. Stepping into the muggy darkness of the summer night beyond, you turned to look at him one more time before returning home for the night. [break][break]

He stood in the open doorway of his home, silhoutted by the bright lights of the interior spilling out into the world of night you found yourself cloaked in. It was like staring at the sun; the contrast of bright light and dark shadows made it hard to hold your gaze, but hold you did, because he was your sun. Warmth and life-sustaining radiance; it all blossomed impossibly in your chest when he gave you a gentle wave from his throne of light. You returned the gesture before finally leaving. [break][break]

The world felt much colder without his light to bask in.

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1343 words

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beau, part 1/??

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[attr="class","wiingtop3"]PLEASE

[attr="class","wiingtop4"]TELL ME IT'S NOT TRUE. LOOK IN MY EYES, WE CAN WORK THIS OUT

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The second time Marco broke your heart was a terrible portent of things to come. [break][break]

In your memory, much of your twenties blur together in a dreamlike haze of drunken overindulgence. You were still young, both of you were, and while Marco opted to attend the local community college, you spent your days hard at work doing whatever back-breaking labor was necessary. You'd often find yourselves reconvening in the evening or on the weekends, as close as you ever were as kids, but now twice as boisterous as you both drank yourselves stupid. [break][break]

God, those were the fucking days. You still relish the memories of the two of you perched on bar stools and the way he'd lean into you when he had too much to drink. Knees would knock into each other as he drew himself in close to whisper some clandestine observation of the other patrons, and you'd mutter something conspiratorial in response just to watch the way the corners of his eyes crinkled in delight. You always could hold your liquor better than he could, which also meant that you were the one stuck with making sure he made it home in one piece. You cherish these memories too, of his side pressed flush against yours, leaning his entire weight into you, heat coming off of him like a furnace. He'd babble about some thing or another until you made it to his apartment, and you'd see him inside just long enough to make sure that he didn't hurt himself on the way to his bed or the couch. To this day, you're surprised that your old shirts don't still smell like that god awful two-in-one body wash/shampoo of his, or of the cheap liquor that the both of you imbibed. [break][break]

Did you know you were in love with him back then? You had to have, right? That's why these moments still have such a stranglehold on your memory. The warmth of his hands holding on to you for dear life as you two drunkenly staggered through the dark, the stink of the alcohol on his breath. You still replay those memories like a worn-out cassette tape in the theater of your mind. You two were so close then, tantalizingly close. But you were too much of a fucking coward to bridge the gap. [break][break]

At some point, he began to draw away from you. You'd still drink together, sure, but he no longer leaned into you the way he once did. If anything, he'd shift away if the two of you got too close, almost frightened by the touch that used to bring you both such comfort. He no longer wanted you to walk him home, but you still did it anyway because his tolerance for alcohol hadn't gotten any better. One time, Marco practically scowled at you as you followed him to his apartment door, only for him to slam it in your face. He was apologetic in the morning, but you insisted that the two of you needed to hash this shit out. [break][break]

That's when you learned, days later back at his place, that he had been seeing a girl at the community college. The revelation stung more than it should have, your chest tightening fiercely enough for you to run your hand across your sternum, soothing the sore spot. What came next hurt worse; Marco acknowledged what he called the “touchy-feely” nature of your friendship up until this point, and demanded that it stopped. People had begun to say things to him, he explained, insinuating that there was some sort of nefarious undercurrent to your friendship that he refused to name. You barked back in anger, demanding to know when the fuck he started giving a shit about what other people thought. He stared back like you'd grown a second head, and in hindsight, you realize that it was a pretty hypocritical thing for you to say. [break][break]

But you couldn't help it; you didn't want your friendship to change, to grow apart from the man you wanted to spend every waking hour with. As it turned out, you didn't get much of a say in the matter despite his insistence that the two of you would remain friends. You remember storming out of his apartment, and growing increasingly furious when you realized he wasn't going to chase or call after you. You couldn't tell if it's because he didn't know what to say, or if he just didn't fucking care. He was just going to let you stew in your shit; you were on your own for this one. [BREAK][BREAK]

So in the hazy glow of dusk, you started trudging back home, intentionally taking a roundabout path through the field behind the small house you were staying in. As you trekked through the yellowed grass, you could do nothing but fume at your current circumstances. You couldn't articulate exactly why you were so fucking angry, only that you were. And when your thoughts settled upon the revelation that he was seeing someone, it was enough for you to loose a shout of agonized rage. You cried like a wounded animal, howling for no one to hear, mourning a future for the two of you that would never come to pass. [break][break]

The noise is what probably drew your new friend's attention on that muggy evening. By the time you'd gotten some of the angst out of your system, you had noticed a black shape closing in from the west. You squinted in the low light of dusk; what was it? A person? A Pokemon? As it grew nearer, you tilted your head quizzically at the thing you saw. [break][break]

A lanky bull calf was trotting your way, his curled horns barely more than nubs against his skull. His tails whipped about as he approached, dark eyes settling on you with curiosity. You asked him 'hey little man, where's your herd?', to which the calf just snorted in reply. He stared quizzically at you, and you stared right back. The anger inside of your chest fizzled out and died as the young Tauros trotted up to you, bumping his head roughly against your gut. You pretended that you had been mortally injured and fell over, only for the bull calf to suddenly press his wet snout to your cheek, sniffing with sudden concern for your safety. You laughed and pushed him off, rising to your feet. He followed you all the way home, straggling a little behind you, but you were happy for the company. [break][break]

You almost couldn't believe it when you came out the next morning to find the Tauros calf still there, grazing on some grass just beyond the cracked concrete patio out back. You came out to greet him, gently patting him on the side as he contentedly munched on the dying lawn. You went back inside and came back with an apple, which he happily took. [break][break]

In the days that followed, he lingered outside your home, enjoying your company when it was offered, eagerly consuming any food or drink that you presented to him, and he became something of a fixture in your life to fill in the growing space that Marco had begun to leave behind. Not that you ever stopped thinking about Marco; you still saw each other in the days that followed, but the bar crawls quickly became a thing of the past. You kept a stiff upper lip about the whole ordeal, steadfast in your desire to be a good friend to him even if you couldn't be anything more. Marco seemed appreciative, but you sometimes caught a sad glint in his eye when the two of you would pass by some of your old haunts. [break][break]

It was actually he that recommended catching the Tauros, suggesting that maybe the lanky little thing had been abandoned by his herd, or his family had otherwise been preyed upon by other Pokemon. You thought it was a wonderful idea, and hurried home that night with a Poke Ball in hand. When presented with his newest gift, the little calf, gracious as he ever was, accepted it with a dignity that you hadn't anticipated for a creature so young. He touched his snout to the button of the little capsule, and in a blaze of red light, he was safely tucked away, yours to keep. [break][break]

No matter who has come and gone from your life in the years that followed, Beau has remained a permanent fixture. He's been a comfort to you, and you feel as though the gift of his companionship is one you could never adequately repay. But maybe another apple or two will suffice for now.

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1445 words

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beau, part 2/??

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[attr="class","wiingtop3"]PIECE

[attr="class","wiingtop4"]BY PIECE LET THE COLORS INTERTWINE

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The third time Marco broke your heart was not long after you broke his. [break][break]

Most of your thirties have been spent living lies, and the overwhelming dishonesty of the way you've been living has started to smother you. For what it's worth, none of those lies were founded in malice, and you still tell yourself that you're the one that was hurt the most by them. That's mostly true, though the girl you shacked up with for a couple of years to placate your parents is still nursing the broken heart you left behind (I know, I know, you'd give anything to take that back). [break][break]

Perhaps the biggest lie that you told yourself was that maybe Marco would come around one of these days. You had remained friends with him, knew him longer than anyone else in your life, but in the last few months, a new chasm had formed between the two of you. You two never got back to being as close as you were as children, but now he pulled ever further away from you. He went from texting you almost every day to leaving you on 'Read' for almost a week at a time. The weekly-ish hangout sessions dwindled to being reserved for holidays, birthdays, and special occasions only. His social media presence didn't change much, outside of a new flood of pictures of him and his longtime girlfriend. It hurt, it really did, but you were used to the pain by now. [break][break]

That was, until, he showed up at your apartment completely unannounced one stormy summer evening, face flushed and clothes drenched. You hastily ushered him inside, but when you took his coat, you could smell the familiar reek of cheap booze on his breath. God damn did that bring you back, but that was not worth dwelling on, not when he was so obviously distressed. [break][break]

You sat him down on your secondhand couch, careful to maintain that distance he so desperately clung to these days when you seated yourself next to him, and you tried to gently coax out an explanation. He mostly babbled incoherently for the first few minutes, not exactly crying, but agitated as his whiskey-soaked tongue fumbled over the words pouring out. Something about a fight with his girl, something about how you were the only one he could turn to, something about how much your friendship meant to him.[break][break]

You laid a careful hand on his shoulder, afraid that he'd bolt like a startled Ponyta, but instead he practically melted under your calloused palm. He collapsed against you, breaths now coming out in shuddering sobs as he buried his face into your broad chest, and you wrapped your arms around him like he was the most important thing in your world (because he was). When his trembling, gasping cries finally evened out, Marco finally looked up at you from your tear-stained shirt. [break][break]

You'll never forget the way he looked in the dim light of your apartment; soft, brown eyes wet with tears, face flushed from cheap booze and his broken heart, black locks of hair framing his face in an unruly halo. You don't think you've ever seen a man look so vulnerable before; he looked beautiful, but your heart surged with the protective desire to make sure no one ever made him feel like this again. Staring up at you with those doleful eyes, Marco asked you what he should do. [break][break]

You wanted to tell him to dump his girlfriend and come to live with you, that you've loved him, and will always love him. You wanted to tell him that you've got a decent paying job that could support the both of you, and you'd never hurt him or make him cry, and that you wanted to spend every morning waking up early to fix him coffee and his favorite foods for breakfast. You wanted to tell him that you've never stopped thinking about that muggy summer of your boyhood days where you first realized you loved him, when he kissed you. [break][break]

But it wasn't that simple; it could never be that simple. On the one hand, there was a very real possibility that he'd never talk to you again if you told him something like that, but on the other... well, it was impossible not to come to some sort of conclusion when he came to you, drunk and pitiful, and when he looked at you in that moment like you were the center of his universe. You thought about the old days drinking and leaning on each other, the closeness of your youth; that couldn't have been nothing, right? Hell, it'd be easier if he did just reject you outright. It wasn't the pushing away you feared, but the ramifications of being pulled in. But, that was simply out of the question; he was intoxicated and vulnerable and if he did feel a fraction of the passion you felt for him, to say or enact anything while he was so compromised would be wrong. After all, you did say that you'd never hurt him. [break][break]

So, like a good friend, you told him that he could crash on your couch tonight, and that he should probably try to discuss the situation with his girlfriend once he was sober. The two were adults, so surely they could hash this out once the heat of the initial argument finally fizzled out. He paused for a moment, staring at you with watery eyes. There was something in them you couldn't quite read as he looked at you, but that's not much of a surprise; you were never the best with feelings. He slowly pulled back, wiping snot and tears onto his shirt, and nodded numbly. You grabbed a spare pillow and your duvet from the bedroom, made him drink some of your bottled water from the fridge to stave off the hangover he was probably going to be dealing with the next day, and more or less tucked him into bed as he sank into the couch cushions. For your part, you didn't get much sleep that night; you just lie awake in bed, straining your ears to listen to his breathing, until you finally nodded off in the early hours of morning. [break][break]

Marco was long gone by the time you woke up, and only offered terse one or two word responses to any texts you sent him. It wasn't long after (a week, maybe two?) that you saw a photo of his girlfriend online, wearing a shiny new engagement ring adorned with an ostentatious gem. It was when you sent your own curt text of congratulations that the gears finally started turning. [break][break]

You couldn't do this anymore. You had wasted years and years of your life pining for someone that would never reciprocate your feelings, and you were at a fucking tipping point. You started working like a dog just to keep the new sinking lows of heartbreak at bay, but with the extra cash you amassed, you got a crazy little inkling of an idea. [break][break]

What if you just left all this behind? The family that would never understand you, the man that broke your heart over and over, the regrets of a life wasted; you could just fucking leave. That was stupid... right? But it was something you could actually, physically, tangibly do. The idea lodged itself into your mind like a bad infection, pitching you into feverish daydreams while you bounced between the construction site and the odd jobs you'd picked up to fill your time. You could just get up and go, and you'd finally be free. [break][break]

You still weren't sure about the idea until the date of Marco's wedding loomed close, and you realized that there wasn't a spot at the ceremony for you. You'd never call him out on that, though, despite the fact that apparently almost thirty years of friendship meant nothing to him. He picked some schlub you went to high school with to be his best man, and you picked out a date to put in your two weeks notice at work. You tersely rejected any attempts he made to talk to you as you packed away your things and listed others for sale online. You didn't even bother to tell him that you were leaving until he just showed up again one day, when the cold chill of December was setting in. You were getting really fucking sick of him just waltzing into and out of your life like that. [break][break]

Thankfully, this conversation was blissfully brief. You explained that you were moving away, that you had had something of a “mid life crisis” and were looking for a change. He sheepishly explained that he was going to be getting out of Cascarrafa himself, that he and the missus were relocating to a spot in Mesagoza with better job opportunities. It seemed like he was trying to say something more, but you shut him out completely. It was liberating, finally being able to more or less tell him to fuck off and to get on with his life. He didn't look so much sad when he left as he did resigned; whatever ship he had been trying to board had long since sailed. [break][break]

Still, that didn't stop you from inviting him to your going-away part with the boys from the construction site, nor did it stop you from making a very public and deliberate post online featuring a picture of your grinning face at the airport. As you paced back and forth by the windows at the boarding gate, watching the planes land and take off from the runway beyond, a small part of you hoped that you'd look up and find him there. There was still this delusional little daydream in which your gaze would find him bounding to you across the airport, telling you that he was terrible and that he regretted everything and that he was going to leave his wife for you, and that you'd scoop him up in your arms and tell him everything would be alright now. [break][break]

But the fairy-tale fantasy was dispelled by cold reality as you boarded the plane; there was no Marco to run to you like a made-for-TV love story, just a cabin full of strangers and your carry-on filled with clothes and Pokeballs and not much else. Still, a new fantasy began to draw itself from the depths of your imagination as you shoved the peppermint gum into your mouth and you felt the force of the take-off pull on your body. It was something more hopeful, more optimistic as you stared out the window, watching the plane break through the clouds, to emerge into a world of vapor and light. Maybe, just maybe, you could make a new life for yourself. You could go somewhere where nobody knew your name, and you could live without the burdens of the lies you left on the continent below. [break][break]

Your heart soared like the little metal bird you found yourself sitting in when you realized that you were already on the way there, and that maybe, with a fresh start, you could turn that fantasy into a reality.

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1868 words

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beau, part 3/??

[attr="class","milkcredit"]milky

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[attr="class","wiingtop3"]TO THE

[attr="class","wiingtop4"]NIGHT AND IT'S STARS, TO BE HERE AND NOW AND WHO WE ARE

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It was a little bittersweet, leaving your home behind. While you were bound and determined to get a fresh start, there are some things you find yourself sorely missing about Cascarrafa. [break][break]

Shockingly, one of the biggest things you've come to miss are the guys back at Catalano Construction, the place you'd been working at for the better part of twenty god damn years (oh God, you're so old). Francisco Catalano was a stubborn old blowhard with a heart of gold, and he was the man who gave you a chance to do some good, honest work back when you didn't know plaster from epoxy. He was the guy that put the tools in your hands and turned you loose; he'd pitch a fit if you called in sick (probably since most of the time you did it was because you were actually badly hungover instead of actually being ill), but you also remember the way he nearly came to blows defending you from some contractor who didn't like the way you were installing insulation on a residential build. Old man Catalano knew when to bark and knew when to bite, but most importantly, he knew when to ease off the reigns and cut you guys some slack. [break][break]

Like the time he sent little Ricky Torres home when the poor kid came to the day's job site damn-near in tears. The wiry little bastard never missed a day of work (which, for a while, you kinda resented him for because it made you look pretty bad), but he'd just lost his grandma the night prior and thought he could power through the grief to keep his sterling attendance record spotless. Your jaw nearly dropped when you saw the normally cantankerous old foreman pull the twentyish-year-old into a hug, squeezing tighter when the younger man's shoulders began to shake as he sobbed into Catalano's shirt. If memory serves right, he kept Ricky off the job for a week and took a chunk out of his own pay to make sure the kid wouldn't be left penniless while he grieved. It was little things like that that kept you working for Catalano for as long as you did. [break][break]

There were other things you liked about working for Catalano, too, because he wasn't the only old bastard that you became weirdly fond of over the course of your time working there. There was Hase, who was quick with a joke and quicker with a tall tale - his favorite was some salacious gossip about how he was related to the local gym leader, but you never believed him because he couldn't battle for shit. Then there was Javier and Abraham, a pair of twins who actually could hold their own in a Pokemon battle because they always tried to turn everything between the two of them into a competition. There was also Phil, a Cyclizar-riding enthusiast who gave absolutely dogshit dating advice, and finally, there was gruff old Elias, a stoic but comforting figure you could always turn to for some actually sound advice. You'd felt a particular kinship with him after one day you watched him linger at a work site for some time after the others left, waiting for something. You hadn't been sure what he was waiting for, exactly, until an old red pick-up truck with a rust-eaten fender skidded up to the lot, kicking up dust. You watched with some astonishment as Elias was roughly pulled into an embrace by the thickly-built driver with streaks of gray in his beard, holding the other man with a fondness that definitely ran deeper than something just friendly or familial. Maybe Elias, who was normally very tight-lipped about his personal life, hadn't noticed you were there that day. Or maybe, as you began to suspect later in life, he knew that you two had more in common than the other boys might have thought. [break][break]

Either way, as the days pass by in Hoenn, you've come to realize that you miss those bastards something fierce. Maybe you ought to take a trip back home at some point, just to check in on how everyone is doing. Maybe you'll wait 'til you make it big so you can have something to brag about when you all meet back up at the old watering hole again. But even if you never set foot back in Paldea, you find yourself wishing each and every one of those odd fellows well. You have yet to meet any folks like them in this new region, and you're not sure if you ever will.

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752 words

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stella, part 1/??