The opening turns find Klaus and Olenna hemmed in on both sides, curtailing their ability to maneuver one way or the other, making it nigh impossible to pull ahead, but it also does precisely what Klaus was hoping it would. It gives him a feel for the track, for the tightness of the turns and how to take them more effectively on the next go around. 

Olenna's hoofbeats are a steady rhythm drumming out her excitement as Ace and Raiden begin to fall behind. Leaving the zebstrika in the dust serves to tickle her pride, energizing the rapidash. Klaus can feel it in the quickening of her stride as they thunder across the bridge. She was born for straightaways and she's not afraid to show it, pressing her speed advantage in the hopes of catching up with Josh and his espeon, who managed to slip past on the opening turns to take an early lead. They'll need to make good time if they're going to avoid being passed by the other riders as the track begins to narrow. Klaus shifts his body closer to Olenna's, hoping for a bit less wind resistance on the straight-away, knowing that even a few seconds can make all the difference. 

As the first of the longer turns approaches, Klaus lets Olenna choose her own heading, deferring to her instincts for the time being, letting her play.

He can feel the effort of taking the first turn in her muscles as they flex beneath his thighs - Strong. Capable. - She's in her element here, on a track with other racers, pushing herself to best them. It's what she was made for, what Klaus really ought to be finding more time to let her do. And, if he's being entirely honest with himself, Olenna isn't the only one who needed this. Some time away from it all. No Douglas to hassle him, no pretty words in need of saying, no roll to play. Nothing but wind, and dust, and the rush of adrenaline coursing through his veins, like a performance high without the brief come down between songs. 

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"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

☉

A hush falls over the crowd as the racers take their places at the starting line, allowing the broadcast to catch every last delicious bit of pre-race trash talk. Funny, Klaus couldn't give a flying fuck whether he won or lost, that was Douglas's problem, not his. Win or lose, Olenna was guaranteed to have the time of her life fighting to pull ahead of the other racers and, as far as Klaus was concerned, that was the only part of this little publicity stunt that mattered. A badge would be a nice feather in his cap, sure, but winning wasn't everything. He'd learned that the hard way.

Success came with its own pitfalls. Of course, that wasn't about to stop Klaus from pleasing the crowd by responding in kind. "Better hold on tight if you want to keep that title of yours, I've been riding since I could walk." And he had been, more or less, even if it had started with his father steadying him in the saddle while his legs dangled awkwardly to either side and too small hands clung to Olenna's mane for dear life, afraid to fall even with support. Way more afraid of falling than burning, but that had been before his father had given him something else to be afraid of, and a reason to run.

Klaus and Olenna had been nigh inseparable while he was still not enough leg, too much elbow, unsure of when to lean, and when to urge caution, and when to get out of both of their ways and let Olenna do what she did best, but he'd learned over the years, and he wouldn't be having any of those problems today.

Today, pokemon and rider were as one. Klaus leaned forward ever so slightly, preparing for the starting buzzer and that first rush of momentum, laughing aloud as Olenna tossed her head and a shower of sparks marked her impatience. A shower of sparks that some of the other racers and their pokemon did not seem to be taking kindly to despite the fact that the embers were without heat. 

Klaus flashed them a grin as a message appeared on the prompter ahead, heralded by a low squawking sound. 

"GET READY"

Instead of tensing, Klaus allowed his body to relax against Olenna as he kept a loose grip on her reigns. Knees bent. Eyes forward. He was ready. They both were.

"GO!" 

Klaus squeezed at her sides and they were off, Olenna's hooves thundering against the track in time with the other pokemon as she kept pace with the pack, conserving her energy despite how badly she wanted to run full tilt until her reserves were spent and they were both panting with exhaustion. A good thing, considering the curves that Klaus could see up ahead, growing closer and closer with each passing second. 

Hugging the inside of the track would give them the advantage but it would mean tighter turns and they might lose position if they muxed up the timing while trying to slide past the other racers. On the other hand, sticking to the far edge would mean covering a greater distance and, over three laps, that would add up. As they reached the first of the three turns, Klaus decided to stay precisely where he was and take the them slightly inside of center to get a feel for the track. Better that than make an early mistake trying to shave off a few seconds that could easily be made up as soon as they reached a straightaway. 

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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

☉

Klaus's respite is short-lived as he follows a member of gym security through the facility and out onto the track. The stands are packed, the cheering suddenly defeating as the man beside Klaus instructs him to join the other riders for introductions.

'So much for peace and quiet.' Hopefully the rush of the wind will be enough to help him block them out. Or maybe he could pretend that he was back home, Olenna pulling further and further away from the farm. Pretend that if he went just a little bit farther, a little bit faster, he wouldn't have to return at the end of the day. 

That had been the dream, once upon a time, to escape the smell of hay, and pokemon shit, and the feel of his father's fists pounding into him with purpose, furious with him for daring to take his prized ponyta for a joyride and trying to write that fury across Klaus's body with his fists. A few bruises to mark his displeasure. The red hot line of his belt if he'd been drinking. It's a small wonder that he hadn't sent the authorities after Klaus the day he'd left. Not because his "ungrateful little shit of a son" needed to be hauled back and taught a lesson, but because he'd had the audacity to take Olenna with him. She'd been smaller then, but no less fierce. 

Klaus shoves the thought aside - he's free now. Free, and better than all of that. He lets his fingers settle on the pokeball housing Olenna. No longer a ponyta and, just like Klaus, no longer beholden to his father's will. They've both grown over the years. Klaus into fame and Olenna into her own. 

The moment she's freed, Olenna tosses her head, throwing a shower of embers as her fiery mane leaps and dances with the motion.

Klaus remains unphased as the embers fall around him like tiny red stars, knowing from experience that they won't burn unless she wants them to. His lips quirk into a small private smile as one of the embers lands on his hand as he reaches out to run a hand along Olenna's withers. It'll be good to lose himself in the rush of riding. Between concerts and a seemingly endless stream of  meet and greets it's been far too long since he's been able to give her a proper chance to stretch her legs.

It goes quiet in the stands as Klaus and Olenna make their way over to Josh and the other riders for  introductions, but the murmuring begins anew as the crowd begins to realize that it's nearly time for the race to begin and Olenna isn't being outfitted with a saddle.

Klaus smirks as finishes his own introductions and gathers Olenna's reins alongside a fistful of undulating mane. The flames snake around his hand as it closes, licking at his gloves without setting them aflame, and one has to wonder if she's somehow helping Klaus up as he swings himself up onto her back in a single fluid motion. It's definitely not the sort of move anyone is expecting from an idol and the crowd goes wild. 

As Olenna moves to the starting arch with the others, Klaus looks over the competition, noting which riders shift awkwardly in their saddles as they move and which are seated with confidence. Which pokemon's eyes glitter with excitement at the prospect of racing and which look bored as Josh explains the rules of the competition. 

"Understood." And Maybe he ought to say more (he's being watched after all - stands full, live broadcast streaming). Douglas would tell him to give another shout out to his fans, but Klaus remains resolutely silent, eyes fixed on the track ahead because, for all that his agent planned this as yet another publicity stunt, Klaus isn't doing this for the idiots screaming themselves hoarse in the stands, waiting to see how he'll perform, he's doing this for Olenna.

Notes:

• Olenna the Rapidash = spd - 4, end - 2 , rct - 2. She has agility for later use.

The hum of the engine has Klaus lost in thought. Or maybe he's just trying to ignore his minder, because of course his agent had sent along a fucking minder. A "new assistant" he'd called the man with that too smug smile of his, the one that said he knew exactly what he was doing. There to take care of his every need. Ha! More like there to ensure that Klaus doesn't take any detours or decide to back out at the last minute. As if Klaus doesn't know what's at stake here. As if he'd fuck himself just to make a liar of Cole Douglas. Tempting though the thought is, he's not an idiot.

Publicity is everything in this business, much as he's loathe to admit it, Cole's right about that much, and this particular stunt will have people talking for weeks. That's how it'd been billed to him anyhow. How Cole had eventually overcome his reservations with a well timed "how dare you deny the public a chance to watch you flourish in the face of adversity" or some other equally trite bullshit, as though a gym challenge were nothing more than a cleverly staged parlor trick. Who knows, maybe the bastard had rigged the whole thing. Klaus wouldn't put it past him, arranging a sure bet. Not like it'd  be the first time.

'Because what in my life isn't a farce at this point?' he thinks as he watches the city zip by. Building after unremarkable building blurring together into the perfect backdrop for his misery. A gym challenge ought to be a private thing, win or lose, a test of bonds that the public has no right to.

Heh. Who the fuck is he trying to kid? He signed away the rights to his privacy, to any life that wasn't this, years ago. Now it's all reporters and fans waiting to mob him the moment the car stops and he steps outside the vehicle all the way down. 

Klaus's firsts tighten as the cars slows to a halt outside Mauville City Gym. He forces them to relax again. Flashes his stupid fucking minder a stupid fucking smile, the kind that his fans eat up. The world awaits. Sink or swim, succeed or fail, all eyes will be on him. 

It's an effort to make himself move. To open the door and cross that last bit of distance between blessed privacy and the public eye, to take up the mantle of Ventis, Prince of Song, once more. But he does it. Of course he does, what other choice does he have? This is his life now, for better or worse. He's no longer an awkward, gangly child mucking out stalls or suffering through the worst of his father's wrath, but it's still a prison. Always a prison. At least now it's one of his own making. 

Ventis steps from the car, a smile stretched across his face as he waves to the crowd that's amassed outside the gym. "Wow. So many people," he says, all earnestness and false delight as he pauses to grin at a nearby camera. "Thank you for coming all this way to support me, everyone!"

"Are you nervous about your chances today?" A question from the crowd. "Josh Devlin is no slouch when it comes to speed, if fact some would say he excels at it, what made you choose to challenge him to a race instead of a battle?" Another question. Fucking reporters. Always with the endless stream of pointless questions. As if Klaus had chosen any of this. 

"It sounded like fun! Besides, my pokemon are more lovers than fighters." He sidesteps the issue with practiced finesse, falling into a relative non-answer. Keeping his cool. Keeping control of the situation. "Besides, I'm sure I'll win my challenge with so much love and support behind me. How could I not?" 'How indeed?' some part of him scoffs. 'Because a bunch of screaming idiots isn't the least bit distracting.' 

"Now, you'll all have to excuse me, I don't want to keep Mr. Devlin waiting."

It's a palpable relief when the doors click shut behind him. Every last one of them will be watching, but at least the press won't be allowed inside for the duration of the challenge. Klaus touches the single pokeball attached to his belt. Well, that and he's got Olenna by his side for this one. 

'Let them watch.' Once he and Olenna are on the track, not one of them is going to matter anyway. 

Josh Devlin

☉

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

☉