Chapter Text
If anything were to bring Larry comfort, it would be the Treasure eatery.
Unchanged for as many years as he’s been alive, it was a testament to the power of hard work. Though hard times had befallen it in the past, it would always bounce back. It would always re-garner the attention it once had, and it would always have a firm place in the heart of Medali. It was built upon the backs of those who worked there long enough to grow to adore it, and those who had loved it from the very start. It was safe. Secure. A pillar of the community.
He was told he would be such a thing when he applied for the job initially. Something with power, with sway, with enough leverage to make a name for himself… But he had to start somewhere. That somewhere being the bottom rung of the ladder. Pulling his way up with everything he could possibly muster, he landed himself powerful, influential positions. But standing beside the others in positions such as his, he couldn’t help but feel… Different. Strange.
Normal.
Normalcy is comfort; fit in, dress down, keep the façade up at any cost. It makes money. It makes time. It makes a hard worker, even if working hard has never been the buildup for any sort of passion. Being good at that which you dislike… It forms a disconnect. A wedge between the self and the being, between action and thought. Emotion has no place in the workplace. So stifle it, keep it down. He’s just one of many, nestled tight within the honeycomb of the white-walled cubicles, stacked one by one by one once more.
But normalcy… Normalcy is also forgettable.
He barely knows his coworkers. His boss overworks him. Give it to him, no matter how long it’s taken to get there; he’ll get it done. Who is he again? Oh, you’ll know him when you see him. But no one ever knows. Pinch-hitter, hard-worker, overtime time and time again. He’s called employee, he’s called gym leader, he’s called elite four member.
But never Larry.
He’s never called Larry. The one thing he would prefer to be; himself.
It never comes. It never blossoms.
One option presents itself; Play into it. Become the whetstone that the blades are sharpened upon, not the iron, nor the forge, nor the blacksmith. The cornerstone. The bottommost block in the building, that all else is supported upon.
Take on the stress of the world, so the world can continue to spin.
He’s lost track of how long he’s been here. Quiet, average days, and the subtle bustle of the small city beyond... All of it was far, far beyond him. This is the one time he gets to himself.
Few and far-between, Larry’s breaks and days off are spent indulging in the small passion he still has left. Kindling, the Treasure Eatery; and the torch, their splendid offerings. Though he makes money, most of it is re-invested in that which he does at work. Shouldn’t the budget have room for sticky notes, for printer paper and ink cartridges? No, it comes from his pocket, spiraling outward and downward from his pockets like the red-ticked trend marks across the company’s finances.
He's taken more pay cuts than he has promotions. Some day, it’ll pay off.
…Won’t it?
Thoughts burgeon. Thoughts grow, thoughts bloom, and thoughts are choked out if they do not fit the cookie-cutter outline built in your image. But not your image, no, the image which you have conformed to. Thoughts spiral. Thoughts die.
Thinking of a different life he’ll never have is something that plagues him far too often. Conditioned, trained, killed on sight. The thoughts he never shares are hidden, even from him.
The cool pale light of the moon shines in through the square, monotonous windows lining the eatery. The same scenery he’s grown so used to, now painted in a different light. His plate glimmers in a way unlike it ever has. It’s off-putting. Something about tonight is different… It irks him. If things are not exactly the same, poised in the way that is expected of them, then they should be changed. Isn’t that right?
He was never good with change. Never, never.
Fear, an anxious and creeping feeling stiffens his back and causes the bile to rise up in his throat. An all too familiar feeling… The wringing of his stomach, how his skin cools nigh instantly, and how his vision swims before him. It’s all the same. All so familiar. Yet so, so wrong. It’s wrong of him to act in ways not ordained by the League, by his job, by himself and the internal barriers he has locked himself within. The handful of drinks that he’s lost count of don’t do well to settle his stomach. Something isn’t right. Something isn’t right. It never has been.
Staggering up from his chair, he flees as well as his jittery legs and misplaced steps will take him. The staccato march he machinates leads him to the bathroom.
His knees hit the ground the second he confines himself to the stall. Grasping the porcelain with white-knuckled fingers as if his life were inextricably tied to it, hacking, sputtering, purging himself of what ails him. It drips down his chin, his chest, onto the cold tile ground and into the grout where it roots itself and stays for as long as it may please.
It doesn’t help. It never helps. It serves to make him more miserable. No matter how often he tries to cast away the part of himself that won’t die, it never surrenders. The human spirit is indomitable, yet easily guided, he was told… So why? Why was it so difficult to keep himself within the box?
Something must be wrong with him. Something must be off. No wonder why he can’t sit still when he works. (Something winds within him, longing for something greater than what is expected of him.) No wonder why he can never keep track of deadlines, leaving the work he gets to the last minute. (They call him a quick worker. He calls himself lazy. They don’t know. They don’t know.) No wonder his belongings go missing, and turn up exactly where he knew he put them, yet forgot to commit to memory. (Shouldn’t he have remembered? He did it to himself, after all.)
The faces people make, their joy, their sorrow, he never understands. He has to cross-reference the encyclopedia of normalcy in his mind to accurately depict what should be expected of a man. He’s not one. He never has been. He’s an excuse, a misprint, one that should be sent back to the factory to be ironed out as it should always have been. Yet still, the outlier Larry, he persists. He puts on the face he keeps in his dresser, cloaks himself in the suit he wears every day, and walks the same path to work that he always does.
He's normal. He’s so normal. So why does he not feel that way?
Duality, living as you know you are, yet not truly living. Presenting, yet not being present. The form you are meant to take is a factory line, a simulacrum instead of the real deal.
Fervent fists rattle against the stall door, misplaced thoughts and feelings now translating to anger. The rage still spills from his lips, splattering like blood against the floor. That’s someone else’s property. He can’t destroy that. Fists turned back against himself, hitting over and over again, until the base of his neck and skull aches and undoubtedly bruises later on.
That was his one allotted emotion for the day. Once it’s over, go back to how you are.
Pinch-hitter, hard-worker. Gym Leader, Elite Four Member. Not Larry. Never Larry.
The door to the washroom slowly crept open, a creaking sound that caused Larry’s stomach to tie itself once more. Bracing himself for the worst, for someone finding him so irrevocably down on his luck, Larry attempted to right himself… To no avail. He lurched forwards.
Powerful arms caught him, much to his surprise.
“Easy ‘ere, Larry.” A firm yet doting voice spoke. Familiar, yet unable to be placed lest he wagered a glance at the other. But did he even want to meet this person’s eyes in this state?
“Hard to believe I kin cast my line over for supplies, an’ catch myself a co-worker instead. But… ya don’t look too good, pal. What’s goin’ on in yer life to get ya like this?”
Ah… That would explain it. Kofu. He frequents the eatery about as much as Larry.
If anything, Larry was grateful that it was him of all people. They got along well, yet more often than not, Larry’s line died when Kofu reached out. He was too busy. No time for socializing. Yet still, Kofu persisted.
“…Nothing.” Larry retorts.
Kofu scoffs. “Hardly nothin’, yer sittin’ in a bathroom lookin’ like ya died an’ came back as a wee Greavard!”
For a moment, Larry considered speaking of what had happened. Of his feelings, of his anguish, of everything that had bubbled up and sloughed forth from his mouth.
Yet nothing came. Nothing fell forth.
Kofu shook his head. “Whatever am I gonna do with ya, Larry…?”
Though he remained calm on the outside, Kofu’s alarm bells were ringing louder than ever in his head. Sure, he had heard rumors of the part of Larry that no one saw, but they were all over-dramatized fantasies perpetuated by people far bolder than Larry ever was; but to learn of its full truth in this way… It caused his chest to ache. No one man should work as hard as Larry, and clearly it was weighing on him more heavily than anyone ever knew.
It broke his heart to have to see him in this state. Something had to be done.
Ever the impulsive man, Kofu slung the salaryman over his shoulder and began to march onwards to the exit. Larry attempted a feeble grasp at freedom, yet most of his energy was spent. He was exhausted. His head hurt. He wanted to go home. No matter how bad he felt in the morning, he would just pick up and go at it like usual. Same as it ever was.
“Wigglin’ like a Feebas ain’t gonna get ya nowhere, Larry.” Kofu chided. As he made eye contact with the head chef of the Eatery, he offered her a quick nod as if to say “Put it on my tab.”
Larry would pay him back later, no matter how much Kofu would cause a scene over it. Ever the generous man, there would be no way of directly offering him the Poké without him insisting he kept it. Ever at odds they were, charity against the layman’s salary.
The time between the incident and arriving at Kofu’s house was a blur, blinding lights and blurred noise overwhelming him. All he could do was cover his ears and shut his eyes tight, tighter, blocking out everything he could. It was all too much. Luckily, Kofu seemed to have a good idea of what to do in this sort of situation. Quiet music on the ride back, even going so far as to stay silent for the duration of the trip; odd, especially for vocal old man Kofu, who adored weaving colourful tales almost as much as he loved cooking. “I’d take ya home, but I’m not too keen on leavin’ ya on yer lonesome in this state. Hope yer alright wit’ that.” Kofu muttered. All Larry could do was offer a thumbs up. He didn’t care where he went, so long as it meant he could disappear from his usual life for even just a moment.
Eventually, the blurred lights faded into something more calming and subtle. The moon in Cascarrafa was always so bright. But tonight, the faint sliver that hung in the sky provided little more than gloam and mysticism.
…Was it always this beautiful?