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This man was about a million loose threads of thin morals somehow strung together, frayed and aimless. Then again, that seemed to be Vance’s whole schtick, didn’t it? ‘Fake deep,’ they called it. Wes allowed himself to smile, give a slight scoff, and allowed Vance to think he was smiling back at him. Whatever satisfied him, Wes supposed. “You want respect? You have to earn it.” and now “Who cares what your name is? It doesn’t change who you are.” Good morals to live by, in practice. But the advice wasn’t punctuated. It wasn’t a forefront. It was just… something to say, in Wes’s mind. ‘You have to earn respect.’ Sure. Fine. How does one go about earning Vance’s respect? It was just shit like that. Fake deep.

Ah, there it was. Wes’s old snark returning to him. All over the thought of picking this kid’s words to pieces. But he paused a moment. Kid? How old could Vance - pardon - Vancity even be? He decided not to ask; he didn’t know how well he would fare if it turned out the kid was something like… sixteen. Then again, the fake depth would actually make sense for that age group. His lip twitches nearly into a smile, nearly into a scoff, but he doesn’t allow it as they sit down in the large train bound for Saffron. Umo easily hops into his lap to start getting comfortable.

“You said that it doesn’t matter what your name is, then proceed to give me your full, official name. Alright, Vancity.” He finally does allow himself to scoff. “You may be born from blacksmiths and kindlers, but that’s not who you are, is it? You’re giving me little to work with - unless that was the intention. Give it a storyteller feel, I bet; trust me,” his voice was dry as he spoke, “I’m on the edge of my seat, let me tell you. So if you’re not a kindler, what would you be? Let me guess.” He gave the man a once-over. No, he couldn’t possibly be anywhere near a fire. Not with those clothes. “Well, you threatened me with a Pidgeot… so I could guess your title is either Chaser or Bird Keeper, and I’m willing to bet the latter. You’re not from Orre, no? No; so Bird Keeper. That’s who you are, I suppose. I hope that’s what you mean by that statement. Besides all of that ‘I don’t need a name because I am me’ philosophical bullshit that I don’t have time for.”

for a moment, he holds his breath, and tries not to think of home. vance fidgets, unfolding his arms and crossing his ankles. his fingers drum against his thigh, brush through scarlet spikes of hair. it’s obvious he’s stalling --- nervous? as if. 

“ yeah, bird keeper. pidgeot, perching in trees, open sky, world beneath my feet. the whole deal. and there’s only one of me in my family, in the world. no one else is vance enzo. no, not even close . ” vance chuckles, heavier than before. he knows he’s talking too much, boring wes with his low-tech life. he looks at him to apologize. 

it’s much later into the train ride when vance stretches, correcting his posture after being slumped deep into the seat. he dozed off --- partially; the metallic rattling of the tracks doesn’t play a good enough lullaby to soothe the night owl. 

he speaks without addressing, hoping wes is always listening. " when the sun sets, it tucks itself in right behind the trees around the lake of rage. all the way in the north . ” deep dusk fills the magnet train cars with a soft, cool blue aura. it’s something vance can distract himself with, ease the pressure of personal conversation --- something he’s left hanging. “ sorry, i --- hey, wait, that’s not fair, hi-tech. how come you can read me like that? i know nothing about you. wait a second . . . didn’t you say something about orre ? ”

16/365 days of music

No Parallels - Hands Like Houses

pokemonsnaggerwes:

It didn’t make sense to him. Vance didn’t make sense to him. Two steps forwards, three steps back, then a step forward, then another, then a step back. Progress was hazy; he gave Wes his distance, but he patronized him. His voice joked, but he looked to Wes with contempt. By his actions, Wes wasn’t sure he could extend his trust out to him; and with the way Wes was, uncertainty was always the answer of no. So he kept the man at arm’s-length, his slight tension obviously observed by his Umbreon, what, with Umo having years of experience in picking up Wes’s subtle cues. He kept a close eye on his father, for anything to go awry, for him to be Wes’s personal pepper spray; his attack dog.

Wes silently cursed himself. It’s because you don’t know him. Just give him a chance. He told himself; behind every ounce of distrust and contempt he had for Vance, the notion that the man didn’t have a single friend still touched Wes in a way he couldn’t describe, until he took the moment to sift through why.

It was easy, really.

Wes was alone, just like Vance was. He had nobody - absolutely nobody - two years running now, his Pokemon being his only confidants; how sad was that? He couldn’t rummage through his brain even a single person he claimed he could trust, nobody he could turn to, nobody he could rely on. He wondered if Vance ached like he did. If his heart quickly ate up any potential care thrown his way in an insatiable urge to feel something for somebody. He wondered how long Vance had been without a somebody. Days? Months? Years? Wes remembered the days. The days thereafter, when his loneliness was marred up by pure abandonment, scarring him so harsh and so deep, he’d cried and screamed till his lungs got sore and all his tears were sobbed out of him. Him. Wes Wagner. Pathetic.

Now it all just felt numb; it felt numb, and Wes’s longing for another’s company had long since shriveled up and died within him, repressed by his own fear of abandonment. Not again, he’d tell himself. Not again. Maybe this, in his own way, was what Vance was doing. Smokescreens. Maybe his want of company was true, maybe his heart did ache and did yearn and did need like Wes’s did, but his hope was still raw and his desires shined through, so he smeared it dull in soot and smoke. To protect himself. He had to.

Umo relaxed much easier beside Wes; his father’s tensions had burned away, somehow, and he hadn’t even yet taken the first drag of the cigarette offered to him. Umo didn’t know why. He didn’t care to. He stayed on his guard, however, making up for the wariness his father now lacked. Somebody had to, after all. Wes took a drag of his new cigarette. It was familiar between his lips, between his fingers. He didn’t want it to be, but he didn’t curse himself over it. Just one more time. Be social. He told himself. Sociality. Yeah. That’s what it was. He looked up at Vance. He could… trust Vance. Couldn’t he?

His voice was softer as he spoke, his expression lighter. He only hoped Vance would assume that the cigarette did all that magic, rather than this cheesy reality that Wes was trying to believe in him. Maybe he was being delusional. Maybe Vance really was just irredeemable. Maybe Wes, too, was just desperate. He didn’t care; he needed something to believe in. He blows out the puff of smoke right in Vance’s face, a sly smile on his own. “You tell yourself that; you have no idea how long I’ve been smoking for. I actually tried to stop. Could you believe that?” Another drag. “Well, we see how well that’s going, huh.” He noticed the measure Vance took to take a step away from him, just as Wes asked; but with Vance’s expression as biting as it was, Wes wasn’t sure if he was stepping away out of respect, or out of bitterness. Maybe both. Probably both.

Vance still didn’t tell Wes what his terms were. It bothered him, bugged the corners of his mind. He had to earn respect. It was foreign to Wes, living by that policy. Everyone had their own inherent rights and privileges, in his mind, that should automatically be respected, no questions asked. What part of Wes didn’t deserve that? What part of you isn’t good enough for him? He stopped his thoughts there. He despised not being looked at as a human being, without rights and without privileges. A tool. A pawn. A means to an end. Those did’t need respect. Was that what Wes was to him? That isn’t what this is; that isn’t what Vance meant. He couldn’t be that heartless, could he? And just like that, Wes snatched back up whatever doubt he had of Vance. He was tense again. He couldn’t trust him anymore, again; how foolish he was for ever even beginning to try.

He jumped slightly when Vance next acknowledged him. Vance sounded as though he told a joke, with the way his tone was. But he didn’t laugh. Wes didn’t laugh. It wasn’t funny to him. “Sorry,” is all he mumbled. What was wrong with him? Where was his hard attitude? Where was his bite? His sass? His self-righteousness? He only twiddles the cigarette between his fingertips. He had so many questions he wanted to ask, but he wasn’t sure he’d like the answers Vance would give.

He came to the conclusion that Vance terrified him. He was a rogue element - everything about him. He was snarky; he was confident; he was tough; he matched Wes wherever Wes tried to be stronger, tried to be wiser, tried to be above the rest so that he’d never be so low. Wes felt low, being around him. He felt immature. He felt stupid. Weak. He didn’t want to be weak anymore; he didn’t want to be fourteen anymore, holed up in that disgusting base that disgusting night. He didn’t want to be helpless. He’d only ever felt so weak when he was helpless. No. He had control here, somewhere. He had control over himself and his own emotions. He could choose not to let Vance affect him. Who knows? Maybe he was wrong about him; maybe Vance wouldn’t terrify him after a while. Progress was hazy. He only hoped to move forward, to grab hold of any little nugget - any little comment - that would let him lower his guard, that let him believe, even for a moment, that Vance could be trusted. If not, it would be a long fucking train ride ahead, wouldn’t it?

His eyes were glassy before Vance called for him again. He blinked, and he returned back to where he was, Vance still before him, a grin wide on his face. Hi-Tech. That’s what snapped him back to reality. He was already getting used to the nickname; after all, Vance still didn’t even know his real fucking name. His voice was still quiet as he spoke. “It’s… Wes.” He amended, without a hint of offense in his voice. He felt too small to try and bear his teeth, to bark, to bite, but God, why did he feel this small? “It’s not even Chris; I lied; I gave a fake name to you. My real name is… Wes Wagner.” And that was all he said over the matter, his bite drained away from him, and he was quiet once more. Arm’s-length. Stay at arm’s-length. You can’t trust him; he’ll just fuck you over like all the rest of them.

Analyzing the situation, being as objective as possible, overthinking, calculating, fixing things - always trying to fix things. Seemed like Hi-Tech was starting to sound like an appropriate nickname in his mind.

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