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The universe casts them in colour long in advance: an intention, a recognition, a perfect match.
They’ll gleam, one day – finished articles, one a vibrant, energetic green, another swathed in purple fire… but first, they must begin.
Hassel grows up red. A passion, for art, for education, for battle – he conquers dragons even as they attempt to conquer him, all intellect and musicianship. But he matures blue, too. He wears a longing for something more creative; he wants to play, to sing, to fill in the blank canvas of the world, because fierce though he is, at his core he’s soft. He is tears enough to wash out his specialist typing, he is warmth and hugs and yearning.
His traditionalist family abide by none of it, and so he runs – and the further he runs, the deeper becomes the blue. Music is wondrous, and living one’s truth is never a raw deal, and yet… he is unfulfilled. He is unloved, and so melancholy clings to him, is poured into melodies tinkling through town plazas, brimming with hope but dripping in sorrow.
Brassius starts as yellow. Warm Cortondan sunshine, joy in art. He paints, sculpts, masters every colour of the rainbow, even though he’s yet to master his own heart. He trains in the Grass type, picking, befriending and playing as he runs through fields, laughing breathlessly.
… The breathlessness stays long after he’s come home, and so he too tinges blue. He spends less time running; he drifts from friends, and hides from well-intentioned family by moving towns. Lacking in stimuli, he mulls indigo – he darkens, thins, embitters. A world unkind, a world uninspiring, is a world he barely wishes to occupy.
He wanders amongst streets, looking for purpose – he doesn’t need another reason to lock himself away, to chain himself to work worthless and plain.
Beside a local protégé’s pretentious new piece, he invites intrigue hesitantly into his world with a few careful words.
“Do you find it decisive?” He asks the young man, perhaps recognising the reflection of his own blue.
The man glances at him, pursing lips. “I find it… angular.”
“… Just angular?”
“More or less. It’s also pink, does that count?”
Brassius laughs, despite himself. There has been little humour in his world past the age of seven, since the indigo seeped into the cracks of his being, bled over the yellow until all was murk.
“… A consummate critique.”
“I… forgive me, please. I’m no fool – my education saw to that quite well – and I enjoy art as much as the next creative, but… well, it says nothing, does it? I’ve been trying to decode it, fathom out a hidden depth hitherto unknown, but there’s little logic to a two-dimensional pink square.”
The man’s eyes glow as amber sunshine, and something in Brassius brightens, a streak of yellow he’d thought long lost; a faint but glorious spark of lightning, brief and electrifying.
“I ask that you don’t judge me too harshly,” comes the apology, the gentle amusement. “I did try.”
He doesn’t judge him – this man is no sculpture, but just perhaps, he might be a masterpiece.
His name is Hassel, he learns later over coffee. How inappropriate a name for one so worthwhile.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
The universe crafts grand plans for its occupants. They must earn their colours, their places. In deciding to walk the path of the artist, Brassius had long since thought that perhaps he was meant for blue. Meant for uncertainty, meant for miserable irony; meant to experience an entire cosmos of colour, only for none of it to reach his core. That stubborn smudge had remained branded across him, a desolation his alone.
… Though, he finds as time moves on, the more he and Hassel occupy a space, the less it seems to count, and the more the yellow fights back. His insides must be a surrealist canvas, streaked as they are in sunshine and dusk.
He sees the blue first-hand, now, even if they hardly meet daily – they are young, full of ideals and silliness, but they meet regularly, a flying taxi never too far away. He sees the blue in a fellow spirit, but this blue… this is the blue of the ocean, he realises. A tranquility, a sobriety; a man at ease, one laughing and recalling and wearing a cheerful smile. It’s the blue of the sky, of a midsummer afternoon, the ever-present sunshine that is Hassel in his life flooding him with the glorious joy of yellow.
They paint, they sculpt, they grow close. Despite the fact that each visit is brief, Brassius thinks life can’t possibly be more sweet. He basks in the light, remembers a time where the world was more carefree amongst the burst of buttercup in his chest.
This cannot be normal, he thinks one pleasant morning as they sip tea and beam at one another, his heart almost deliriously free. This cannot be the status quo. I’m not this fortunate.
… The indigo has never entirely faded, after all, and irritatingly, it’s sometimes correct.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
The universe likes to test a man, and so it does. His breath fails once again, first stuttered, then lost entirely to the winds. He remembers now that the galaxies are uncaring; he’s been building the courage for weeks to explain to Hassel that he is infinitely more than a friend, that mere acquaintances don’t sprinkle true colour through their companion’s lives how he does – how he has become utterly indispensible, how he’s reminded Brassius of who he is and what the point of it all is –
How ironic, that he is speechless now he’s almost found the words and the heart for it.
“Brassie…? Dear, what is it, what’s wrong?”
He gasps, feeling the world fade at the edges, anxiety threading through him as though needles to a tapestry.
“Brassius, sp-speak to me!”
Heavens how he detests the char of black clipping his tone, the utter fear of the sweetest man he’s ever known.
It’s going to be okay, dear, he vows, as urgent words rent the air via his secret love's phone, a desperate plea for help. Stay strong… stay with me, please.
Hassel does, even as he weeps profusely into him, presses breaths from his own lips to his.
“Won’t leave y-you as long as you don’t leave m-me, alright?”
Deal, darling, he agrees silently, as doctors swarm him, and he clings with all his weakening might to a sturdy, tender hand as he sinks into the indigo depths.
Hassel murmurs reassurances through fractured sentences all the journey to the hospital, tiny, weary whimpers of kindness and pleas of recovery, and all goes as well as such horrors can until the artificial light of hospital corridors rouses him enough to realise something achingly awful.
Ah, he muses sadly as the light begins to fade and he’s transferred to a respiratory unit, there’s your red.
It flares blood-bright as Hassel furiously demands entry, snaps hotly that he will not leave him; he is a whirlwind now, a hurricane of draconic force, refusing to depart for a moment even as he chokes back sobs of despair.
How important Brassius must be to him, that a man so kind and gentle is driven to such extremes in his honour.
It’s alright Hass, he promises softly, unable to draw the breath for words as he faces the black. I’ll be back soon. Wait for me, won’t you?
Hassel will, he knows unequivocally. He’s never let him down. He doesn’t think he ever could.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Recovery is lengthy, because occasionally, the universe likes to break one down to their base colours. As Brassius drifts in and out of consciousness, his eyes never open, but the too-familiar indigo seeps into his being anyway, bleeding from the sorrows of the ever-present Hassel.
“Do hope you wake up soon, Brass dear. It’s so dull out here without you,” he murmurs.
“This hospital could benefit from some of your beautiful work. It’s very… blank. Right now, I can relate.” His voice cracks.
“’There are ten pink Polteageist, hanging above the door; there are ten pink Polteageist, hanging above the door’,” he sings quietly, shakily, “’and if one pink Polteageist should accidentally fall, we’ll be there altogether, saving one and all.’ That was my parents’ version, you know – always a show of strength, a united front. No wonder they consider me such a disappointment – all I do is fall apart, but… I’m trying, Brassie. Really, tr-trying so hard here.”
I know you are, his beloved thinks with a proud ache as he wanders through his own mind, torn between the sunshine day and the shadows of the night. You’re doing wonderfully, my love. I’ll be home soon, and the blue will be washed away.
How ironic it is, he mulls, that they share a weakness to ice – the bite, the chill, of emotional distress.
It’s later, between breathy sobs and “miss y-you, dear – you can wake up now, pl-please –” that he finally finds the strength to respond, to console, to comfort.
“Hass…”
“Brassie? Y-you’re here, you’re back with m-me –”
“Mmm,” Brassius agrees, a smile forming across parched lips. “Wouldn’t… wouldn’t leave you.”
Water is pressed against his mouth by shaking hands willed still, eyes that watch him intently as round and sparkling as a star.
“I know,” Hassel whispers tearfully, and a trembling kiss is pressed to his forehead, and Brassius melts somewhere deep within. “Gl-glad to see you, though.”
As he drifts off again minutes later, warm and safe and only lightly sleeping this time, he slots together a simple jigsaw in his dreams – an artist’s palette, unfulfilled but waiting for that burst of genius.
He has spent his life in yellow-speckled blue, and since Hass, blue-speckled yellow; his best friend has worn reds and blues, embroidered through strung notes, sewn into sweater-vests.
… It is time, he thinks, that they know themselves: that they recover, together.
It is time that they become secondary – colours only created after the tests and the trials, the end goal.
Green, and purple. Oh, they will be magnificent. He’ll make sure of it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
The universe makes nothing simple, even when one is determined. There is more blue, when he leaves the hospital – a deep, dark funk, of worthlessness and fury. What is the point of him if he can’t create art?
“The point of you,” Hassel tells him gently but firmly, still running anxious, “is to exist. To love, to grow, to endure. You’re a work of art in your own right, my dear friend, and you will create once more. Just… take it slow, okay?”
He takes the words and the strength from the man he quietly adores, and he channels it – channels it to mastery, his heart shot through with defiance. I will be green. It creates Surrendering Sunflora, the blend of blue and the heart of yellow to craft a hue uniquely his.
Hassel weeps for a solid fifteen minutes at the sight, blubbering incoherent compliments and proclaiming his pride in him.
“You are just extraordinary,” he says eventually through a deep breath, beaming at him as they embrace.
No, Brassius thinks, even as his heart shines at the recognition, the praise. I may have talent, and I debate that often, but there’s only extraordinary man here. One extraordinary, purple man.
… He has an idea, something to inspire the fire within, and to showcase once and for all his intentions. It’s possibly a little literal, but he can’t bring himself to much care. They are long overdue a resolution.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
He finds it in vineyards a week later, looking for breakfast, and he remembers that just sometimes, the universe is kind; a simple berry and a smile is all it takes for a tentative friendship to take root. It’s a girl, he believes – a perfect little red daughter, cheery and brave, with a delightful smush of yellow to her personality.
“Will you come with me?” He asks gently. “I know a very nice man who would love to have you…”
She thinks, and her eyes scrunch up in joyful acceptance, rocking back and forth in her acquiescence. She is alone, like they once were – perhaps she has no friends, nor any kin.
It’s alright, little one, he tells her inwardly, smiling at the Poké Ball he holds close to his heart. You have us, now.
Grass, Dragon… a romantic gesture, a flawless encapsulation of them both. He hopes Hassel will see it as he does – though he’s sure he will. He doesn’t ever let him down, after all.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
The universe loves to surprise. It loves to draw tears from you, tears enough to drown the world.
He thinks in soft, loving amusement that if Hassel sobs into him or against his lips for much longer, the South Paldean Sea may have to be renamed an ocean.
“Shall I take this as an acceptance?”
Hassel chokes out a laugh, an incredulous, desperate disbelief.
“Y-yes, goodness – love you so much, always – always wanted to tell you, to… thank you, dearest…”
His sentences blend together, half-nonsense, half-purest affection, and as they lock eyes, just as Hassel rests lips on his once more, he sees it at last: the first, definitive flash of purple, rich and bright and sacred and so very right.
His new partner may not be the only tearful one, he acknowledges silently as they explore one another, mouths hungry and hearts fit to burst. That he can inspire that, in this of all men, is a treasure beyond any other he will ever craft.
Hassel will see the green reflected back, he’s certain.
… Well, just as soon as he’s stopped crying, anyway.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
They begin as time goes on to take command, not only of their own lives, but of their careers – the universe enjoys order amidst the chaos. Music is still loved, but is placed to the side; they lead, separate but unified, establishments of battle – one heading a gym, the other heading the Elite Four. They’re made of ‘the right kind of things,’ Geeta tells them over dinner, an hour after she’s taken down both of their teams individually.
Brassius has no idea what the ‘right kind of things’ are, and after a cursory glance at his lover, he doesn’t believe Hassel does either. Perhaps she can see the green and purple slowly settling within them.
“You’ll need a signature look, gentleman – an aesthetic. Helps with coherency.”
It’s over such a statement that they shop, local boutiques a minor mystery to men who own enough sweater-vests and eccentric-print shirts to last a lifetime.
“I think I’ve found ‘an aesthetic’?” Hassel announces in bewilderment, and his timing is perfect, because Brassius has just done up the top button of a new jacket with a smile. It needs something else to be truly avant-garde – a whip, perhaps? Impressive, but not overly intimidating – but he is content with the golden drama of its clasps, the neutrality offset elsewhere within the look.
They draw back the curtains of opposite dressing rooms in the same moment, and Brassius smiles warmly – of course it involves a sweater-vest, and a starchy shirt. You could take the man out of Galar…
The caped coat is a delicious forest hue; the slacks a complementary hue that bring out the sunshine in a staunch amber gaze. Despite the vest, he looks both fierce and homely – a perfect fit.
“… Ohhh,” he murmurs at the violet-maroon of Brassius’ jacket, the fitting vine-green of his Oxfords, and his eyes wear something past regular appreciation. “Hello there, dearest…”
“And a buenos días to you, mi querida.” Hassel laughs softly, vibrant, the flush peppering his cheeks and the devilment in his eyes promising that these clothes might look just as good pulled off him later. Hassel is the kind of lover who is as likely to whisper gentility and sobs into his skin, utterly overwhelmed, as he is shred his underwear in voracious hunger. Truly, a dichotomy united in purple.
… Purple, he realises, and green.
Completely unconsciously, with free rein, they have managed to adopt one another’s colours. He chuckles low until it becomes full-blown amusement, and Hassel glances at him, confused but entertained.
“Are you alright, Brassie?”
“Oh, absolutely perfect, I promise you…”
He tells him after they’ve purchased of the saga of green and purple, a tale he’s never once shared – not because it would have been unwelcome or mocked, but because perhaps it’s silly, perhaps it’s the poetry of an artist speaking rather than true sense.
Their love-making, later, is soft – dripped in tears, honeyed with endearments and worships. It turns out that not only does his beloved adore the concept but green is also his favourite colour, and Brassius can’t help but grin at that.
It’s what they are, but he can stamp it across their hearts forever, he thinks – leave the man he so cherishes, who has saved him in so many more ways than he could ever understand, in no doubt whatsoever.
Purple and green, he thinks, casting a warm glance at Hassel, who snores softly beside him . You and me, for the rest of our lives.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
The universe treasures the difficult – it is born, after all, in cosmic fire, the births of stars by no means quiet.
Brassius ponders ways to propose for days, which stretch to weeks. This should be simple, should it not? He knows his lover inside and out, sees the purple strewn across his essence like a symphony almost complete.
You’re overthinking it, he tells himself during a pre-sleep shower, steam thick enough to make him rasp breaths for a long few minutes. The heat clears, and he inhales deeply, a clarifying, thankfully steady breath – the last thing he needs is his lungs playing havoc.
His heart skips a beat at the voice through the door – always so caring, his Hassel.
“Are you quite alright, dearest? You’ve been gone for almost an hour.”
He clears his throat and ensures his respiration for a moment before answering.
“Perfectly fine, Hass, merely lost in artistic contemplation,” he lies, and feels blue flash across his heart briefly for it. Their lives together are nothing if not authentic.
Authentic… he towel-dries hair, pensive, until it clicks.
Green .
He is offering himself, is he not, and what can be clearer than his very being ?
And so it follows the next morning that he offers a walk; they wander through local forests, explore the fauna, bask in warmth physical and emotional alike.
The heart of me, he tells him wordlessly, blinking away tears the moment Hassel is drawn to the ephemeral beauty of late spring blooms. You may as well claim the sliver you don’t already own, my darling.
He asks him, where the sunlight hits a stream; where the blue and yellow sparkle through the green, he places all he is in his beloved’s hands.
Hassel doesn’t answer him for close to an hour – he is the world’s most beautiful mess. One might objectively describe it as ‘ugly crying’, but nothing about this man could ever be ugly to the one he loves, in neither body nor heart. Not his handsome, gentle, purple man, whose colour builds vibrancy and solidifies, locks in a gaze so intense and loving that it threatens to stagger his breath for the second time in twenty-four hours.
“Y-yes,” Hassel says simply through a hiccough the moment he can, and purple flows through him as though his blood is violets. “Gods, h-heavens, yes, dearest.”
It’s all the answer he needs, and green blooms brilliant in him as though the most verdant paradise as they touch lips.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
It’s ten years on, a sunshine Saturday – a day without classes for the teacher, and a season without a Treasure Hunt for the Gym Leader, because once in a blue moon, the universe is calm. Brassius is free to create as he sees fit, and he is teeming with ideas.
Most of them involve the colour purple; the rest involve purple and green, and if that makes him a little predictable, well… his work will still be avant-garde, and the world past his veranda isn’t going to mind. They’ll call it an ‘artistic phase’ – hilarious, when he intends for it go on for the rest of his days.
“So, run it by me again…”
His husband is nestled against his shoulder, half-asleep in the pleasant warmth, and Brassius smiles softly.
“Grapes, in glass,” he says. “Green vines, twisting from the earth, leading to ripe, juicy, violet-tinged fruits – our efforts, combined.”
“Mm,” Hassel agrees quietly, beaming. “Perfectly poetic.”
Time, and the infinite patience of the universe, will make men understand – Brassius knows now that purple and green are not the absence of their base shades, but their base shades perfected, the self acknowledged. The blue of depression revisits him, just occasionally – when self-doubt slithers up his spine, when he plays brief host to a mental block, when his lungs flare with coughs. In the same breath, he still embodies yellow – he is joy and sparks and vibrance, a world aflame.
Likewise, Hassel still touches red sometimes; still blazes with battling passion, still wears heat and fire and romance as though silk robes, and in the odd moment, there’s a streak of blue – a family still misunderstanding, a brief moment of sorrow at missing that which was never perfect in the first place.
But usually, the lines blur. Usually, their spirits maintain their destiny – potential, fully realised, only achieved together. It’s why, glinting occasionally in the brilliance of the afternoon, their wedding rings serve as a permanent vow. The man draped in green wears an amethyst – a reminder, lest he ever forget, that purple will always be scrawled across his heart, believing in his potential and never letting him drift into indigo. The man swathed in purple wears instead an emerald – a tether to the earth, an ever-present memo that there is someone in the world who loves him just for him, tears, softness and all.
“Hass,” Brassius whispers, suddenly overcome with emotion, “are you still awake?”
“Mm, just about…”
“Don’t let me stop you, darling,” he murmurs, pressing a gentle kiss to his hair. “Before you drift, though… I love you, to the ends of the earth.”
Hassel takes a soft, trembling breath. “And I love you, my dear, until the final dragon roars.”
Grass, and Dragon. Green, and purple. Husbands, united in colour. The universe beholds all possibilities, and yet here they are together, complete at last.
Thank you for making me whole, love.
If he sheds a private tear as the other half of his soul naps peacefully at his side, he thinks perhaps that the universe made him that way. What’s grass, after all, without water?