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Untitled Quilava Lemon	By : sandlava Category: Pokemon > Yaoi - Male/Male Views: 5124 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: Don't own Pokemon, Quilava, or any registered trademarks of The Pokemon Company; am not writing for profit, yada yada

Chapter List
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Slowly... so slowly. In speed, one could rush that which one tried to achieve... It was the journey, not the destination. Control, patience... these are ideals.

So mused the old man, who's wrinkled hands cradled a large, fine, black fountain pen, rounding the curve of the final character of another sentence. The ink that he controlled was to stain the paper forever, and could never be undone... there was beauty in perfection; there was no perfection higher than that in the linguist. Words were ideas, coherence distilled... a deflection; a point. The full stop. Lo, it was finished.

Sighing deeply, his old form leaned, tired, but with dignity, back from the walnut tabletop. Minutes became hours, the flow of time inexorable.. but in writing, he found peace. Time would never matter; he would craft perfection beneath his pen. His words would stand forever, some day. Recognition awaited, in the completion of his efforts...

He smiled, his wrinkles creasing, eyes brightening- he'd crafted a page. A page of characters, of ink, melding themselves into words, forms, sentences that would last forev-- His reverie snapped. He frowned. There... was that a bump in that ‘j’-?

He leaned in, closer, peering into the paper, nose not even a millimeter from the papyrus, staring intent- before, suddenly, the door he was stationed to guard opened. In the quiet, still room, the slight squeak of the old hinges on the heavy, oak-paneled door were like groans in his ear - he flinched, flicking his fountain pen - ink spraying out, three drops raining down heavily onto the papyrus, and the remainder staining the valuable, wooden desk.

"Oh--!" He moaned slowly, quietly, the ruin of his day's work registering only dimly in his mind as he dropped to the floor, his bag, his stationary, searching frantically for blotting paper, paper, tissue, anything to prevent damage to the beautiful wood that had served him so well...

"Hey-! What are you doing, Marc-?" A rough, quiet growl from above.

A sequence of rapping against the wood above him, as he scrambled on the floor in the small reception cubicle, snapped him back to the moment, and his job. He peeked up, from the below the wood, his timid scholar's eyes meeting the impressively.. present gaze of his colleague.

He raised himself up, grasping the wood for support.

"Ah.. ah-ah.. ah, yes?" he stammered, shaking his head suddenly, recovering his dignity and focus. He swallowed slowly, seeing, some metres behind his coworker, Hans, the greeter, a man... a client?

The old receptionist, Marc, looked him over slowly. Some six foot... denim jeans; black... a large coat, flared at the base - a wide collar... brown hair, mulleted, and hands, deep in his coat's pockets... a sense of.. power, perhaps? No... thoughtfulness?

He watched, nervous, as the man's gaze swept over the fixtures of the reception, the three dun-leather low couches around the dimly-crackling stone fireplace, the paintings hanging on the oak-panel walls, lit in a soft, sophomoric glow by faux-limelight candles... his eyebrows raised, in the polite concession of a man impressed with what he sees. Marc felt a flush creep into his aged cheeks. This was his design, his work. This room, this impression, was his creation...

"For gods sake, man.." hissed Hans, through the receptionist's window. "Client."

"Ah, ah, yes.. him.. does he.. what do... -" Hans glared, and Marc flinched instinctively. Finally, he squeaked his question... "Name?"

"The hell would I know-?" growled the irritable Hans. His relationship with the man was tenuous at best, and the man's shy grovelling nature was no benefit to his working friendship. "Ask the damn man yourself."

He stammered noiselessly, the whispered imperative somehow intimidating... "I-I-I.. I... ah... yes. Yes.." he whispered, conceding, before finally calling out to the man of black fabric. "Ah- sir!"

Impressive.

It didn't match up, really. Classy? The oak walls and the soft lighting, the heavy doors that had been so well hidden in the dark alleyway, obscured by the lights themselves...

He leaned back further into the dun leather sofa, the three-seater couch his own, the other two men taking one each of the remaining two, now staring absently at the stone hearth, crackling lightly, and smiling. What word, of all the words he knew, described this room? It was as if class had been distilled, and its essence soaked through the walls... yet there was power, and price, a thousand features...

"Turk," he said, out loud, to nothing in particular.

"T-Turk... a regal name... a pleasant sound, too," replied the older of the two men, this one in the chair to his right. He had identified as Marc - an ancient-looking scholarly man, and carrying the dignity of his years... and, somehow, a smaller presence than the greeter, Hans, sat to the Trainer's left.

Both of the men - whom Turk had began to see as monks; perhaps charged by religious duty to protect the Pokémon they had begun to discuss – were very old. The shawls and sandals they both wore were identical - a plain tan, simple, but the sheer minimalism betrayed by the awe-inspiring room the trio now sat in.

Hans, who was leant forward in his chair, hands clasped over his knees, glanced at Marc, who's stutterings died away as the more powerfully-built man began to speak.

"What Marc means to say, is, we're happy to have you here as our client. If we can do anything-" - he glanced at Marc pointedly, though, the meaning was lost on the Trainer - "-and I do mean, anything, to make your stay better, we're happy to oblige as far as we can."

He leaned back into the couch, relaxing, while Marc stuttered quietly, his thin protests fading again as Hans began anew.

"What we offer here is a rare service, where a Trainer such as yourself can... acquaint themselves with... certain exotic species of Pokémon. Though technically illegal, we do have our status as Pokémon resellers, though disputed, and it allows us to keep customer dealings with our Pokémon confidential. We keep no record of your identity, though, we may.. ah, record your stay in our premises... with your permission."

Turk listened quietly as the man went on. The accentuated words and phrases were vague, and he couldn't discern the motive for sharing them.. but... they were Pokémon sellers, and the old man had said it himself.

"... and we ask nothing of you for using our service, except the hourly fee and, should you be inclined, a service charge..."

An hourly fee-? What was going on..?

"... and, if all is understood, we welcome you to our clientelle with open arms."

Hans finished, his flatly emotionless face dimming the value of his sentiment. The fire crackled merrily in the hearth... there was silence - and, finally, the elder Marc spoke up.

"A-ah... Indeed, welcome to our, ah, our, clientul." He grinned widely, his smile awkward - fading, as Hans groaned quietly, the mispronunciation ringing clearly in the wood-paneled room. Turk chuckled, taking a quiet sip of his complimentary drink; a golden, viscous liquid, tasting of sweet apple, and warm, like a refreshing summer. He thought for a moment, considering. He'd never seen these men before, or heard of this place. But every corner, every wall, the men themselves, the sofa he sat in - it was an essence of expense. Yes, that was the word. Money itself, used to disguise the use of money.

He blinked, suddenly, recalling Hans’ phrasing.

Technically illegal...

"I appreciate your hospitality, I really do." He smiled as he spoke, trying not to betray his confusion. "But, what about your business would break the law? You sell Pokémon, do you not?"

Marc started - Hans broke in. "Yes," he murmured, as if conceding, narrowing his eyelids slightly at Marc - who's half-opened lips quickly sealed - "should a client decide he enjoys the Pokémon he or she experiences in this building. We would not deny the client."

A clever dodge.

He laughed. "Well, I am looking for a particularly experienced Pokémon. I would wish my daughter the best chances as a Trainer a father could give her..."

Hans' mouth opened slightly, questioningly; he glanced at Marc, who glanced back, their eyes meeting. The reaction was not lost on the Trainer.

"A problem, gentlemen?"

Hans blinked twice, looking back at the Trainer, his mouth still open - as he seemed to shake himself awake again, blinking, his business manner resumed.

"Ah... no, none. You are a liberal man, Turk. It is rare that a man with a daughter would find himself in this building. It is far rarer still that that man would wish his daughter to be with him in this building."

What?

"Oh, I wish. I wish she were here. She's never yet experienced the power of a companion."

There was a pause before Hans spoke again. Marc sat back in his chair, as if something heavy weighed on his mind, his brows furrowed heavily, as if reading deeply into some new text. The fire crackled. Turk took another swallow of his heavy, golden drink.

Finally, Hans laughed, loudly, clapping his hands together, splitting the silence.

paw floor ground sky sun run chase take get...

tree dodge run get mine

Noise-

An eyelid flitted open, an ear perked up. A red eye examined the area. No, no, nothing... but the dream was over now. It was real-world day again.

The bright light in the sky over there was there again. He raised his head, opening his maw slightly, the air around him tasting the same as it had earlier... but...

He yawned, widely, slowly, the action a recuperation. He opened his other eye, tired, but waking. Hunger. Boredom. His head lowered again, lying on top of his two forepaws... curled around, his slender form in the black fur sleep cushion bed...

No, noise again- a slap, a clap - the two men? He slowly unfurled, raising his body and spine, stretching out... the sky bright light perhaps just coming towards its peak in the sky, or just leaving it. But cold, cold...

He focused on himself, and, with a frssh, his flares alighted. Warmth-! The twin fires, fuelled by the fire within, were comforting in the cool air. He finished his stretching, the morning far more welcoming with a warm and able body...

The newly-wakened Quilava stepped out of his cushion, yawning again, to begin another day. In a silver bowl liquid dish, he lapped at water, a tongue snaking out, licking softly at its surface... his eyes closed, as he refreshed himself with the pleasant, cool liquid.
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Untitled Quilava Lemon