disclaimer: i own nothing.
a/n: writer's block sucks. on the other hand, finally a pokemon fic. note that this might not make any sense at all.
. . .
hero (n.)
a person, typically a man, who is admired for their courage, outstanding achievements, or noble qualities.
. . .
He hesitates.
The stone releases pinprick shocks that tingle his thighs.
Hilbert still couldn't help but think that it is all just a joke.
. . .
He admits that he is more of an introvert, really.
It's fun to socialize (especially with Cheren and his excess, useful information that he is more than willing to share or maybe Bianca with cheerful smiles and her overly infectious laughter), but he prefers— likes solace.
So when crowds confront him with eager smiles and anticipation, shooting rapid questions before he even has the chance to hear even one, his lips merely twitches upwards. The line across is crooked.
He never did like crowds.
. . .
"You could tell them to stop, you know. For privacy, give you some space. I'm sure they'll understand."
"Ah, that's not really…"
"The problem? Then what?"
"They think I'm a hero."
"And you are—"
"I'm not."
He gives him an incredulous stare.
"It was something I had to do. Not what I wanted to do."
And they fall silent.
. . .
Hilbert pets his Samurott and gives him a smile with pride in his eyes.
(He's Champion and he can be proud.)
The opponent is tough with capable Pokemon. A stable, seemingly unshakeable team. For a while it had worried him that maybe his title would be robbed quickly after he had just obtained it.
He needs to put more trust in his Pokemon.
(Maybe himself too. Maybe.)
"I lost." The trainer sighs and shakes his head. "Well, it is the Hero of Unova I'm challenging. It was wrong of me to expect an easy battle."
Inside, he flinches.
He is starting to hate that title.
. . .
"Did I really have a choice?"
"Well, there's always a choice—"
"Really? Do you really think so?"
Her eyes shifts from his face, to the ground, to the sky.
And she doesn't answer him.
. . .
The blue of his shirt fading.
(Compared to when he first started his journey with brand new clothes and shoes and gear and it all seems to be a long, long time ago that he almost forgets—)
"Mom? I'm home."
"…Hilbert?"
And she rushes out of the kitchen to greet him with a hug, a laugh, a smile, a kiss on his forehead and a tear.
He relishes in the comfort of his mother.
"Welcome home, hero."
His breath hitches.
She did not notice.
. . .
Samurott surfs the waters to a small island far away.
He releases the dragon when there is land. The enormous, dark legendary shifts the air with its presence, electricity crackling on the surface of its skin and red eyes— deep, blood red— watches him.
The colour would've unnerved him months ago.
(But he's seen so much of the red and it terrifies him sometimes that he's used to it.)
No hesitation and he asks, "Why did you choose me?"
. . .
"He trusts you."
"What?"
"Zekrom, Hilbert. You didn't want the responsibility, you didn't want the position but maybe…"
"He feels like he can depend on you. He knows that you're strong, that you can get through it and succeed."
"But why me?"
Sharing a glance, they say—
"You're you. You're different."
. . .
Hilbert is not a genius.
(Whatever people say, don't believe them immediately. Rumours are such a pain in the ass.)
He works hard, trains, faces challenges, loses, wins and it's really years and years and years of effort. This is with literal blood, sweat and tears.
(Being a trainer is not for the faint hearted.)
It's difficult, being a trainer and that word— hero— would always remind him of the worst times that he had miraculously managed to go through.
(Smell of rotten flesh, iron in the air, ripped skin, broken bones, unfulfilled promises, screams, cries, chipped claws, shadows that sneaks in the corner of his eyes, monsters that crushes and tears, overwhelming despair, all-consuming terror, fear that grips on his lungs, rusted knives, wicked sneers and dea—)
It is resentment.
His.
. . .
Sometimes he wonders what would've had happened if he had been bold enough to reject.
. . .
The world repays him with a cruel title of remembrance.
He smiles a crooked smile.
Their savior is a fake.
. . .
—end—
. . .
a/n2: what did i tell you about not making any sense. but anyway, Hilbert is my favourite protagonist and his sunny, happy-go-lucky attitude people often gave him… irks me.