A/N - I dunno. I really don't.
Worthy
.
.
.
The Bitters
He grazes her neck, her back, the line from her pale shoulders to the ivory tag on her underwear, the cloth torn from her hips with urgency she might mistake for passion.
She relishes the flash fire of pleasure searing where they touch, but he moves in the cold lines of quick sex, his hands pushing her over and into the mattress, his fingers moving up her back to her neck and her hair and her lips.
She moans into his callousness, her teenage heat lapping against ice. His practiced motion recalls a hundred different nights with hundred different girls, and as the fire consumes her, she wonders her number.
Chronologically. Categorically. By performance.
Duration.
Love.
She squeals into the covers as he pushes harder, deeper, shoving everything from her mind that's not his. His fingers pull her up by her blond hair and she turns into the flawless angles of his face, pressing the soft of her cheek to his, searching with her lips for a hint of sentiment.
He replies with force, violence rocking through from her mouth to her toes. His eyes chase the curves of her body, descending from the round lobe of her ears to the reddening mounds of her bottom, his hands following close behind.
She shudders as he brushes the barest parts of her- moans as he presses her back to the mattress, the weight of what he is and what she wishes him to be jamming everything empty within her. Her chest heaving against the sheets, she whispers, "I love you."
He brushes his thumb over her lips. He says, "I can't hear you."
.
.
.
Michael walks out of the shower in his boxers, his figure lean and rippling. He tosses his towel onto the desk where it lands by the platinum watch discarded as carelessly an hour previous. He seats himself, eyes glowing in the lamplight, two pools of lucre spilling over the parts of her strewn bare over the disturbed covers of the hotel bed.
The girl, named Emma, draws her slender knees together, self-conscious without the distraction of sex. She asks, "What are you thinking?"
He looks from her to the platinum face of his timepiece staring at him from the desk. He says, as he stands to collect his slacks, "I want to see your mother in the hospital. After the party, before I leave."
"See my...?"
She stares at him a while, processing. Then she blurts, "-What? Leave?"
He fits his legs through the pants, continuing on, "I was thinking Sunday afternoon, the day after tomorrow. Is that-"
"-What do you mean you're leaving?"
He looks away from her out the window at the Silph Tower, pulling on clothes. He says, "I've convinced Grandfather."
Emma clenches a handful of pillow, her heart thundering. She asks, "When are you going?"
"I've passed the examinations," he says. His attention leaves the tower and returns to her. "Flawless scores- to deny him the argument. I've finished planning, packing - I know what pokemon I want, and Anna's double-checked my paperwork. After tomorrow's party, I'll be a licensed trainer - the day after that, I'll be on the road."
"On the-?" She bites her lip and curls her legs to her chest. "Summer's not even-"
"It's the same day James left." Michael stands from the desk, snapping his watch around his wrist and picking up his shirt lying crumpled beside the girl's hand. His fingers brush the dragon tattooed to her wrist, his damp touch conveying heat.
She recoils, shivering.
"We had a party then too," he says, pulling the shirt on. "But you think it's inappropriate?"
One year, then, since the first night they'd kissed. He'd tasted like champagne, pride echoing in every slurred word.
She'd taken advantage.
"No, I get it," she says. "But what about school?" She rubs her marked hand with the other, hiding the tattoo from view. "Your grandfather was so happy you picked Saffron University. And I-"
"-Shouldn't worry about me," he says. He pulls on his shirt and sits by her curled toes on the mattress, his face pale against the glittering windows of Saffron. He says, "I want this."
She retreats to the headboard, the rosewood cold against her back. She studies the blank black of the large flat-screen mounted to the wall, avoiding Michael's eyes.
He fixes the collar of his shirt and puts a hand through her hair, the cologne on his neck filling her nose. He says, "I'm going to be fine."
She stares at the dead television, her dark reflection dulled enough in its glass to blot her expression.
She says, "What about dinner?"
Michael smiles. He pulls his wallet from the slacks he's pulled on and pulls out a silver keycard.
"I'm seeing Anna about my First," he says.
-Anna, his pretty contact in the breeding industry.
Anna, who's been stealing his longest hours and laughing at Emma through the phone.
Michael hands her the card. "Don't pout. Stay as long as you'd like – order something, try the new restaurant, Jolie."
Emma looks at him now, frowning. "You're not eating with me?"
"Anna's picked up takeout," he says. He flicks through his phone before heading toward the door, waving back at her once - a courtesy, when he's already far gone.
He says, "I'll see you here for the party tomorrow."
And then he's physically gone as well.
Emma cocoons herself in the silk covers for a while, tracing his name into the white sheet: M-I-C-H-A-E-L. Then she throws the covers off and pulls on her clothes, a pair of worn jeans, a frayed white shirt that's a size too large, and a hand-made bracelet that hides the dragon on her wrist. Keycard in hand, Emma steps out into Michael's penthouse suite, sweeping past the empty tables and black television monitors abandoned in odd corners of the living room. She takes the elevator down to the lobby, neglecting to fix her hair, and walks up to Jolie's pretty hostess and asks for a seat at the bar.
'Janice' at the door glances down at Emma's flip flops before reassuming the ubiquitous hospitality-business smile.
"I'm on vacation," Emma tells her.
Janice nods like she doesn't believe her.
The inside of the restaurant is all cold cream and matte wood and modern chairs in sleek lines. The bar is tall and busy - people pay Emma no mind as she walks in.
She climbs into a towering chair close to the windows so she can watch the pedestrians in the street instead of the patrons at the bar, who've all come in sets of two. She hides in the secret embrace of good sex, Michael's heat lingering in her chest, until it dawns on her that she'll lose this, too, and all the prettiness of the bar and her being here sours.
She puts her arms on the counter and her head on her arms. A moan escapes her and dies lingering in the sleeve of her cheap shirt.
The bartender, a gentleman in black tie and with slicked hair, walks over and asks, "Miss, are you alright?"
The distance in his voice informs her that her sojourn in this fantasy world has ended.
"Alcohol," she answers, persisting garishly. She props her head up on her palm, turning out the tattoo on her wrist. She mumbles again, "Just...alcohol."
.
.
.
The chubby bartender, who everyone calls Chops, slams two beers down on the cracked and graffitied counter of the dive bar also called Chops. The overweight boy cringes as he looks at Emma across from him, saying, "Fair warning: this stuff is terrible. I get paid to sell it and I feel bad about it."
On the other side of the bar beside Emma stands Brett, her gel-haired, football hurling best friend since always. Brett takes one of the beers, holds it aloft at shoulder height, then smashes it precisely against the edge of the counter, snapping the cap clean off.
He says, "But it's cheap."
"Which is the point," Emma says, taking the remaining beer and raising it up to eye-level, readying to mimic Brett. But before she can swing the bottle down Chops grabs her by the arm.
He says, "Please don't. It's getting busy now, Em, I don't wanna get the mop."
"Tell you what," says Emma, looking Chops dead in his squinty brown eyes. "If I screw up, then I'll get the mop." She give him a withering glare. "Better yet," she says. "Brett will get the mop."
Brett shakes his head, grinning into his bottle. He asks, "Why am I getting the mop?"
Emma keeps her eyes on Chops, ignoring Brett's amusement. She pleads, "Come on."
Chops shakes his head, offering her a plastic cap opener with his free hand.
"Nope," he says, jowls rippling. "This is what people made cap openers for."
Emma screws up her face a second, before whipping around to the far corner of the dirty bar and shouting, "Hey, isn't that your ex-girlfriend Mable?" She waves her arm in titanic arcs, hailing an unseen cruise-liner. "Mable, over here! HI MABLE!"
Chops drops Emma's hand and whirls to where she's looking. While he's distracted, Emma slams the beer bottle down against the counter and snaps the cap clean off.
When Chops swings back to look at her, his face reddening, she holds up the bottle triumphantly.
"Didn't spill a drop," she says.
Brett gives Chops an apologetic look. He says over his beer, "She's going through stuff..."
Chops grunts. Giving Emma a quick glare, he plods to the other side of the bar to answer a red-haired girl waving him down with a fistful of cash.
Emma swigs her beer as she watches him go. Brett drinks with her for a while, the both of then watching Chops and the red-head. Then Brett turns to her and says, "So?"
She puts her arms on the bar and lies her head down, her face sliding into its appropriate misery. She says, "He's leaving."
"You knew that was going to happen."
"But it wasn't supposed to hurt."
Brett shakes his head, his arms crossed. "I warned you," he says.
I groan into my sleeve. "But you do it all the time!" she says. "And it doesn't bother you." She shifts her head on her arms to look up at Brett. She asks, "Does it bother you?"
"I'm emotionally damaged, see," he replies. He drinks, and his face goes sour. "You've still got a shot at being well-adjusted."
"Dad blew that one for me, unfortunately," Emma says. She blows some hair out of her face as she slumps back onto her arms. She says to the counter, "I'm gonna end up stripping or something, just you wait."
"Mental image, Emma."
"I think I could make a living stripping."
"Can we stay on topic?"
"This beer is really, really bad."
"Emma-"
"-Tell me to get over it," she says, rapping an irritated rhythm against the bar with her bottle. "I'll try, Brett, I promise I will. But right now I can't see anything past a weekend in bed with a lot of mint ice cream." She sucks on the beer, and finds it's hard to drink with her mouth so close to the counter. She says, "Actually, I wish I was in bed right now."
"I guess this is a bad time to tell you I'm leaving?"
She snaps back up to look at him, matching his blue gaze until he shifts in his seat.
She says, "Shit."
He keeps staring at her, like it's the polite thing to do. "Remember my application?" he says. "The Oak research initiative said yes."
Emma blinks a few times. She glances at Chops, who has the red-head laughing as she sips her bright pink sunrise. Chops catches her looking and she turns back to Brett, whose face hasn't changed.
"I'm going to have no friends," she says. She swigs her beer again, and wonders if this is what urine tastes like. She tells Brett, "I've got the hospital, and I've got TV. That's it."
Brett pats her on the shoulder. "Well, there's a lot of great TV lately," he says. "Besides, you'll have Chops."
"Chops doesn't like me."
"Maybe you can change that?"
Something hot flashes in Emma's chest. She forces her face into a less pathetic expression and hails Chops from across the bar, saying, "Chops! Chops, I'm sorry I'm not very nice, but I'm sort of heartbroken right now? And hey, lady? Miss?" She waves at the red-headed girl, who's put down her drink to look Emma's way with Chops. Emma says, shouting over the sounds of the pinball machine in the corner and Brett trying to dissuade her, "Miss, I really like your hair! And plus I think you should date Chops. He can dance. He's very graceful for a person his size, and then maybe you could introduce me to one of your guy friends? And we could double?"
Brett looks disapprovingly down at Emma waving at the pair, neither of whom seem to appreciate her humor.
He's says, "You're not okay."
She stand up from the bar, polishing off her beer and emptying her wallet on the counter for Chops. She taps her watch and says to Brett, "Seven-fifty," and he follows after her as she weaves through the other twenty-somethings out onto the dark street.
He catches her in a few easy strides. He says, "We don't have to go."
"It's seven-fifty. Party's at eight."
"We can do something else. There's an outdoor screening of Abra, Kadabra, Alakazam- we could buy a six pack and-"
"I'm broke, actually - I just tipped Chops a hundred percent. But it's your party too, right?" Emma's tone shifts to accusatory, and she flails at the air with her white sleeves. "You're leaving, right?" she says. "You have to go. You have to watch the Indigo Finals, and drink with everyone else who's going, and imagine being in next year's championships, and cheer and shout and debate the tactics and just…just…" She flops her hands at her sides. "Just gimme tonight, Brett," she pleads. "Just let me be petty and mean tonight. Tomorrow I'll be happy for you."
"You don't have to be happy for me." He takes her by the shoulders, pulling her in with his Olympian arm. He smells like deodorant.
"Be petty, be mean," he says, squeezing her shoulder. "I've survived your moods since kindergarten. Remember you punched me?"
Emma stares hard at a teenage couple locked in earnest embrace. She says, "I did not punch you."
"You definitely punched me. It hurt. A lot."
"It was just once, you baby."
"It was twice!" says Brett. He jabs his thumb at his jaw. "In the face!"
"Okay," says Emma. She looks up at Brett giving her his 'very serious' face. "Maybe I do remember punching you. Twice. And I'm sorry." She frowns at the street, scrunching up her nose. She says, "I can't remember why though."
Brett just grins out at the evening.
He says, unusually cryptic, "Maybe I'll tell you someday."
Emma frowns again. She asks, "Was it embarrassing?"
He answers, still grinning, "I cried."
He has Emma grinning too as they walk down the crowded street. They pass a massive ad-screen plastered on the grey face of the Martin Building, playing a recruitment ad featuring Kanto's honored and venerable Champion, Lance, praise-be-his-name. He stands on the iconic battlefield where the Finals are held each year and addresses the camera in his sonorous voice: "You could be the next trainer to stand on this field."
Which, as Emma knows, is a lie. Possibly a lethal one.
While a hard pill to swallow for many wannabe trainers, very few people are born with the talents to become a career battler. Only so many have what it takes to make it through the circuit, to rough the wilds, to chase down and defeat the monsters with which the Game is played. Even fewer are born with the ability to become a champion - and only one in a generation is born to be the Champion.
That one is Lance, staring out at his flock from the screen, holding a black pokeball in his out-stretched hand. The video catches the dragon tattooed to his wrist, a perfect copy of the one on Emma's.
She touches the worn thread of the bracelet around her wrist.
Brett catches the motion. "I wish you'd stop wearing that," he says.
"Why?" Emma asks. She drops her hand from her wrist, shrugging. "I like it."
"It's embarrassing for me, for one. Can't I buy you one or something?"
"Nope," she says. She grins at him. "You could do with more embarrassment in your life."
Brett returns a wry smile. "Last year's cocoa butter fiasco was enough embarrassment for a lifetime, thank you."
He crosses his arms, shaking his head.
Emma laughs.
"Right, I remember!" She shoves him with her shoulder. "You gave Leanne food poisoning," she says.
He scoffs. "She bounced back from that the same day," he says. "And let's not forget who supplied the cocoa butter."
Emma shakes her head. "I did not supply the cocoa butter," she protests. "I left it on the kitchen counter. You're the one-"
"-it smelled good!" he says. He sweeps a broad hand through his blond hair. "And it was in the kitchen."
"Well," Emma says. "Even with the food poisoning, I'll take that party over this one."
The Arbor Tower looms ahead, glass and platinum glittering, its mouth opening out onto the street to spill a flood of white marble. The pair of them weave through bright t-shirts clinging to young skin, khaki shorts and torn up jeans, sundresses fluttering on the soft breeze playing tag across Emma's face and arms until they reach the foyer of the city's most luxurious hotel. The army of bellhops in smart slacks rushes forward to welcome them home, but Emma strides past them to the front desk, where the ever-present Harry stands speaking to a tourist.
"But it's his temper you see, his temper." The tourist gestures wildly with his sausage hands, his bright orange clothes screaming Hoenn. "He gets very riled up sometimes, he needs to stretch his legs, and I can't see-"
"-We've got experts to handle that, sir, our care staff is top-notch. If you'd like, we can have updates about your blaziken sent to your mobile hourly..." Harry pauses, catching sight of Emma and Brett. He says, "But, ah, I'll have to speak to you about this later Mr. Haits. Annabelle here will be happy to assist you."
A girl materializes at Harry's elbow and beams at Mr. Haits. She says, stepping from behind the counter to take hold of the man's arm, "Let me introduce you to our care staff, Mr. Haits. I'm sure they'll be able to give you some peace of mind."
As Annabelle pulls the Hoennite down a corridor, Harry turns to Emma, beaming. He says, "Lovely as always, Ms. Taylor. Mr. Vera is expecting you." He turns to Brett, extending a hand. "And you too, Mr. Harbor, I'm glad to see you could make it. Congratulations on your acceptance to such a prestigious program."
Emma whips to face Brett. She says, "Harry knows?"
Brett cringes. "I was waiting for a good time to tell you," he says, shaking the outstretched hand.
"This is the worst possible time. You waited for the worst possible-"
"Please don't make a fuss in the lobby, Ms. Taylor, " says Harry, shaking his head in pert arcs. "The elevator," he says, "will do nicely for any debates, shouting matches or, should the situation require, fisticuffs..."
"Fisticuffs, Harry?" says Emma.
"Let's not give her any ideas," says Brett, already fleeing for the elevator.
Emma chases him down and socks him in the arm as the doors close and the sound of violins fills the penthouse lift.
Brett massages his arm, moaning loudly. Then he laughs, grinning at his best friend.
"You'd think a girl would mature a little since grade school," he says.
"I'm an ill-tempered child, sorry." She sticks her tongue out at him.
Brett laughs with her for a moment. But then she stops, and he sobers too. They watch, silent, as the number above the door grows.
On the twentieth floor he asks, "Do you have a plan?"
Emma avoids his gaze, glancing out the back of the elevator at the sharp blues and yellows of the summer sky surrendering to a pallet of violet and orange. She say to the glass, "I'll just have to tell him." She turns back to the doors, rubbing her wrist. "Just tell him I'm hopelessly in love. That I know I said it was cool, that I said I didn't want... this. But this...this is shit, Brett. This is pathetic."
Brett shrugs. "Michael's big on charity," he says. "He was on TV last night playing soccer with some orphans. Maybe pathetic will work."
"Orphans aren't pathetic," Emma says. "Just disadvantaged."
Brett nudges her with his elbow. "Be disadvantaged, then."
She opens her mouth to reply, but the opening of the elevator doors arrests her.
Michael's suite has been transformed overnight. The tables empty just yesterday blossom now with the efforts of a small army of caterers, overflowing with miniature pizzas in perfect rank and file, glazed chicken skewers, potato wedges sprinkled with herbs, fruit trays in exotic colors next to cheese trays next to sandwich trays next to bottles of spirits, beers and a well-embellished champagne. The glass wall of the suite looks out over the dusk cityscape in all of its dying warmth while the other walls are dominated by television monitors tuned to the Finals, where Ara Izumi faces down Dane Bartley to the roar of fifty thousand privileged fans.
At the center of the buzzing room, Michael in a dark suit trades easy conversation with a gaggle of pretty twenty-somethings, all dressed in sleek dresses, daringly cut and obviously several times more expensive than Emma's worn-out clothes. The girl clinging to his arm, a brunette with blue eyes, giggles uncontrollably at what most have been a joke, and Emma clenches her teeth as Michael laughs with her.
Emma cuts into the crowd, Brett tagging behind, and she shouts to Michael, "Hey!"
He spots her, and gratifyingly leaves his current company. He meets Emma halfway, in the center of the room and the crowd, hugging her close so that her nose fills with his crisp cologne.
Emma listens to her heart's maddening sprint as she rubs her cheek against the soft lapel of Michael's jacket. She asks, "I'm not late?"
"Not at all," says Michael, pulling away. "I'm glad you made it."
Emma's about to reply when the brunette cuts in, catching Michael's arm again. She gives Emma a head-splitting smile and drawls, "Hi."
"You know Nicolette," says Michael, wrapping an arm around her shoulder. "She's in Modern Public Policy."
Nicolette flicks her braceleted hand and tosses her long, caramel hair over her shoulder. "Berkins is terrible, isn't he?" she says. "He's got this shrieky voice too, I can't even sleep through his droning."
Emma crosses her arms. Though she herself had managed to sleep through Berkins's lectures, she says, "I think he's fascinating."
Nicolette shrugs, her jewelry glittering as it catches the light. She says, "Well. Are you hitting the circuit too? If you're here..."
"Nicolette was telling me about her plans," says Michael. "Turns out we're both going to try the Forest."
Meaning Viridian Forest, the passage of which is a long-standing trainer rite established by Gary Oak. He'd written in his memoir that it was the Forest that transformed him and his eevee from 'a smartass with a ball of fur' into a proper team. Thousands of aspiring trainers had flocked to undertake the same transformation since - and also massively increased the circuit popularity of a pokemon that used to live strictly in the lab or the home.
But the fact that Nicolette was going to undergo the Initiation meant that she was willing to face cold, darkness, unmapped terrain, swarms of bug pokemon and, quite possibly, death.
It also meant Nicolette was a liar, because Emma had heard her telling her friends she was going to teleport straight to Cerulean after picking up her starter just a few days before summer vacation.
"It's a chance to test your mettle," Nicolette says, utterly shameless. She flashes her snow white teeth. "Suss out early whether you have it, or not."
Emma glares at her. She asks, with unveiled sarcasm, "You're looking at the Plateau?"
But Nicolette drops her grin, her humor; every ounce of her flirting. She looks at Emma, blank, and says, "Yes."
The lucid rendering of the Indigo Plateau repeated across Michael's seven television monitors shows Ara jabbing the air with her fist, her face shining. Nicolette breaks off the staring contest to glance at the scene, then says to Michael as she walks into the crowd, "Let her down easy."
Emma scoffs, but she looks at Michael's face and feels her own expression go limp.
He takes her hand, saying, "Come on."
She follows him into the master bedroom, where he seats her on the bed and puts a hand through her hair.
"She's a charmer," says Emma, pulling away.
"She ranked third nationally on the exam," says Michael. "Whatever you might think of her-"
"Don't tell me it's her exam score you're interested in."
Michael shakes his head, sitting down at his desk and loosening his tie. He says, "You're mad at me."
Emma says, "You're leaving me."
"You knew-"
"Not this soon!"
She bolts upright, hands trembling at her sides. She says, "Be honest with me, just this once. Tell me why you're doing this."
Michael meets her stare, the gold of his eyes flecked with black. He watches her a moment, as if coming to a decision, before he straightens.
He says, smiling, "I want to finish what he started."
Looking him straight in the eye, Emma says, "You're lying."
He pauses again, studying her. He steps closer to her, discarding his tie, and says, "I want to redeem the family reputation."
And she says again, "You're lying."
Closer again. In a darker voice, he tells her, "I want to do what he couldn't."
And she answers, softly, "You're lying."
His eyes lose their small crinkle of amusement. He closes until he's an inch from her face, the heat of his breath on her forehead.
He whispers, "I want to kill whatever killed him."
And Emma, looking into the face of a man she does not know, realizes that this man would choose the ghost of his little brother over anything else in the world.
She looks away from him, this sudden stranger, and she says, "Be safe."
He swings onto the bed and pulls her down beside him. His hand finds her hair again, stroking through her blond tresses.
He says, smiling at her, "I'm going to miss you."
She smiles back at him, at Michael, wrapping her arms around him and breathing the faint scent of charcoal and sandalwood.
But when he leaves, waving her goodbye, Emma throws herself into the pillows of his king-size bed and says into the white creases,
"You're lying."