* note: warning for abuse ; drugs *

Chapter Twenty-Four: Addiction

Two at night. A peculiar time when others would slept, and yet, he was out here, nestled in the slim branches of an Oran Berry tree and watching as his Pokemon trained below.

He would offer to train with them—and he had, but his Pokemon had seemed concerned, and he'd been forced to take an eventual break while they worked on their own. It made him glad, to be honest—but he didn't even know what honest meant any longer.

"Good job, Flygon," he mumbled in a tired voice, forcing himself to stay awake. "That Dragon Claw is almost perfect. Now, practice with Milotic and work on your reaction time."

The draconic creature glanced up, shooting him a worried look—and he turned away on instinct, avoiding the red-gilded gaze he was offered. It would feel even worse if his Pokemon thought of him as weak—and he breathed a sigh of relief as the beast gave a curt nod, turning away and moving off with a swift manoeuvre of her wings.

"Oh, you're done too, Larvesta?" His fingers gripped against the rough surface of tree bark, not caring that they were starting to bleed a little. "Good work on that Flame Burst and Giga Drain. I'd like you to do a little agility training, OK? Just a round of the forest and try jumping from branch to branch."

A yip escaped the bug-like Pokemon's mouth, and she was thankfully less persistent that the previous one had been—after all, they'd been together for a shorter time, and the small organism was less tuned to his trainer's quirks.

He relaxed once more as the creature disappeared into the waiting shadows of his night—he wasn't too concerned about Larvesta. The Pokemon could take care of herself, and besides, his other members were close by if she did need any assistance.

Shifting himself so that he wasn't dangling in such a precarious manner, the boy inspected his grazed palms, eyes scanning over the scratches and abrasions that the tree had given him. It was no matter, though—all he had to do was wash his hands later and he would be fine.

The trainer glanced down once again, watching the rest of his Pokemon train—and he felt horrible. Had they not wanted such a weak trainer to join them, fearing that they would be hindered?

"Enough," he muttered to himself, startling when his finger caught against the icy surface of a Pokeball's button—and he almost didn't manage to keep himself balanced on the branch as stream of white light almost blinded him for a moment.

He inched back as the Beldum appeared in front of him, glaring at the Pokemon with an air of exhaustion—he was too tired to say anything condescending.

The Pokemon just stared back with its usual emotionless expression on its face, ruby pupil blinking at him as it made no movement whatsoever, instead waiting for his trainer to issue a command with irritable patience.

Ryou reached up, black spots dancing in front of his vision as he tried to return the creature to its home. He couldn't even see through the blurred haze drooping over his eyes, however, and ended up aiming at the wrong spot.

"You know what?" He shook his head, not even bothering to rub away the sleepiness from his eyes. "I don't care. Just go train by yourself or something—do whatever you want. Just come back in half an hour."

A metallic ping sounded from somewhere within the Pokemon's body, and the two of them locked gazes for a few moments longer—then, as if having found a different interest, it steered its small frame away, floating away from the teenager and making its way into the night.

When the boy couldn't detect that metallic odour any more, he leant back against the clumps of dew-damped leaves that acted as a fragile wall—and his wandering mind drifted to an uncanny analogy of the greenery's barrier and the untouchable walls that he had erected around his mind.

Both seemed strong and unbreakable at first sight, but they were, in all reality, fragile—all it needed was a touch in the right spot to send them crumbling down.

He had been stuck in the same half-conscious-trance for the next half an hour, and he didn't even realise the passing time—until a cacophony of noises broke him out of his dazed stupor.

A "tch" escaped his mouth, and he stared down, an unconscious grin sweeping onto his face as he was met with the sight of his concerned Pokemon waiting for him. "I'm sorry," he apologised, trying to keep his listlessness to a minimum. "I was just tired. I'm sorry for making you train so late too—let's go back now, OK?"

One by one, the exhausted creatures before him nodded—and he lowered himself onto the ground, returning his Pokemon to their Pokeballs where they could have a good rest until their match the next day.

Flygon glanced at him once again, as if having seen past his smile to the aching facade and wider-than-usual eyes, but she just gave a slight shake of her head before allowing herself to be returned. Beldum was next, and he didn't even take a second to perform the action—the Pokemon was back in its ball before he could even raise his head to glance at it.

"Time to go back," he mumbled.

• • •

"Where are you, Ryou?"

He jerked his head upwards at the familiar voice—it swayed and fluctuated, original beauty coated and drowned within a thick layer of drunken haziness.

The boy looked down once again at his small hands—Mother had said once that a child like him didn't have the authority to look at others like that—and tried to reassemble his face into the guileless child that the woman preferred—the one she approved of.

But that wouldn't solve anything. He knew that she'd heard the vase crack—she had sharp ears, and never seemed to miss a mistake. His face burned with a searing pain, and he knew it was injured in more than one way, but he was more worried about the shattered ornament strayed across the marble-tiled floor.

A shiver ran through his body as footsteps approached him, and he struggled to meet his mother's amethyst-hued gaze, overrun with a burning gaze that carried not the loving expression he'd heard mothers possessed, but a cold, calculated rage that she'd just go into when she was in a drunken stupor.

(She did, in fact, go into that phase a lot, but he pretended not to know about it.)

"How could you?" Her voice was like a broken fragment of her former self. "That was the last gift your father gave to me—and you broke it!" Mother was sobbing now, and it was all his fault—his brain had froze, offering no ideas to restore that beautiful smile of hers once again.

He flinched as the wound across his face stung in white-hot agony, as if he had fell down once again—and he wished he was that clumsy. He wished that it could have happened, because that would be a far better option than Mother's wrath.

A torrent of blows rained. He curled up, using his tiny arms to shield himself from the worst of the assaults—but his hands had crept to his ears as the woman yelled out insult after insult—he'd lost track after hearing that she wished he'd never been born.

He agreed with Mother—she knew best, after all, and it was him that was causing her all this pain. This wasn't the time to think about that, however—as what seemed like the thousandth punch came, he couldn't take it any more.

"Stop!" he screamed, and there was no doubt that he would be hoarse for the next couple of days with a shout of that amplitude. "I love you!" he yelled. "Stop!"

His words seemed to have some degree of effect on the elder human above him, however—she snapped out of her beast-like trance for a few moments, allowing her to observe and approve the trembling, wide smile that he shot her—one that he was was desperate maintain.

Then, she wailed once like a despondent child, sweeping the young boy into her arms and hugging him tightly to her chest as she cried—and in that instant, he had long forgiven her for the bruises scattered amongst his battered body. It wasn't as if he'd ever blamed her, and that made the decision all the more simple.

"I'm sorry," she muttered, a trembling, dazed hand ruffling his hair—and it was all he could do to hang in her grasp like a limp rag doll, grateful for the opportunity to erase his smile. "I love you," she chanted to herself like a mantra. "I love you, Ryou."

He couldn't find it in him to answer back, so instead, he plastered his smile back on and enjoyed the shard of peace that he couldn't quite find these days.

• • •

"Mother! No!"

The sobbing boy tugged on his mother's dress as the woman sat on the thin rail of the condominium's roof, a wide, drunken smile on her face like a possessed zombie and her violet eyes glazed over as she stared into the distance, gaze fixed on the blue sky—eerily calm and cloudless amongst the harsh midday sun.

The woman raised a hand to silence him—that had been gripping the ledge for support—and brushed it against her lips. "Hush, Ryou," she pacified, the grin wider than ever. "I know what I am doing. I love you, Ryou—"

"Now's not the time!" the child argued back. That grin wasn't a true expression—Mother would never smile like that. Not for someone like him. "If you love me—if you love—"

His parent leant down, cupping his cheek with an icy hand—and he flinched, not knowing what she was going to do. However, a tenderness he had never felt spread warmth throughout his entire body—yet, he was frozen to the spot, an ominous chill clouding the back of his mind as he remained unable to focus on the moment.

"Don't speak now," she mumbled, stroking his face in gentle, smooth motions that he didn't think her capable of—ones that were more befitting of a proper mother—but that didn't matter now. He didn't want a proper mother—he just wanted her to come off that ledge.

"You're hurt..." She rubbed a finger against a healing bruise, but the world was so dampened and faraway that he couldn't even feel the stinging sensation. "It's my fault. I'm sorry. You look so much like your father, you know—you have the same smile. I was so happy when I saw that expression."

The child's grip on her clothing tightened, and his wide eyes watered even further—that hadn't even been a proper smile. Maybe if he'd shown her that smile more—maybe if he had behaved more like Father—maybe this wouldn't have happened.

"Your father was a great trainer..." Tears had started to fill those beautiful amethyst eyes that he admired. "I'm sure you would make one too."

His world seemed to tumble into a frightening filter of inverted colours as the woman brushed his hand away from the frothy layers of her dress, and he stumbled back in an instant, shock and terror filling his ears instead of the final words that Mother had mouthed.

And then, her hands went limp, losing all forms of support she once had—and she fell.

He lunged forward, unspoken and incomprehensible words pouring out in a single heart-rending scream—and as he bent down to try and save the falling woman he felt their fingers brush for the briefest of seconds—but even that was a futile attempt.

It terrified him that there wasn't even a sound as she plummeted—and it was even more nauseating as he was unable to do anything but stand and watch as she hit the ground as an unrecognisable, shapeless mess of flesh and blood, his hand still lingering in the air and saving nothing at all.

"Mother? Mother...Mother!"

Even a sharp insult would have comforted him. It would have meant that she hadn't left him yet.

Yet, his ears were only met with the defeaning sound of silence.

• • •

Irises pale and dilated. Mouth open in a silent scream that never quite reached his throat. Clammy hand clutching at a sweat-soaked shirt as he felt his heart dance and palpitate against his ribcage in a frenzied, torturing dance.

He was far too hot despite the air-conditioned room—and he was suffocating, dammit, he was suffocating and his lungs seemed to be filling up with layer after layer of acrid smoke. The blanket was rid of with such force that it landed halfway across the room, and he sat like this for a while, gasping and heaving for any source of fresh, cold air.

It was just a nightmare—a flashback, he reminded himself, trying to calm down—but he couldn't. He leant his back against the wooden backing of the Pokemon Center's bed, tucking his knees to his chest and curling up in a protective ball. She's not going to leave you again.

Grateful that Quinn had requested for separate rooms, he tried time and again to relax himself—but that took a long time. He tried to lie down, pressing his head into the pillow as he tried to go back to sleep, but images of the dream plagued him and he didn't want to experience that again.

The boy uttered a groan, sitting up once again and pulling his jacket around him—it was the one source of warmth he could endure without the choking feeling swarming his mind.

He reached for his bag and grabbing a handful of items—his eyes blinked at the glaring display of 4.00 staring back at him from his watch—it was far too early to go to the Gym, and he was sure that his Pokemon were still fast asleep.

Ryou had never meant to bring the second group of items along with him on his journey, but they'd found their way to his bag—and with a muted sigh, he yanked the small bottle away from its prison of fabric.

It hadn't been so bad at first. He thought that everything would have worked out fine when Devon Corporation had adopted him, muttering something about how his mother was a relative and how he'd been blessed with extraordinary intelligence. He'd met them at the funeral—they didn't seem bad, and he felt that he could trust them.

He had, however, first started taking the pills when he was twelve. Devon Corporation didn't tolerate any form of tardiness, and he'd bought the drug over the internet to help his concentration. Despite his intelligence, he could get distracted—and he didn't want to face any forms of punishment.

Then, his lessons had started getting more intense when he was thirteen—it seemed that his supposed father was intent on him being the heir to the company, and had him work in the office—and that meant piles of paperwork, and he was often too sleepy working into the late hours of the night. Thus, he started a new pill—something to help him stay awake.

It was like coffee, but just a thousand times more effective—a small white pill that he again ordered over the internet.

It's just temporary, he reassured himself in frantic bursts as he increased the dosage. You'll get used to working late and you'll stop. Still, the pill worked a miracle—it was as if an current was running through his mind all the time, forcing him to stay artificially awake—and he never did stop.

His health started to deteriorate, and his skin grew paler with dark shadows under his eyes, but no one would notice as long as he kept up with being the supposed star of the office.

But there was yet another problem—he couldn't sleep even when he could and wanted to. He had become irritable—more tense, high-strung; paranoid. He over-complicated even the simplest of issues. He couldn't hide the nervous fidgeting from his teachers.

Even when he lay in bed, a million rambling thoughts would prevent his brain from shutting down—Why am I lying here I can't do this I have so much things to do like that paperwork and those papers and that presentation I have to finish by next week—

His performance slipped. His father noticed. More punishment would be doled out.

Something had to be done—and he started on a new pill; Zolpidem. It was supposed to deal with anxiety, relaxation and sleep. His emotions had started to blunt and fade away; he stumbled through the day like a robot, not feeling anything but a needing urge to complete the tasks handed to him.

Pathetic. He needed a pill to wake up, and a pill to go back to sleep. His life was ruled by chemicals.

To ensure the pills kept working, he increased the dosage as his body had built up a resistance—one, two, five, six. His memories were blunted and kept blurring out—but somehow, he had still managed to retain that photographic memory of his.

He'd even kept a small bottle of morphine—it had been a dark spot in his life where he was stressed beyond repair, and he had considered ending it all and asking a drugstore lady if she had anything to help him achieve analgesia.

Grunting—he had been cutting back since his journey, even though he felt ill without them—he poured six tablets of the white pills into his palm, grabbing a bottle of water and downing the drugs in an instant. It worked almost at once—soon, that thrill pounding through his brain was back, and he wasn't able to sleep even if he wanted to.

You're not allowed to do this, the small, sane part of his mind argued. You're underage. You're on a journey now—but he didn't care about that.

He glanced over at the small bedside table, notebook of battle strategies still flipped open—and, not having anything else to do, he pulled out the chair, slumping over the pad once again and going through any possible slips in his concocted plan.

• • •

Don't concentrate on Steven he's not doing anything just pretend he's not there and fight—

His mind was in a messed-up rant thanks to the pill, but the plan was still seated in the back of his brain, and he remembered every last detail of it—he was in a comfortable position, with Winona on her last Pokemon and him on his second.

"Paralyse the Altaria with Dragon Breath," he muttered in a dull voice, his thoughts hazy and unable to focus on the battle at hand. "Look, she's attacking—Roost on contact, and once you achieve that, end things with a series of Dragon Claws."

Flygon nodded, a veil of white light glittering around her as his opponent sent a searing Dragon Pulse to her side—and as the Roost worked its effects through her body, she lifted herself into the air, shooting Dragon Breath after Dragon Breath towards the avian.

A grin crept over the Pokemon's face as the telltale signs of electricity shimmered around the Altaria's body, and both her talons lit up in a fiery aura, ready for the finishing blow.

She then swooped towards the struggling dual-type, claws sharp and glinting in the artificial light of the Gym—and she performed her final attack with startling precision, claws slicing through the layers of clouds and raking themselves along fatal parts along Altaria's skin.

"The winner is—"

He wasn't listening—he had won, sure. He knew he would have.

Yet, there wasn't any sense of achievement.

• • •

"Devon Corporation gave you the Beldum, yet you've never used it in any Gym battles," Steven observed in that blunt tone of his. "Shion, you can't run away forever."

Closing his badge case with a tense snap, the pale-haired teenager turned around, hands curling into fists as he took a step away from the Champion, replying with a terse, thin tone. "I can if I want to," he muttered. "And don't call me Shion."

The blue-haired man shook his head. "Sh—Ryou, if you want to be called that—"

"Shut up," the trainer shot back. "You're the true son of Devon—I was brought in because you went off to become a trainer. You won't understand."

"You never will."

• • •

「The song in the media is "A Lethargic Coup D'Etat", a Vocaloid song produced by Last Note and sung by GUMI for the Mikagura School Suite series. English subtitles are by AmeSubs (YouTube).」

「The scene and idea for drugs was modelled after some Assassination Classroom fanfiction xD」

This chapter was full on angst

oops

yeah.

You wanted his past, you got his past. Most of it, anyway.

Besides that, thank you SO MUCH for 5.6K reads and 736 votes! That's about a 200+ increase in reads :o My next goal is 751! :)

Critiques are most certainly welcome, and don't forget to read, vote and give your thoughts in the comments! Please be 100% honest!

~ nyxia ☆