Title: Bittersweet

Summary: When all your dreams have been realised, what else is there left for you?

Disclaimer: Pokemon, not mine etc blah blah.

About: I plan for this to be full of drabbles. Just my thoughts on the pokemon universe in general... expcet updates to be sporadic.

It was such a pity, all the house wives fervently agreed. A real tragedy, all that talent going to waste, they would murmur. True enough, he had the talent for it, they would titter behind their hands, and certainly the experience to the job well. He was nothing like what he once was, their eyes told him, and never would be again.

It was such a pity, the husbands grumbled, reminiscing on the past over cold beer and replays of the Indigo Conference. That boy could have gone far, they would tell each other with knowing nods. Two leagues decimated in less than a year and half; why, it was practically un-heard of! They reminded one another of the clever moves he'd used in battle, reliving the long gone days of glory. It was a shame, they murmured into their drinks, but things like this just happen.

After all, who really wants a Champion that can't read?

--

It was the pity that angered him the most.

Most days, he could brush off the snide, side long looks and the snickers and chuckles behind upraised hands. On particularly good days, even, he could bare the guffaws as oldsters reminisced, verbally dissecting each and every battle, laying bare every mistake. But every once in a while, as he served the newest generation of trainers from behind the counter of the Pokemart, there came something that he could not ignore.

Pity.

Mostly, it came from the older trainers, who'd fought tooth and nail for their knowledge and skills, and balanced precariously on the top, always wary of youngsters looking to knock them off. They looked at him and knew, with a sympathy that made him tremble, everything that he'd sacrificed.

Cold cans of beans and slimy spaghetti-o's, so he could by top-grade pokemon food for his team. Threadbare clothes and a sleeping bag full of holes, so he could buy one more potion, a desperately needed antidote. Nights alone on the road, pushing himself to his limit, helping one pokemon learn a newfound technique.

School wasn't important; it was wasted time. For eighteen months, he had lived, breathed, existed solely as a pokemon trainer and nothing else. And afterwards...

The trainer looks down at his till, counting out the change with slow, methodical motions that make the youngster in front of him fairly dance with impatience. After, he reflects. Afterwards, he'd travelled the world on his winnings until he was penniless, and forced to hole up in a town where everyone had an opinion about what he should have done.

Looking back on his past, he can find nothing to regret. He was Champion- and really, that's all that matters.