Music in media: BREATHE by LEE HI

703 years ago, the Burned Tower was once a Brass Tower with gleaming golden panels of brass, built alongside its twin, the Tin Tower, and its silvery panels of tin. Their connection symbolises the friendship between people and Pokémon. 153 years ago, the Brass Tower burned down due to a lightning strike, but the fire was immediately put out by a torrential downpour. Since then, the dejected Tin Tower kept to itself. In order to breathe life back into the tower, it was later renamed to be Bell Tower, in order to make a new friend called Sprout Tower in Kikyō City. Presently, the Ivory Tower takes the Burned Tower's place, a far cry from what the residents of Enju expected out of the reconstruction.

Matsuba, Hayato, Kaspar and I have a special affinity with the original towers of Enju. Between the two towers of silver and gold, a crystal lake sits, serving as a scenery whenever I look out of the window of my house. Back then, the four of us would play at the lake. When the Burned Tower was torn down, our childhood also broke apart. Gone were the days when we climbed the pillars chasing after the Pokémon who sought refuge in the Burned Tower or found evidence of the mythic legends and their resurrection. Gone were the days when we dipped our toes in the Enju Lake, moments before a swim or a casual game of splashing water at each other or seeing who could stay underwater for the longest duration or playing ball. Moments before we were reprimanded by our parents for that. Gone were the days when we took the stairs up the Bell Tower, hoping we could grab the sun and squeeze sun juice out of it, wondering how it would taste. We came to a conclusion that it must be bitter because it's Solgaleo's pee, but I suppose it's really just sour grapes.

Maybe the ones who had it worse were the residents of Enju. They expected a fresh look for the Brass Tower, not a change in material to ivory, causing a plunge in the Mamoswine and Donphan populations as their blood soaked the earth and ice. It was a cursed move. Johto never saw sunshine for long for the three years the Ivory Tower went under construction. The air remained chilly in the summers and a shadow seemed to hover over the region till the Ivory Tower was completed. The Ivory Tower, the symbol of ignorance, of the abuse of knowledge for power, had a Wailord of a time basking in dirt and protest from the people, till one day everyone realised their breaths had better use. Some had heart attacks when the truth came out that my mother, of Kanto origin, married my Enju-certified father so it would be convenient for her future job. Afterwards, no one spoke to the Aomines, until the day I was born. Children are always the perfect excuse to apply for forgiveness, apparently.

And children are also always the perfect victims. In the world of adults, children are nothing more than pesky creatures, worse than Pokémon. There are those who figure that Pokémon are superior because people once married to Pokémon, which was supposedly cool. Nobody knew what happened on nuptial nights. Besides, this was the only socially acceptable way to be single for life, because one was technically married to their Pokémon, and no one could seek a divorce back then. Of course, everyone came to a consensus that for such a dynamic family, homewreckers would only be put to shame.

On the other hand, those who demolish buildings and reconstruct them for their own gains weren't exactly frowned upon. It was seen as a means of progress, a necessary ideal for the world at large. Progress often leads to a lack of preservation of historical sites, however, so people, especially the ones who had a stake in Enju City, were opposed to the Ivory Tower. Not that they enjoyed the scent of char in the air they breathe in, but it did prove to be an alternate spot to seek shelter in heavy rains, and a great place for the unwanted children to hang out without anyone bothering them. One time, moans were heard above us when we were playing tag in the basement. Out of curiosity, we scoped out the area, hoping to find a Gastly or two, which was strangely rare for a dilapidated place. Turns out we found more than we bargained for, and we left the Burned Tower in a jiffy.

Our discovery that day made the whole of Johto, and even the neighbouring Kanto and Sinnoh regions, so rife with ill excitement that the Burned Tower became a tourist attraction and Enju City saw an economic boom. A week later, when the news were close to dying down, a janitor who constantly swept the tower found unsightly mementos tossed about every corner of the tower. Her horror struck the globe. The sun was extremely touched by how hoarse she became come midnight, the next day it shone with a dark blaze in a failed attempt to burn the Burned Tower down.

Just thinking back to all these past events is distraction enough from the morbid present. Matsuba shares my sentiments as we take in the barren condition of this shard of the past. He comes here, alone, once in a blue moon, hoping to let nostalgia paint him in his prepubescence. He always leaves feeling more sombre yet inspired. I don't accept his sudden apology.

"To think that the Burned Tower still lives in some way..." I brush the black pillar nearest to us. Contrary to my expectations, there's no dust, no cobwebs, no Pokémon, as though the Burned Tower is made to put up with the Ivory Tower's condescending presence, donating all that dirt and dust to the ventilation system above. It's no wonder the people all reek of poor attitude.

Meta and Matsuba sit in the centre of the basement, a shallow pit governed by steps, overgrown with moss, just like the days of yesteryears. Where our butts rest are precisely where Raikou, Suicine, and Entei once stood upon resurrection.

I don't think I've felt this gruntled today. Sure, I received two works of calligraphy by Handa-san this morning, but the conversation with Okaasan pretty much broke me. Alas, catharsis.

"Matsuba, what do you do here?" I rub my thighs and hum a tune. "There's nothing here now."

Matsuba grins. "Graffiti."

Meta and I sweep a gaze across the basement. Nothing screams graffiti and vandalism like the cleanest walls I've ever seen for years.

"I scrub the walls after," he adds. "Can't destroy heritage."

Meta raises his hand. "We can do something else today."

We wait for him to elaborate, but he doesn't. Instead, he shakes my head and puts it in Matsuba's.

"Hand-holding?" I guess and he shakes his head. Matsuba's suggestion of a dance throws the Ditto off too.

"You humans need to use your brains more often," he provides us with the quote of the day. "We leave this place."

"There are no ghosts here," Matsuba says.

Meta laughs. "I'm a Normal-type! I'm not afraid of ghosts!"

Matsuba and I share a sly smile, and prod him to test that statement. He declines with another set of chuckles, explaining that he wants to immerse in the basement's dim and mysterious atmosphere in a special way.

Thirty minutes later, we are setting up our canvases. Wielding a pencil that's sharpened till its lead extends like a Hyper Beam, we let our gazes crisscross and run wild, in search of the best way to frame our subject. Meta's idea of relaxing my nerves turns out to be dessin. He will gladly do up a portrait of me and Matsuba, if it's any comfort that a pink slime is going to go all-out Picasso on us. We have to sketch him and focus on the background details, just because he's one little blob too awkward to be splashed onto a unicolour background.

Art has never been my forte. Neither is it Matsuba's. Though, it appears to be a different story altogether when it comes to Meta. He doesn't need to turn into a Smeargle to display his artistic talents. From his swift strokes to his stern gaze, Meta unveils his hidden talent, unobstructed by his body, stretching at his will, shrinking as he wishes, one eye locked onto us as if to trap us in a freeze frame, the other measuring the canvas and making astute judgements that leave his mouth every once in a while, revealing his desire for perfection in finding the right shades and size and composition and expression.

Admittedly, it's a tad distracting. Matsuba grits his teeth and shakes his leg as his head shifts like a metronome, his hand trembling with equal force as he tries to get the irregular shape out. Moss slithers towards him to cup his sweat in their phyllids. His intense focus dismisses their attempts. I can't keep up with the number of times he's sharpened his pencil.

With all eyes on Matsuba, I gradually sink into comfort with the thin lines marking an RBF on my canvas. Meta's amorphous body manifests in messy squiggles and curves. But the devil of the dessin lies in the details. The moss in the art must pull you in like it seems out to strangle you for its entertainment. Light and shadow bend and blend at various parts, on the smoked ceiling, across the charred pillars, along the floorboards. The shading has to reflect that. I could use some rendering, to copy Meta as he makes use of a kneaded eraser to enhance his sketches.

The more I delve into my art, the less my mind drifts into useless wonderlands. I guess that's a good thing. No point caring about the stupid argument if nothing's going to change.

"Done!" Meta puts his pencil on the floor. "Matsuba? Kyo?"

"You've been calling me Kyo instead of Aomine-kun today," I remark as I patch things up.

"Wynaut? Kyo wastes less breath. Formality is pain."

Matsuba tosses his pencil at Meta. Meta winces. The Gym Leader picks it up and smooches him. "Living without etiquette is also pain."

"Guess we're all done," I say. We put our works side by side. We'll start with mine because I'm the protag here. For a beginner, there's a lot of effort put into this portrait of a Ditto. Never have I ever seen a Ditto drawn in such light outlines, with perfect gradients across board. The background is the best part of the art. The shadows and highlights reflect exactly the appearance of the Burned Tower's basement and the use of perspective and distance leaves me awestruck.

Matsuba's one is interesting. Meta has a poker face drawn on what looks like a sunny side up without the sun. I love the way he plays with details. Moss is everywhere, sketched with everlasting hatred expressed through haphazard lines and shadows, yet they only serve to bring out the Burned Tower's ethereal quality.

When Meta presents his artwork, Matsuba and I hardly know how to react. In his masterpiece, Matsuba's hand brushes against mine, exhorting me to hold him tight, to put on a practised blush and exploding veins. His windswept hair stands out unlike mine, creating a visual contract between us and also with the environment. Meta selects specific details of the basement such as the smoked walls converging into a corner, the steps running down the pit, the chipped pillars like a forgotten game of jenga. Best of all, Matsuba's scarf flutters and covers my neck, the length of it sitting nicely below my slanted jaw. Not only that, our chins tilt away from the audience, angled towards a corner of the frame. A particular symmetry unveils, underscored by the controlled, enigmatic gaze in the one eye we choose to show alongside our profiles. Even the creases blanketing our clothes are surfaced in his dessin, like they are deliberately untidy to fit in with the vibes of breaking etiquette, though etiquette is never always neat. I can't tell if this is a model photoshoot or the cover of a famous fashion magazine. Matsuba probably shares this inkling.

I think I'm in love.

My finger grazes the graphite on Meta's canvas and collides into Matsuba's. We exchange glances and smile, unabashed.

"Kyo, your mouth is wide open," Matsuba says and I cup it, not forgetting to dish out a playful arch of a brow. "You should take this home."

My heart opens its nightclub business and my nose runs as smooth as a DJ's fingers on a disc. Techno music plays. My insides bang their heads and dance their sorrows away.

"You should hang it in your gym," I tell him and place a finger on his lips. "I'll be fine. We aren't gonna care about the naysayers anyway."

"What will Hayato and Kaspar think? And it'll only complicate that stupid harem plot."

"Matsuba, the four of us agreed to ignore the drama. Our lives are our own. We aren't going to let some chaotic company make decisions for us. We call the shots, here, now, and forever."

Matsuba bobs his head as he digests my words. Meta goes ahead to issue a challenge.

"How do you live?"

How, indeed. At first glance, the question seems directed at Matsuba. That's the danger with Meta. Because of his usual simplicity, he unknowingly or intentionally sets up a mind game. Only slightly later, when I lose the match point, do I realise it's a veiled doubt towards me. I don't deserve to criticise Matsuba when I'm no better.

No one answers. We just pack up and go after deciding to bring our own dessin home.

I can't tell if such a question is too difficult to cook up an essay to engage with at the moment, or if we're all just avoiding it. Maybe a little bit of both. Or nothing.

For the time being, what comes to mind is—

"Breathe," I mutter as the doors close, as we're transported out of a distant past, towards a present known to everyone except ourselves.