A man must be always on his guard, and jealousy can have the most unwelcome consequences. Murasaki was the perfect companion, a toy for him to play with.

—Genji Monogatari

[1]

They first met at the Pokémon World Tournament in Driftveil City, and neither had anticipated for anything more than a fleeting greeting, a fugacious farewell. It had happened completely by accident (sometime between a second cappuccino and the impending announcement of octofinals). Then, another slips by, and Riley sees him again.

His counterpart. The man with steel-flamed hair and glassy eyes. Tall and rigid, Steven Stone seems superhuman with the sun hanging low and behind. And as crimson collided with cerulean, plunging straight into the crisp ocean, Riley thought their encounter must be destined.

"Hello. Mr. Stone, was it?"

"Please, call me Steven."

"You're the Hoenn Champion. I remember seeing an interview about you and your Metagross."

"Former Champion. I relinquished the title several years ago in order to travel a bit."

"Ah, of course. It's been a while since I've had contact with the civilized world. I like to travel as well."

Steven offers a wry smile. "I would've expected no less from the grandson of the legendary Sir Aaron."

"So why aren't you competing in the tournament?"

"To be honest, I forgot that the tournament was taking place. I planned to come here to do some soul-searching," Steven pauses, remembering the last (disastrous) time he used those lines. "Besides, I haven't battled in a long time."

"Another coincidence. I'm not here to compete either."

"Your skills are quite well-known. There was speculation that you were preparing to take on the Sinnoh League."

"But that's just not me anymore," Riley mutters, echoing open the discomfort lodged in both their hearts.

...

The battles wage and waver without respite. Crowds storm the coliseum, cheering their favorite Trainers and stoking the fires for emergent nemeses. Even at night, there's no quietness, no solitude, to be found. Merchandise in all colors of the rainbow run amok through the streets. Venders and sellers haggle and bicker, stew and simmer, only to return for that overpriced collectible.

People from all over the world have come, some to gamble and play and others hoping to slash their names across the annals of history. There is money to be made and fame to claim. Unique and apart, they're the only spectators not caring to speculate.

Steven notices the commonality first (as is proper since he is a hairline older). While one is light and the other dark, that's where the differences cease. Riley descends from an extensive line of mining magnates. As for him, well, "Devon" (therefore him) is trademarked and stamped across every household appliance. They even share the same snobbishly fashionable, retroussé nose.

But—preening, Riley concludes: he is taller by an inch and has a more dashing smile. And his shoulders are broader albeit by a microscopic breadth. So what if Steven has a slightly lower baritone? Or that even clouds bowed as he zipped past on his Skarmory?

This isn't a rivalry.

They're not after the same prize.

They are…friends, comrades and confidents.

So, only faintly begrudging, Riley invites Steven to dinner. He gives a lame excuse about wanting to celebrate the evening of the final battles and the finalization of picturesque sojourns. Together, their legends and names compose such the stuff of nightmares.

Steven toasts to that. It is so excruciatingly rare to find a kindred soul, least of all one equally doomed.

...

May's voice sounds hollow when she calls that night. Worry seeps into him. Heavy and miserable like waterlogged linen weighing down a summer clothesline.

His immediate reaction is to fly back to Hoenn and see how she is, and then he remembers why he is here. Why she is there and they are apart.

She abruptly asks when he's coming home. There's some sort of trouble brewing and wondered if he could help, if it's not too much to ask? 'Cause this isn't a problem that'll resolve itself, and it's so bad, madly gone. Hurry, it's spinning fast.

And so he, ever the gentleman, agrees, assuring her that he'll return in three days.

"Great. It's going to be okay, I know it will. Thank you, Steven."

Thousands of miles away, her smile radiates, electrifying them both.

...

When Dawn closes her eyes, nestled against him, she is a princess floating in white and pink. And when she awakes, dragons spew from her out, raging in an esoteric dance.

He absconded with her once and has since stashed her inside a castle hidden by rain-curtains and wind-dunes. Somewhere where even he can't remember, she waits for him eternally. So now, together, they conjure this misshapen, grotesque mess as hot-hot, choking love.

But Riley is beautiful and valorous and makes her heart jitter like a glass-bound moth. Like strips of lightning or a gold polka-dotted scarf, he is majestic yet fragile—a boy who fancied conquering the world. So she falls in love with him all over again and keeps falling, still waiting for the bottom to hit.

Dear Dawn,

I'm sad to have missed your previous letter. I called the hotel, but they said they definitely did not receive it. No matter. I'll be home soon. I miss you.

—Riley

Grinning wide, Dawn folds up the letter carefully and crawls into bed. Tonight, she will dream of shining princes and fluttering sleeves, of princesses and sesame ice cream. Soon, she'll see. As will he.

...

Steven stares at his newfound friend (opponent) and calculates how many moves it would take. How many wrong-steps and side-turns and über-underestimations he would suffer. Slyly, he watches Riley flicker his eyes. Their actions mirror. Impressed, Steven deduces that the cost would be far too great. And so, he continues with their pleasant charade for now.

Riley is aware that Steven is aware that he is aware and on and on their ouroboros, their game of chess. Neither dares to strike first (fearing the worst). In tension, they linger and fester, plotting and dawdling. Steven is wily but not invincible (no one is, not even him). Softly, nearly imperceptibly, Riley breaches their truce:

"I'll tell you about Dawn if you tell me about May."

A/N: This fic was inspired by Genji Monogatari. Steven/May and Riley/Dawn reminded me a lot of Genji and Murasaki. As much as I like Ironwillshipping and Hoennchampionshipping, I won't ignore the fact that Riley and Steven are significantly older than their respective counterparts. By about 15 years if we're going with game-verse. Even if you jump ahead in time, thus making the girls older, so that the romance appears more plausible, there will always be an element of creepiness.