Always
For my Snorlax, reworked and rewritten; you wouldn't understand, otherwise. Happy birthday!
When you look back on those years you spent traveling, you're surprised at just how little you seem to remember; every conversation, every battle, every adventure – the memories are being intruded by a hazy shade of leaf green that you can't quite dispel. Rather, it's the most unimportant details that resonate in your mind – your silly hat (why did you think that looked good?); a rather rambunctious youngster (…and something about shorts?); accidently buying too many ice heals (when did you ever need them, anyway?).
There's one interaction, however, that you can't seem to shake – the beginning of that something wonderful. It subtly tints every hazy memory you do have from those years, remaining hidden but always there, just like an undercurrent that flows always beneath the surface of a river.
You tromped into Oaks' lab that unforgettable day, curious to see what he needed you for but really just hoping you'd finally get to start your own journey across the region. Hadn't it grown tiring, living in your one-Ponya town? Weren't you finally ready for bigger and better things?
"Hey, Wendy; Gramps isn't around," you heard a male voice say. You turned around only to find that next-door neighbor kid. You were so shy and unknowingly self-absorbed back then, weren't you? Giving a small wave and a smile, you turned away, too busy being lost in your head to even muster the rules of normal conversation. Back then, dreams of Pikachus and Psyducks were more interesting than people and problems.
Oak finally did show up in a flurry of platitudes, and even though you knew he was explaining something important, you we're too distracted by the laboratory around you to pay attention. (what's that generator thing? what's he doing? what's in there?)
"You can have one," you finally realized Oak was eagerly informing you. "Go on, choose!" You hesitated before realizing he was gesturing to the three Pokéballs sitting on the table.
"Take the SQUIRTLE," the kid - Blake something, maybe? - told you, and you couldn't help but raise an eyebrow at him.
"But fire is my favorite element," you sputtered back, wondering why he was even telling you this. Was it a trick?
"Yeah, but SQUIRTLE is the best," he replied matter-of-factly, the know-it-all. Part of you just wanted to spite him.
"Nope, this CHARMANDER is," you replied a little tartly, making your final choice in the process.
"Nope, this CHARMANDER is," he responded, mimicking your pretend-uppity voice. "I'm choosing SQUIRTLE, then. And I'm going to name him Chainsaw."
You gave him a look, didn't you? You were so shocked that someone could be so silly. Of course, when you figured out he was kidding, you felt unnerved. Who was this boy, and why was he so different? Even to this day, he still says things that make you pause, that throw you like a Slowpoke presented with a choice.
You wanted to walk away, wanted to escape that social situation you were clearly outmaneuvered in, but he wouldn't let you go, would he? (and if he hadn't, where would you be today?)
"Wait, Wendy!" he shouted to you just as you were almost at the door, and you cursed silently inside your mind. So close to freedom and yet so far. "Let's check out our Pokémon! Come on, I'll take you on!"
You had no choice but to accept, not with the lab coat guys (nerds) watching you. Professor Oak lectured you on how to properly battle, making you feel like a five-year-old trying to brave the tall grass with a Pokédoll for protection. It felt even worse when everyone in the lab witnessed your loss to the confident, blond boy in front of you, and you vowed to beat him one day, a real butt-kicking that'd make him feel the shame you felt.
That could have been the end of it, and every now and then you think what your adventure would have been like if it'd been so; you'd refuse any help from your rival Blake, maybe beating him, maybe not. But life didn't work like that.
"Smell ya later," the boy laughed, running out the room. (always running, always somewhere to be). Cheeks blushing, you followed him in shame, less confident than ever. Your head was so far up in the clouds – it always was back then – you didn't notice who was waiting for you outside.
"Nice battle, by the way. I forgot to tell you." You squinted in the bright sunlight, realizing it was him again: Blake. Guess he didn't run so fast after all.
"You're going to be good, I can tell," he continued, giving you a wide smile that oddly put you at ease. (you weren't much at ease back then, were you? how funny considering how little of life's problems you really knew.) "I'd offer to share SQUIRTLE with you, y'know. He really is the best. Maybe we could split him? Bzzzt right down the middle?"
It was the silliest thing you'd ever heard, and despite your misgivings – your epic loss, his easy confidence, and the raging jealousy you harbored in your heart – you laughed; it was real laugh, too, the kind that clenches your stomach in pain and pleasure and promise and prospect.
That was the beginning of the end, wasn't it?
Everyone called him your rival, but what does that word even mean? Perhaps you had a few fights here and there – you remember rather clearly stupidly arguing over which color china to buy Professor Oak for his birthday – and, of course, he wasn't the only competitive one; you never turned down a good battle.
But the word "rival" has such a negative connotation. He was never your enemy, ever. (Not even when you were both striving for the same goal, the same prize, the same honor.)
No, when you look back on those years you spent traveling, you're surprised at just how little you seem to remember; every conversation, every battle, every adventure – the memories are being intruded by a hazy shade of leaf green that you can't quite dispel.
But he's always there.
Always.