✿ Preliminary DUBCON WARNING for those who need it ! ! It's not my intention at all, but I know these things are debatable by definition, and I don't want anyone to be ambushed by a reading that hurts them. ✿
If you've come here for your slash fanfiction fix, I'm sorry, but you've made a mistake. If you ever wanted to read quality fic without being inunduated by slash, I'm sorry as well. Technically you're getting neither at this point, but I thought I'd think well of your faith in me.
Much gratitude to Mya_Latti via 'Speak Up' [ profile at /u/2824976/ ] for laying out the whole concept on the table; I'm sure others have done it as well, but hers was the one I read and also the one listed on TV Tropes. (Don't tell her about this fic though, I suspect it'll scar her more than not.) I started my fic on the basis that there were aspects of hers I thematically disagreed with, but then I did actual research and discovered she was more right than I was. In any case, I consider this piece a response - not that it affects the reading too much. I just find the free-for-all nature of the internet creative landscape a very interesting thing.
Originally all I wrote was the first scene, sitting in my documents for about a year, and I figured well that's probably all the public needs to see; but the whole thing felt irksomely inconsequential and I considered there's lots about the pokemon universe I've always wanted to explore. I've definitely tried to fit in too much, now, and the piece does suffer for it; but it also led to a lot of unexpected developments which I can't say I really regret. Sorry for the incredibly-contrived nature of part I, first of all, because I never did figure out how to salvage it.
I made a mistake reviving this in the midst of my course on 19th-century literature. That's what you can blame for any florid prose; I'm too far gone to even fix it. I think my "show don't tell" stat has plummeted as well. Anyway, good luck with all of that.
I'm less in-sync with the pokemon community than I'd like to be, and not sure I've represented the fanon landscape with any great accuracy; I hope this piece can be taken as a personal interpretation of the sparse canon story, with nods to the major spaces where fans have filled in the gaps. Blue in particular I'm concerned comes off with too many liberties; his characterisation here is solely based on what I thought would make interesting reading. There's likely inconsistencies with canon all over the place, but let's say he's older, for one; and beyond that, I've placed stock in the notion that humans simply are inconsistent as a fact of life.
FINALLY - I'm sorry for the endless introduction, the imminent explaining-the-obvious, and the odd soul who may be slighted whenever this discourse flares up - I hope it becomes clear that there are some immensely problematic views being put forward, and just because a narrator is convinced of something doesn't mean you need do the same. I believe a challenging piece is good for everyone, least of all me. I've struggled to keep up with my own standards, in the end - I don't think I ever had the ability to maintain a solid thematic structure - but it's my hope that this at least comes together as something more than 'fangirl pandering', and if nothing else, it remains worth your time.
Part I written late August 2013, age 18; everything else written ~July-November 2014 (with innumerable revisions forever afterwards).
/-/-
It's his nineteenth birthday, and you demand via text that he is coming down from his damn mountain to see you. You were planning to head to Celadon for a night on the town, but his face at the offer swiftly lays that idea to rest. Instead you're both hanging out in your room behind the gym, lounging on your bed and watching bad dramas on the small TV. You've brought wine, because the two of you are classy motherfuckers.
You've only had two drinks and already you're feeling kind of giddy. You think you're a lightweight. You tell him as such. He doesn't respond, but the way his face splits into a slow, dorky grin implies he's got about as much tolerance as you.
You are always, always watching him, because as soon as you drift off, you miss everything he says. He's pasty from his ever-increasing years in the dark, and he always seems a little taller and ganglier, every time you see him. His hair on the other hand hasn't changed for years - tousled black locks, shapeless and overgrown. In contrast, you've always been well devoted to fashion; your hair's dyed a rusty orange, and it effortlessly spikes up and sweeps across your face.
You can't imagine him any other way, though. Your gaze drifts across his figure. He's plain and dull but nothing else would be right.
"You know I've been working out lately," you absently blurt, the words forming a vague half-question. "I mean, it's not like, a six-pack or anything," you ramble on. You're kneeling unsteadily on the mattress, now. You find yourself lifting your shirt up. "But I dunno, you can still see the difference, I reckon." More toned, you think.
His eyes slowly travel up your torso. He raises his hands carefully, like he hasn't decided whether to talk yet. You look good, he finally signs, gestures hesitant. You're surprised he went through with it. Must be the drinks. You signal a modest thank you back.
"It's kind of funny, actually, since there aren't really any gyms around here," you say. Bam, your shirt's off. You don't know how that happened. "Exercise gyms, I mean, not - you know. So what happened was, I figured I'd ask Lieutenant Surge..." You flop onto the bed again, making yourself comfortable. "And he doesn't know any gyms either, he just decked out his storage with a shit-ton of exercise gear..." You shuffle up so that you're eye-to-eye with him. "So I've had to borrow like, his fucking hundred-pound weights. He found some lighter ones for me he keeps saying are from when he was twelve. I'm like, bull shit, bro." He's nearly lying flat on his back at this point, propped up by only his elbows. You realise your sentence has trailed off. "You can't talk if you're lying like that."
The boy shrugs nonchalantly, a movement that from his position proves difficult in itself. You know from experience he'll happily not say a word, even when he's around people who can receive them - people like you, really, and very few else. You let him get away with it this time, and the two of you settle into silence.
But with him being so close and your head swimming in technicolour, you struggle to keep your indecency to yourself. His arms are lean and the slightest bit wiry; you follow them to their shoulders and then the rest of his torso, thin and sleek. His face has always been elegant, but the skin is now rough and chapped from the harsh winds. Your eyes reach his; you find his line of sight hasn't been entirely forgivable either. His irises quickly flick up to meet yours.
"We are," you mumble, words starting to slur, "are." He goes deathly still as your hand traces the side of his stomach. "Fucking... terrible rivals."
/-
You were fifteen when the Indigo League Administrative Committee contacted you and offered the position at Viridian, after a tumultuous time cleaning up Giovanni's absconsion - and who asks a kid to be the face of a professional sporting venue, really? A youth with such obvious talent, they'd said, was only natural to consider on a more permanent basis. You'd mostly gotten over your dethroning at that point; it was one year of bitterness, the shame of that fleeting sweetness being swiped from beneath you, and then one year of aimless battles across Kanto. You hated him for it, you recall. What had started off as a friendly opposition was gradually sunken down by more tension and envy, until finally, you shakily eyed your reflection in the Indigo locker rooms and vowed he would never cross your mind again. When he disappeared, the first person everyone came to was you; and you hadn't known either, it took you completely by surprise, but you played it off with more than a little spite. How were you supposed to know? You were small fry now. You certainly didn't matter to him anymore. You had to conclude, several years later, that you were a very melodramatic child.
If you'd been picked for the job two years prior, it would've been salt in the wound; you had the chance to return to Championhood, even, but you'd got it into your head it was tainted at that point. A role even lower than that was unthinkable. As it was, the League was probably not coincidental in leaving you alone until you'd let off a bit of steam; by the time they struck up contact again, you'd gotten validation of your skill across the region, and felt drawn towards the prospect of real direction.
You entered the building that fateful day and were probably hit by the first real anxiety of your life. Champion was a breeze, a waking dream of childhood bravado; after such a lengthy period of unchecked freedom and getting your head straight, the gym suddenly loomed over you as nerve-wrackingly consequential. The League representative assured you they'd take care of the legwork and that all you'd do was test the young hopefuls, but as you nodded away, you couldn't help but feel you'd signed yourself into the working life five years too early.
It was definitely tough going, at first. You got yourself quite a long talking-to when the League noticed no trainer had reached the Plateau for a while. The idea of scaling yourself down stung you in the same place Red had two years earlier. A very irritated representative had informed you that no, you weren't some blessed snowflake miles ahead of the other gym leaders by nature; and that was probably the slap of reality you needed, because you duly reined in your pride afterwards. They didn't appreciate learning of your opening hours, either, although your staff had been pretty happy with it. You didn't battle outside of the gym, anymore; you etched out some corner of the country to sit in, watching the landscape rustle in the breeze and finally having your thoughts to yourself.
Silence was something you'd never reconciled with; you were an endless chatterbox from young, amusing and vexing everyone around you. Now, the ghosts of a long-forgotten other half seemed to swallow you whole.
/-
He gets trapped against the mattress when you drive your mouth against his, fuzzy thoughts splitting apart like waves against a rocky cliffside. You fumble without coordination at his buttons, at the cloth. His abdomen is addictive in its tapers, and it shudders when you clutch bare skin with freezing hands. He breaks off, exhaling sharply, and it drives you crazy with the tiniest bit of fear, alongside; just what in hell's name are you doing? How far are you going to go, and how much of it will you regret later? But what if he left the next morning and you never got this close again?
/-
You used to return home every weekend, before the League caught up with you and remedied the fact; it was mostly out of obligation and you appreciated the food, but what you felt most conflicted over was how much your mum talked about Red.
"The poor boy, off on his own, and he has it so much harder than everyone else, too!" Your mum didn't seem to recall the trip she willingly sent her thirteen-year-old on without supervision. Some practices around the country seemed ingrained enough to go without question. "His mother just got a letter from him, you know; and she's very relieved for it, but she just wishes he would come back more often! She's so scared for his safety; he's such a reserved child, he barely even reveals his hand in writing."
You would chew at your breakfast and futilely wish for the deluge to end; it felt too much like clinging to a past long-gone. Whatever bizarre urge led him to abandon who knows how many creature comforts - well, he'd certainly achieved it, and that was that. There was something uncomfortable about breaching that agreement; and besides, there was never anything new, so you were sick of rewinding over blank chatter.
One morning, when you were sixteen and the League had barred you from a proper stay for about a year, your mum barrelled into the living room with sudden urgency. "My goodness, I completely forgot to say! Red was in town just before! He's grown so much, I can barely recognise him. Shot up like a tree! He left this morning - his mum says he was very happy for the stay, of course, but you just can't keep someone like him pinned down. I was meant to tell you when you returned last night, but you were so tired, and we were catching up on so much - I'm so mad at myself! I swore he would be staying longer. Woke up and he was simply gone."
You'd straightened up immediately when you heard his name, and you didn't know why, but a pang of betrayal pierced through your core and had spread through your body by the end of it. You realised it'd been a year since he'd crossed your mind, and the idea of his presence, so close and you hadn't even known, killed you inside. You realised, all of a sudden, that you needed to see him more than anything else.
/-
He heaves faster and faster, breaths growing more ragged and needy, and he tips his head backwards and his fingers dig into your sides. The sounds barely float out across the empty room, and your frustration curdles inside. Long ago, a doctor had said he wasn't physically impaired, it was simply a mental block - and that drives you madder than anything else, as you twist him round your fingers. Why can't you make him scream your name, like you dreamt he would? Isn't your love good enough for him?
/-
The invention of SMS was an absolute godsend, in your eyes. You were quick to jump on the bandwagon and not feel half as bad, when you couldn't immediately read a text from Johnny about his cousin's Rattata. You texted pretty much everyone, because it basically let you have every conversation at once - and how great was that?! Fucking texting! Gift of the cosmos.
It became significantly more relevant when one day your Poke-whatever bleeped at your side, and when you flipped it open you didn't recognise the number.
Hi. It's Red.
Your heart raced mile-a-minute, blood pounding in your ears, as you stabbed out your reply as fast as you could (and probably threw off the League admin at her desk, who wasn't used to text devices ever being exciting). How had he been? Where was he, all these years? Why didn't he get a phone sooner? You even got all the way through typing that last one, before you realised why and shamefully erased the sentence. You had let your questions surrounding him simmer down to an idle contemplation, every now and again (although you refused to believe there was anything to it); three words, though, set your mind on fire.
Your hands shook as you tried to casually, flippantly suggest catching up, sometime. It didn't seem real. You didn't even know what he looked like, now; the memories of a scruffy, silent kid had almost completely faded out, snapshots of a blurred face you couldn't knit together. It had pained you to feel it slipping away, and scared you to think about confronting it all at once.
When he equally casually, equally flippantly, reckoned he could text you whenever he next came down, your yell caused the admin to drop a folder.
/-
The moon cast its blinding light across your back and past your face. Gales roared and rumbled beyond your walls.
Thick beads of liquid trickled down your fingers.
You felt the visions ebb from your sight, and then you felt utterly sick.
/-
You couldn't spit out a single word when you saw him for the first time in four years, which was probably appropriate.
He really did shoot up, but then again, so did you; he may not have even recognised you if you hadn't seen him first. You'd panicked on the day, for whatever reason, and felt an all-consuming need to look as immaculate as possible. His self-care was possibly in complete inverse-proportion to yours. There was something soothingly familiar about it; he seemed a perfect transplant of your childhood days.
You opted for the confident hand-shake-and-slap-on-back greeting; he humoured you first, halting in surprise when you thumped the breath out of him, then he shook off your hand and serenely launched into a chain of gestures. Your eyes widened in increasing horror as his hands sped through endless patterns, blinding and indecipherable.
"Shit," you blurted, first in disbelief, and then again in terror. "Shit, no, I'm sorry, no -"
He was always a quick child; his hands slowed and the smile faded from his face. You would've felt less crushed if he'd shown any pain from it. He glanced away, and you leapt to desperate reassurances.
"God, no, it can't be gone, I swear! Four years, right, it has to be in the back of my mind! I, you, hello, goodbye -" you twisted yourself through laughably simple symbols - "eat and drink, oh god, are those are the other way round -" Your upset babble was swiftly silenced when he fished out a small notebook with pencil. You had the decency to shut up while he started scribbling.
It's okay, I understand, he'd written, accompanied by a polite smile for encouragement. You felt like a top student dropped into a class of kindergarteners.
"It's not okay," you eventually stammered, "but thank you anyway." You collapsed onto the footpath, distinctly flustered, and he echoed you with effortless grace. "Could you try going slower?" you ventured, the shame and guilt of it choking in your throat. "I'm sure I've still got some of it left in me."
When he patiently goaded you into reading out the words "is your Metapod using Harden", you felt a glimmer of hope that things hadn't gone completely wrong.
/-
Being from a small town and practically the only children in your age bracket, your mum had deemed it imperative that you learnt to converse with the neighbour's son. Hours would pass, she told you, where the two of you would sit on the floor and wildly animate your bodies; and she and his mother would drink their coffee and laugh at how endearing it was. You remember the day you suddenly felt the stares on your back, and that was the day your hands slowed to a standstill.
You were zealously overprotective of him, once both of you had ventured into the wider world. If you were an awful friend, you were worse at being his rival. There was no way you could travel side by side, not when you'd signed your declaration of war, but if anyone tried to engage him in your midst you remember interrupting with more than a slight hostility. He always seemed to crop up where weird, dangerous shit went on, and it maddened you that you couldn't keep him out. When the glint in his eye turned sour, you spat on him and said he couldn't handle it. You were obssessive and derogative, all at once. It was no wonder you ran into him less, as time went on. It was no wonder he vanished without telling anyone at all.
/-
The sun was setting on Viridian City, and the two of you ambled lazily down the sidewalk, rows of glass buildings glinting with orange light. His laugh sounded like weak coughing, or the chuckle a dignified man would make under his breath. When he smiled and his body jolted with humour, you felt privy to a silent film.
There'd been the crash course on refreshing your communication, which had ended up alright, as long as he gave you ample time when you struggled and also didn't throw in too many sidelong insults. There was the apology. You don't think he expected it, which is why when you paused mid-stroll and took a shaky breath, it was even harder to get it out.
"Hey," you'd said, and he glanced at you with the understanding that something had changed in your countenance. "I was a pretty shit kid. You know that." He didn't move. Your hands twined around your neck with the useless tics of spoken language. "And well, it probably is just me, if we're headed down that route. But you didn't deserve it. Not how much of it you got." You felt like shrinking into nothing, as you looked him in the eye and your palms practically suffocated your throat. "I'm sorry."
He was completely still for an agonising age, before a simple head-and-hand signal. He forgave you. You didn't deserve it. All things considered, he couldn't have meant it. You were both kids, he pointed out; it didn't change the fact that it happened. Something about it lifted itself off your shoulders, in any case. You let your body unknit without thinking too hard about whether it was right.
Now, you and him simply chattered as if you'd never dropped contact. You told him about tier adjustments and your night with the Cerulean sisters last weekend; he told you about the view from up high and the strange kids who managed to stumble upon him at a mountain's summit. He didn't actually live there, right? He had to be just camping out every now and again. When you asked him you suspected his reply was pulling your leg, but after your combined history, you forced yourself to not pry any further than he had let you.
And there was the sheer length of time you watched him trek into the distance, and in that eon of a moment, you felt something tense and awful knot up in your center. This was not happening, you swore to god. You were just friends. Just friends, and nothing else.
You worked so hard to temper it down, to stamp it out until it could barely squeak, but you remember those first few days he was gone were the worst you'd ever been through.
/-
His final spasms leave you with a desperate sort of emptiness, the kind that believes it can keep everything from ending at once.
His body goes limp and his chest pulses with the ardour, and he ogles you blankly as the world seems to filter back in. The noise you make vaguely registers as highly humiliating, in some distant corner of your mind. It's nice of him to help you out, eventually. The novelty of his hesitant and awkward sleight of hand ultimately does the trick.
Your head is heavy and your thoughts are thick, sludging along as you flutter downwards. You feel ill with the weight of your blood-alcohol content and bad decision-making. Your shoulders still tremble; they would have never received their resolution. You don't know what you were expecting.
Your hand brushes over the lump in his throat and his ribcage jolts violently in response. His eyes swivel to meet yours. The chill in his gaze pierces more than it ever has. You feel like your arrow rocketed straight into an open wound.
When you do nothing, just tracing your thumb over it again and again, he finally bats your hand away and locks your arm on the mattress.
"You've ruined my life now, I hope you know that," you murmur. "I'll never find peace from this day on."
You realise that you've never, ever let him speak his mind, when his first act of assertion is to draw a zip across your mouth.
/-
You wake up having never hated the fucking birds more in your life. Birds can just - they can shut the fuck up. You can't think without searing throbs coursing through your skull. You groan and flip onto your other side, and then you remember you're half-naked.
It takes the kind of strength described in mythos to heave yourself upwards and scan your locale. The bedsheets are wartorn to no return. Sunlight dances across your legs. Nobody is lying next to you when you wake up.
You feel a sick futility in considering, just for a moment, that he'll be in the staffroom when you turn the corner - and your fancies were always futile and ridiculous. One coffee mug seems to have been neatly washed, at least. The gym has never seemed more pervasively empty as you try to caffeinate the brain cells back.
Eventually, your hand rises to your temple for a thoroughly-ineffective attempt at massage. You take several quaking breaths that shudder through your system. He disgusts you. He's a coward and a heartbreaker. You're delusional and pathetic. You wish you'd been drunk enough to not remember any of it. The new, youthful secretary accidentally walks in on you with your shirt off and looking like shit, and you don't manage to say anything that makes her feel better about it.
It takes a week for him to send you anything at all.
I'm sorry.
You loathe him, and he tore your heart in two, and you regret everything you ever did to him, and you are bleeding out with so much lust and love and need and he is gone.
But your final message comes out with none of that.
It's okay.
Because in the end, there's nothing else that needs saying.