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Loving Red is easy. Living with Red is hard.
Daisy had always called him particular.
Green would disagree - he would always disagree with an assessment like that, especially coming from his older sister’s mouth, but there was truth in it, even when his natural reaction, as always, was to vehemently deny and move on before she could make her case any more bullet proof. Regardless, Green had felt he’d earned it. This natural right to be so specific about his space, his habits, his schedule. It’d taken him years to cultivate it, the move from the literal office in the back of the Viridian Gym to an apartment of his own had taken more guts and therapy than he’d ever admit out loud - his own sentimentality all sharp with a full mouth of teeth, even when moving the exact same objects that’d littered the walls into a home far more deserving of them. Taking down newspaper clippings, black and white images of the gym opening, of his grandfather’s death, of profiles on Giovanni, and everything else - all neatly packed into a box taped up tight, and the hours between the end of his move and the actual company arriving felt like a thousand untethered years.
He was particular with which plates he liked to use. Was particular in the order that items went in the dishwasher. Particular when it came to what shows he liked to watch and what time, his friends more than aware that Thursdays were entirely reserved for the recap of that week’s competitions in Sinnoh. Green liked to use the same face cream after he showered, he liked to set two alarms to wake him in the morning, knew which lanes to take in the morning to avoid traffic, sent his gym updates to the Kanto Gazette punctually on the second Friday of the month, made his bed the same way each morning, and thrived in the predictability.
If he were entirely pressed about it, he would readily admit that it was his own nagging want for personal control in a life that’d been anything but. External decisions had humbled him. The death of his parents, his journey, the championship, everything in between, no matter how hard he fought with both fists raised both in offensive and protection, his own choice had little impact on it.
It’d been unfair. The type of constant reminders from life or heaven or whatever itself that he was not in the driver's seat, but simply an unwilling passenger, forced to watch through a cracked windshield as rock after rock chipped away at the glass without stopping. He’d written the same thing in his journal to tell his therapist later that week, and when he described it - this nebulous feeling of watching life happen at him, not to him, she’d simply encouraged the manifestation of his constant, particular routines.
He couldn’t stop Red from leaving.
Even when he remembered to make overnight oats the evening before. Even when he had his favourite flavour of carbonated water in the fridge.
It still was worth trying.
When Red, nearly four months before, had turned up at his doorstep, sun-tanned and thin with a passport stamped with trips overseas, it was like the car had fallen right off the road and directly onto a highway. One without speed limits or guardrails, but bright, dotted lines that told him exactly when and where he could cross. When he could try and overtake someone driving too slow, or hang back if weather conditions felt too hazardous to brave.
He still chose to stay in the right lane, where it was safest, but he wasn’t driving.
Red was.
“Red, for fucks sake, what did I tell you about leaving your shit all over the bedroom floor–”
Green was particular.
“Would it kill you to set a human amount of alarms next time and not wake up the whole neighbourhood when clearly you have zero plans of actually getting up?”
Red was not.
“If you’re gonna eat all the tortilla chips, could you at least remember to write them down on the grocery list for me?”
Red was anything but.
Green supposed he had to be. Could one be particular when living in subzero squalor on a mountain for years on end? Did you get to have much choice, when the weather decided for you? Green balked at that kind of uncertainty. How Red told him that sometimes, when the mud slides were too dangerous in the spring, he couldn’t risk venturing down the hazardous hiking paths to take a shower at one of the gas stations at the base and instead had to deal with the icy plunge of the lakes and rivers. How, when Clair or himself couldn’t make the journey up, he’d have to scavenge for berries to eat until the snow melted enough for someone to finally risk the journey upward.
Green hated the idea.
But, it’s the small anecdotes that Red had been willing to share, each one punctuated with a shrug and a bite on the inside of his cheek, as if the boy had worried he’d told too much. Green wasn’t blind - he knew that type of insight made Red uncomfortable, but he’d slowly, slowly work details out of him, a tangled little piece of embroidery thread that Green coaxed gently out day by day. It made him slightly more forgiving, too, when Red used his favourite plates for the wrong meal, or didn’t rinse his cans out before putting them in the recycling.
It didn’t make it any easier, though. The forgiveness always came after.
It’s months in, over breakfast, with Red stirring up the creamer in his coffee that he finally speaks about it.
“You’re really critical of me. Sometimes.” He says it so quietly that Green has to pause pushing the near-scrambled eggs around in the pan, ears so carefully trained to pick up on Red that he swears it’s the only reason he heard him at all.
“What?”
“I said. Can be really critical of me. Sometimes.” Red speaks just a touch louder, tapping off his coffee on the inside of his mug before setting it on the counter. Green had taught him that after leaving too many sticky dots on the counter - the hours-long reminder of where Red had sat equally charming and irritating in its own way.
Green’s expression is almost scandalized.
“You’re– Okay, like w–”
It’s hard to relate to a boy who’d spent the better part of his life in some self imposed solitude. There was always going to be something untouchable - just that little step further away from where Green’s fingers could reach, even when he stood right in front of him. Green wasn’t sure if it was more understanding or a lack of it. If what Red saw when he looked right through him, or struggled with which lights in the kitchen turned on what, what it all meant. When he asked Red to explain, or to dictate the gaps, it blew right through him. How could Red know? The things that he didn’t know or didn’t understand were as far away as Red felt, sometimes. What would be infantilizing, for a boy who saw his bone through frostbitten skin? The far away look when motorcycles sped outside, loud and typical of the city but entirely new to someone like Red?
“The coffee stains. And the recycling. ‘M shit at remembering, aren’t I.” Red murmurs, the sound muffled as he takes a sip from the aforementioned drink and sets it down with a hand that shakes just enough to set off red flags for Green.
Green disliked lying with a ferocity, and while he’d done a terrible amount of it for Red’s sake since moving his rival in with him it felt unfair, almost, to do so. Red had called him out in his own, quiet way on the kind of silent babying Green was doing for him. The way he closed doors extra soft, the constant asks for water or food before Red himself could inquire. And he didn’t mean to. It just felt natural.
There’s a thick swallow from Green who hasn’t even touched his coffee yet, wide with surprise and navigating a thousand different paths for this conversation to go down.
“Don’t lie.” Red asks, pleads, with all the intonation he can muster in valleys.
Green swallows again. “... Okay, yeah. There’s just some things that I’d appreciate, y’know? The garbage, and putting your clothes away in the hamper so I’m not tripping over shit trying to get ready in the morning.” And he continues, “Or, it drives me crazy when you don’t put the cap on the milk after you use it. And when Pikachu leaves crumbs all over, if you’re gonna give him and Eevee treats, you have to, like– have to remember to clean up after, and it’d be really nice if you emptied the dishwasher sometimes. Oh- and,”
“So you have a whole list. Off the top of your head.” Red murmurs, and a boy with his eyes on fire dims just enough for Green to notice. It punches him in the gut, low and uncomfortable, and he picks at a stain on the wooden table just enough to crack his nail.
“I– Yeah. I mean, yeah. I’m just trying to adjust to having you here for good.”
And that seems to brighten Red some, which has Green exhaling. The exiled champion nods and takes another sip of his coffee, before a quiet for good is whispered into his mug, and something about it has warmth blooming in Green’s gut.
But, he rarely knows when to leave well enough alone.
“You could remember to empty the dishwasher in the morning. As a start, if you wanna, y’know…”
At that, Red snorts audibly - wrinkling his nose and setting down his mug before crossing his arms over his chest. Its a quick movement - lightening fast, as Red could be when he wanted to, and Green stammers just a touch.
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll help.”
And it settles Green some.
—--
“Home.” Green hums, half falling through the door of the apartment after messing with his bunch of keys for far too long. It housed too many, as far as he was concerned - unlocking the gym, the apartment, the mail box, his bike lock, and a multitude of Eevee charms that he couldn’t bring himself to remove. All well worn, little brown ears twitched preciously for the rest of time.
With his arrival, Pikachu is the first to come flying - the little mouse still thrilled to be in the presence of the other as he bounds across the threshold to wait patiently for the pets Green was all but obligated to offer. The little pitter patter of his feet is charming - and with shoes removed, he crouches down to rub the other right between the ears, flinching at the static shock that comes with the initial touch but eventually allowing himself to relax into it.
“Where’s your dad, hm?” Green asks, smile in his voice.
“Not far.” The distant voice is a quick return - scratchy and low but obviously pleased, and Green’s head shoots up just in time to see Red round the corner from the kitchen. Green’s space was never all that big. He preferred to keep it manageable and tidy, and it’d ended up being a blessing. Red could be so quiet when he walked, it was hard to find him - but easily searchable when there was only a living room and a bedroom to hide himself within.
“Mm.” Hummed, soft, as Green straightens up to press a kiss on Red’s forehead, chaste and tender.
And then, a pause.
“You… Smell like dish soap.”
“Uh. Yeah.” Not exactly an explanation. Green tries again, urging them further into the apartment as Red gathers Pikachu safely back up into his arms.
“Why?"
And the poor champion is embarrassed, clearly. It burns up his cheeks and to his ears in a way Green hates how much he finds charming, and with a squint of absolute scrutiny, he grabs Red’s wrists, and brings them closer to his face for examination.
There was no denying it. The slight wrinkle to his fingers, the lingering smell of soap on his hands, the damp sleeves of his sweater. Sniffs.
His eyes narrow.
“Are you okay?”
“Oh c’mon. Can I do a nice thing.” Red retorts, pouting.
“Yeah, but, since when do you–”
“Since you asked me to.”
Oh.
Well.
That wasn’t exactly easy to deny. Truth be told, Green had almost entirely forgotten the conversation from yesterday. It felt easier, somehow - he’d felt guilty, relieved, and everything else at once, tucking the feelings down neatly in a box and allowing sleep to take him with Red glued to his side. Forgiveness, he felt, came in the way that Red could never resist wrapping around his upper arm when they slept, even when Green got too sweaty for actual cuddles and managed to nudge his former rival off without much fanfare. And for someone so stubborn - so headstrong, in the impenetrable way that Red was, it felt like letting hot air out, nothing more.
So this was–
“... That’s nice of you. Thank you.” With a stunned pause, Green rounds the corner into the kitchen and manages not to laugh at the water splattered onto the floor. Still drying, clearly, after vigorous efforts from the champion awkwardly shifting just behind him with awaiting approval.
It’s not an approval Green can give so quickly, though. Striding into the kitchen, he opens just a few of the upper cabinets - peeking curiously at the arrangement Red had chosen. It wasn’t wrong, per say - glasses were with glasses, though a wine glass had made its way beside the plastics, and a large plate had found its way sandwiched between those smaller. He inspects with scrutiny, just so pausing. It wasn’t incorrect. And they were clean, not a speck of dust on them and still just slightly warm and damp to the touch.
Green is particular.
Red is not.
And this strange, non particular little piece of cleaning - putting non-like glasses with non-like glasses, was so distinctly, perfectly Red. A little compromise in the apartment they now shared. Clean and good, but not quite perfect.
“It’s a start.” Green murmurs, quiet, weirdly taken by the entire display. It was small - a small, tiny, inconsequential thing. He can practically feel Red’s shoulders sag with relief behind him, turning to press another kiss to the fallen champion - this time, soft and firm on the lips with his pulsing wrists between Green’s fingers. Soft and healed, no longer frostbitten and weathered with months of relaxation time.
“I really appreciate it. I mean it. Did good.”
And Red preens .
Quietly, of course. Barely hidden behind his tight lips and arms across his chest, but its obvious, perhaps, to only Green. He’d been looking for those subtle signals for far too long. The way Red’s pupils grew just a touch, and his lashes lowered with bashful pleasure. It’s a small, small thing.
But Green still loops around Red’s waist and squeezes.
“The wine glasses don’t go with the shitty plastic ones, though. Dummy. But we’ll get there. Thank you.”
Maybe one didn’t have to be so particular.