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"Do you ever think about it?" Red murmurs.
It's six in the morning and he's leaning against the doorframe, his fingers tapping aimlessly against the wood. When he first moved in he tried to be patient with Green's morning routine, but after realizing he'd just hole up in the bathroom for 45 minutes and ignore Red entirely, it didn't seem worth it. He could stay in bed (cold, lonely), wander around the apartment (cold, pointless), try to wake Pikachu up to train with him (often impossible), attempt to make breakfast (potentially hazardous), or just follow Green into the bathroom and watch him go through his morning routine (still cold, but warm in the way that mattered). Green complained at first about creeper tendencies and invasions of privacy, but he got used to it after a while in the way that he got used to everything else. After a while, he even nudged Red awake to come with him.
Green doesn't reply at first, tongue peeking out of the corner of his mouth as he fusses with his hair. "Think about what?" he says after a moment, voice distant.
"All this..." Red's quick hand gesture encompasses the array of hair care products on the sink, the mirror flecked with hairspray and bits of toothpaste, and Green himself with his fingers scraping across his scalp. "What's the point?"
Green hesitates, then turns to look Red in the eye. "Are you winding up to make fun of me, or are you actually asking?"
Green's defensiveness isn't new, but it still takes Red by surprise sometimes—to see his easy smile warring with the reluctance in his eyes, and the slight hunching of his shoulders. Red blinks rapidly and then looks away, muttering, "I was just asking."
There's a tense pause, and then Green sighs and unclicks the cap of his hair gel with a loud crack. "I should trim this soon," he murmurs, and Red looks back to see him tugging at the tips of his hair, frowning. "It's getting too long to work with."
What rises to Red's tongue without thought are things like It looks ridiculous anyway, no one will notice except you or It's not like you don't own enough hair products to handle it. But Red remembers the look on Green's face a few moments ago, thinks about a lifetime of fighting, and swallows the words down. Instead he says, "It's important to you."
Green glances back. His eyes soften at whatever expression he sees on Red's face; Red doesn't know what it is himself. He turns towards the mirror and digs his fingers back into the thick nest of his hair, combing it through his fingers and twisting them to make messy peaks. "It's armor," he says after a while. "You're always solving things with pokémon battles, and sure, I like doing that too. Most people do. But what if Eevee's sick, or tired? What if there's no room for a pokemon battle where I am without messing up a room or ruining a party? What if there was a way I could win without having to fight someone? You like battling," Green says, his hands slowing down as he looks at himself in the mirror, seemingly listening to what he's saying. "But after a while I figured out that I just like winning. Maybe that's a bad habit, sure, but if I can't get rid of it then maybe I should just own it."
There's a moment of silence before Red asks, a little bewildered, "That's why you style your hair?"
Green barks out a laugh, his hands dropping. "No, I—" he shakes his head. "I want to look good. I guess that's the short version."
"You always look good," Red points out. "Even when—"
"Please don't remind me," Green groans, "it is way too early for me to start hating my life today."
Still, they stare at each other for a beat and Red knows they're thinking of the exact same thing: the first time Green came up to Mt. Silver—on Christmas, because Professor Oak let Red's location slip during the first time Green had come home in years. Green bolted straight from the party and showed up at Red's metaphorical doorstep wet and bedraggled from the blizzard, his hands and knees scraped raw, dressed in a horrible Christmas sweater that Daisy had shoved him into, and more than a little tipsy. Green doesn't remember most of it, but Red does: the firetruck-red color of Green's cheeks from the alcohol, and how hot his skin felt after months of isolation and cold.
"You always look good," Red repeats.
Green's expression softens. "Thanks," he says, adding a few last finishing touches in the mirror. After a pause he adds on a mumble, "You don't look too bad yourself."
"I know. I get asked for more autographs."
"You hate the autographs," Green says.
"Yeah." Red thinks about it, and then says, "But I like it when the kids smile."
Green glances at him and his mouth quirks up in a helpless little grin. "You're such a sap," he says, but there's only fondness in his tone, and he leans over to kiss Red's mouth just because.