Chapter Text
Blue’s used to waking up with a sheet scrunched over his torso and the heat of another pressed in his side.
What he isn’t used to is hearing that quiet snore outside of a plane seat. Or being pinned to a mattress by that wiry arm. Or seeing a black head of hair spiking out of the pillow beside him. He considers it a mercy for Red to be turned away and rolls onto his back to stare at the ceiling.
Bit by bit, he pieces it together.
Laughing, grabbing Red by his tie, pulling him into his hotel room like his life depends on it. His hands flat on the wall. Teeth grazing his neck and a sharp breath that rolls down his back as his shirt tears free from the front. A grind on his ass that fires into a need. Drunk fingers rattling through a cabinet for the bottle of lube he’d bought the night prior. Him drizzling it on, cold at first, warming only at Red’s calloused touch.
His eyes feel heavy. His body, even heavier. It’s hot, sticky, and his mouth tastes like glue. He knows the soreness will hit differently once he musters the strength to walk to the bathroom, but for now, it’s pleasurable.
His one complaint had been the light of his Rotom flickering from the bedside table, tugging on his consciousness in the hours after midnight. At one point the phone flew near his face, and he smacked it, banishing it to the floor where his shirt and pants were strewn.
His stomach lurches when Red’s snoring stops. He grumbles and rolls to face him, his expression gentler than someone entranced by a Jigglypuff, and the sound starts again. Blue studies him with a frown, wanting to look away much sooner than he does. He extracts himself carefully and hits the shower.
The shifting weight coupled with the creak of the door rouses Red, whose eyes blink open in the blacked out room. He reaches around the end of the mattress, pulling on something to cover himself, and unfolds the curtains to the sight of van after van pulling up along the street below. He frowns and steps away to grab a cup from the cabinet.
Blue emerges from the shower to the sight of him manning the kitchen bench in his underwear.
He points at the kettle, as though to ask, coffee?
“Later,” Blue says, smirking. “Not like you to sleep in. I’m just that good, huh?”
Red shrugs. There’s a glimmer of amusement in his eyes.
“Your turn.” Blue waves at the shower and pulls a face. “You need it.”
Red pulls the same face, which is about as much complaining as he usually does, before shifting to the bathroom and rolling the door shut. Meanwhile, Blue rummages through the cupboards, finding nothing worth eating. He supposes any prospect of them cleaning up together was dead the moment he cut in front. Then again, he’s used to getting out quickly.
He supposes he should be charitable and at least order breakfast.
He combs the floor, cursing his Rotom for not having the sense to get up when it’s needed, and retrieves it from the spot next to the bed.
On the occasions he shares breakfast with Red, usually at the hotel buffet before some other nauseating event, he loads up on protein. Easy, he decides. Bacon and eggs. Seeing as they’re in Kalos, croissants couldn’t hurt, either. With berries, hazelnut spread, and if the hotel wants that glowing Champion Blue review, flowers, too.
Red doesn’t know how lucky he is, he thinks, unlocking his phone to a grand total of 89 missed calls. He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t blink. He stares down at the screen with no change in emotion, half expecting the call button to jump out and startle him.
89.
Did Gramps die?
His last three message previews feature Daisy, his booking agent, and Daisy.
[8:02] Daisy: Have you slept in? Are you alright? Please call me…
[7:56] Agent: The channel isn’t responding to our calls or texts…
[7:55] Daisy: It’s on the news now, they’re talking about you and…
Blue frowns sharply.
He locks the screen and strides over to the lounge, flicking the television on. He swallows a surge of adrenaline at the sight of a journalist on the doorstep of the hotel, seven storeys below, in what appears to be a live feed. She blathers in Kalosian that moves too quickly for him to digest, smiling at the mention of une vidéo virale.
“You’re kidding me.”
He mashes it off before Red can overhear and taps his name into a search bar, his pulse firing in his ears. The search nets images of their bodies pressed together, tinted by the glow of the nightclub window. It’s unmistakably them. Red’s broad shoulders. His spiked, tawny hair. Their eyes fierce with hunger and loathing.
He chases the first result, which takes him to a video that goes for several minutes.
Several minutes of him following Red out of the rain, mouth curved, his words imperceptible. An ensuing quiet that ends in Red grabbing his shoulders and him diving onto Red’s lips. He watches himself make out until the Lumi Cab arrives, clenching his teeth, knowing what comes next. He pushes Red against the door and reaches down, and the cameraman does their best to zoom in on him grabbing his rival through his pants.
He stares through the ad for Berry Sweet soda pops at the end of the clip.
He shouldn’t be surprised, even if some part of him finds it staggering that neither he nor Red noticed someone standing a few paces shy of the exit pointing a phone in their direction. Maybe he’s just that good a kisser.
The view count sits at over a million. Further search results show it embedded on multiple fan forums, articles and blogs.
Fantastic, he thinks.
Daisy’s seen it. He wonders if Red’s Mom has, too.
The shower door rolls open, and he clacks his phone face-down on the table, rocking to his feet. Red stares back at him, hand gripping the towel wrapped over his midsection.
“You checked your phone?” Blue asks. He tries to sound casual, but he knows he’s alarmed Red by the way he slowly shakes his head. “We were seen. Last night. Someone recorded us outside the club. It’s… everywhere.”
Hgh.
Red gestures between them to be sure.
“Wouldn’t be saying it if it was a false alarm, genius. Also, don’t look outside, unless you like being mad.”
Red approaches the window again, breath hitching as he spots Furfrou walkers weaving around reporters and camera crews. He’s seen this before. On the day after he returned home from Mt Silver. A Fletchling lands on the railing and chitters, turning its head at him. It darts away as he tears the curtains shut and smacks on the lights.
The deepening line of his mouth screams, what now?
Before Blue can answer, he retrieves his phone from the pocket of his dress pants and conjures a message in fast keystrokes, hitting send.
Red: I didn’t set this up.
“Relax. I know this isn’t your doing out of some psycho grudge you’ve had since we were kids.”
For a moment, he hesitates.
Red: *How* do you know?
“‘Cause no one hates the press more than you. You should check on your Mom,” Blue suggests, preceding a long exhale. “I’ve gotta call Daisy.”
Red: Would you prefer I went back to my room?
Blue looks at him like he’s sprouted vines from his back and used them to tapdance.
“No. Don’t go wandering anywhere. Look, if you really wanna get lost, I’ll hire security for you. Otherwise, you can throw on my clothes and drink coffee all day, for all I care.”
Red concentrates on the floor.
“I’ll stay,” he mumbles at last.
“Good.”
As he leaves to find a shirt and some jeans that’ll fit him, Blue walks his phone out to the garden balcony. Though it’s nestled away from the street, he still checks the plants and furniture for wires, hidden devices and anyone stupid enough to strap their camera to a Pidgey. Once he’s satisfied no one’s watching or listening, he clenches his teeth and presses the call button.
Daisy answers in two rings.
“Blue?” She sounds out of breath. “Oh, Blue, I hope you’re alright. They haven’t stopped talking about it all morning. I tried to warn you!”
Half of Kanto has, too. Along with Daisy, a quick scroll down the list reveals missed calls from his agency, presumably to tell him which sponsors have dropped, his social media manager, the odd gym leader, the odd face from last night, and a slew of private numbers. Predictably, Gramps hasn’t called, and for once he considers it a blessing.
“It’s fine,” he says, sounding bored. “It doesn’t bother me.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’ve handled worse.” He’s not sure he has. “Anyway, you remember what I said, right? About how to handle the press?”
“Don’t worry about me,” she says softly.
“Heh, who’s worried.”
He loses himself in the sound of distant traffic coupled with the café bustling behind the hotel. At least the motorists are on his side when they honk at the journalists cluttering up the street. And at least Daisy has stopped offering the journalists tea.
“I must admit, the news came as a shock.”
“What?” He snorts a laugh. “You’re shocked it’s a guy?”
“No.” Daisy caves into a giggle that peters out quickly. “I’m shocked that it’s him. I remember how the two of you were.”
So does he. No one has the right to be more shocked than he is.
“It’s like your friendship with Red has this whole new meaning.”
“No kidding,” he says, squeezing his phone.
“I’m curious, how long has this been going on between the two of you?”
“Since last night.”
He senses Daisy’s smile in the pause. Whether she believes him, he has no idea.
“I see. So… are you and Red together, then? Is he your boyfriend now?”
Blue pinches the bridge of his nose.
“I don’t know.”
Until ten minutes ago, his plan for today was ordering breakfast and hoping Red would leave before the question came up. Maybe, once he started to miss him, they’d talk about it. In fact, he was hoping they would once Red remembered how good it felt to be nailing him face-down into a flat surface or kissing him in the rain with only the threat of being caught.
“Listen, sis, I gotta go.”
“Thanks for calling.” She sighs a breath. “Keep me in the loop if anything changes.”
“Later.”
He hangs up and walks inside to the sight of Red on the lounge watching a Mantine-surfing tournament. Conversations with his Mom were short. She did most of the talking, of course. Then again, who knew what to say when their world-famous son went viral for being felt up in public? Blue brews a cup of coffee, meeting Red’s eyes as he joins him. They finish the program in silence, stealing glances during the replays.
By the afternoon, supportive texts start flooding in from the other champions. Geeta wishes to proceed with the Battle Tower, because surely by the time it’s finished, the scandal will have gone out of fashion. Like clockwork, Diantha checks in after, expressing her regret for their situation and lending her support if they should ever need it. Blue scoffs, hoping he never does.
He tilts his screen away from Red as he makes the grim discovery that their video’s broken four million views. And then his stomach growls, rudely.
“Bet you’re hungry.”
Red nods and starts typing.
Red: I could have Charizard fly us out.
“And give them the photo op?” Blue crosses one leg over the other. “You and me, squished together on the back of a Pokémon like something out of a movie?”
Red’s eyes glint with humour.
“I think I can get someone in this city to feed us.”
Red: Or your name isn’t Blue Oak.
Blue laughs and leaves him on read.
Half an hour later, Red watches him vault off the lounge and slip out to the balcony, where a white Vivillon touches down with a bundle of tightly-wrapped takeaway meals. At least he can be sure it’s safe. Unlike him, Diantha isn’t the subject of an internationally televised sex scandal. He shoos the Pokémon off with a short thanks, not usually one for talking to bugs.
He’ll owe the actress for this later. But for now, it’s time for a five course lunch.
“What can I say? I’m pretty amazing at this media lockdown thing.”
He considers the look on Red’s face priceless. There’s no complaint tucked into the corner of his mouth as he watches Blue unveil a spread fit for a Grand Duke.
There’s fresh baguettes, baked Skiddo brie, sitrus-squeezed Veluza, a rare bone consommé, Azure Bay shellfish drenched in velouté, rows of nigiri sushi, and a sprightly pink pecha pâté. Red recoils from the Slowpoke Tail braciole, and Blue takes it away, cramming the rest into the fridge without argument.
“So, how are we gonna deal with this?” Blue leans back in his chair, in no hurry to eat. “Any ideas rolling around in that prodigal brain of yours?”
Red hms.
He dips his head at the window, which offers a view of the Frost Cavern Peak beyond the city border, and crunches into the rare bone for the marrow.
“Sure, I’ll live in the wild with you. No more press. No more showers.” He laughs. “You’ll have to show me which rock you use for a manicure.”
Red doesn’t smile, but his gaze brightens.
“Let’s save it for dinner. If we don’t have a plan by then, we’re not fit to call ourselves champions.”
Over the course of the day, Blue watches the street.
With the media gone, the flow of traffic remains constant, though the odd pedestrian stops and fumbles with their phone. He dodges before he can see where it’s aimed, suspecting they’d try somewhere close to the roof. Most carry on blithely. He assumes they either haven’t seen the video or care more for their Froakie getting muddy, like the trainer who wears theirs like a hat over the sidewalk.
Meanwhile, Red retreats to the garden.
He yawns, paces, and stretches, unable to voice his discomfort at the lack of swimwear before finally diving into the pool nude. He’s quick enough with the towel to prevent a blissfully ignorant Blue from berating him when he returns to shower. Once he’s dry, he keeps to the lounge like a tuckered out Litten, looking up at every whirlwind stomp away to answer the phone.
The Prism Tower glitters to life as the sun sinks behind the distant sea.
Blue’s not sure when Red prefers dinner. He jabs a finger at his stomach and tilts his head at him sometime between 7 and 8, and to his relief, Red nods. He raises a hand and moves to the kitchen to prepare dinner, leaving Blue to fidget, distracting himself with an auto scroller. He knows he should shutter the windows, but decides against it until they’ve finished eating.
It’s not like sharing a meal is the worst thing anyone’s seen them do.
He kicks out his chair and takes a seat, ignoring the delicious, savoury smell in front of him.
“Good news. I’ve got a press release lined up tomorrow.”
Two bites in, Red stares up at him.
“Sooner the better,” he charges on. “If we release an official statement, there won’t be idiots camped on our doorstep all the way into next week or the week after. I’d prefer to beat them at their own game.”
Red’s eyebrows crease at the centre.
“Relax, I’ll do all the talking,” he says, in a sing-song voice.
His nose flares, begging the question, and say what, exactly?
Blue shrugs and throws up his hand with the candour of a weatherman. “That we’re living our lives and we’re not gonna let some peeping Tom bother us. We’ve worked too hard for this. I mean, how many tournaments do you think this loser’s won compared to you or me? You think some video’s gonna destroy that?”
Red answers with a wince, like he’d better come up with something else, fast.
“What’s that look for?”
He reaches for his phone, the crease in his forehead lifting as he types.
Red: I’ve seen comments. They’re mad at you and call me the victim.
“Nothing new there.”
Red pauses, touching his neck before hitting send.
Red: I’m sorry.
Blue stares at the words a fraction longer than necessary and tosses his head. “Don’t worry ‘bout it. It’s not like they know what we have. By the way.” He gestures between them with a forkful of fricassee. “What is this?”
Red opens then shuts his mouth, sitting on the question until his whole upper body stiffens. He breaks out of it with a shoulder roll.
“We’ve got time. Think about it.”
Against his usual instinct, he does as Blue instructs. He types for a while, pausing and backspacing at several junctures. When at last he presses enter, he looks out the window at the Prism Tower.
Red: I feel for you. Good and bad.
“Well that makes me feel all warm and happy.”
Red glances sideways, meeting his gaze, fingers quick.
Red: Mostly good.
“You’re avoiding the question,” he notes, nearing a blush. That’s unlike Red.
Red: Maybe.
“And now you’re being coy.” Blue snorts like a Rapidash, fork rattling down against the plate. “They’re gonna ask me tomorrow. What the hell do you want me to say?”
Red: Whatever you want. Like always.
“Ugh.” He glares down at his dinner. “Waste of time.”
Red bristles, and they eat the rest of their meals in silence, neither invested in the grand view of Kalos winking beyond the glass. Once the dishes clatter into the sink and the blinds whir shut, Red expects to brave the hallway and elevator back to his room, but as he reaches for the doorknob, Blue catches his wrist, his eyes stern.
“Go to bed. I’ll take the lounge.”
He releases him and steps away, scowling when he feels his sleeve tugged. He meets Red’s strained gaze, asking, you don’t want to share?
“Put me down as a solid maybe.”
Red inhales, unable to properly fill his lungs as his fingers crawl from Blue’s sleeve to his arm, his squeeze firm and insistent. Blue groans. Before he knows it, he feels both shoulders rubbed and compressed like he might be a weary sea captain on the brink of sickness. For whatever reason, it wins him over. The fight untangles from his body, replaced by the sort of calm only Red can emanate.
Red, whose stubbornly downturned mouth convinces him of a kiss.
He answers with a gasp that stirs the edge of his vocals, a cry, a quivering murmur that ends with him trailing kisses down to Blue’s jaw. Blue shuts his eyes, allowing him to nestle into his neck, and before he knows it, they’re kissing in the shower where he jerks his hips desperately into Red’s fist. He thanks him with his mouth in a way that leaves him flushed and strangled for air, figuring it can’t be any worse than his performance tomorrow.
The counter surpasses twelve million by the time he hits the pillow beside a snoring, wall-facing Red.
Not that he’s counting.