Chapter Text
Blue isn’t sure how, but Red’s hotel room looks more lived-in than his.
He winces when he catches sight of the mess. A vest thrown over a chair, a battle belt pulled apart over a dining table, a dusty trail of protein powder from the shake Red insisted on making when he walked in before rifling around for something that isn’t Blue’s to wear on camera.
Waiting, he leans on the edge of the lounge, eyes stopping on a diagonally sat notebook. The strokes of the words have a wobble to them, but a quick scan reveals a battle strategy for a mega-evolved Venusaur. When Red appears wearing one of his nicer black shirts and a clingy red vest, it’s time to go.
Blue can’t remember the precise moment they stopped getting separate cabs. The thought of returning to that crosses his mind, but with the booking made, there’s no room for him to complain. Maybe a united front is better, he decides, as security reconvenes with them in the hallway and clouds them all the way down to the cab.
They dash past a smattering of cameras and pointed microphones into the back of the car. Blue slams the door shut, last in as usual. The signal flare in Red’s eyes takes longer than usual to fizzle out, his posture tightening and remaining rigid as he stares out at the road. Blue turns his body to face the opposite side. He hopes all those reporters get soaked in the coming rain.
The drive is slow and silent.
It’s just a press release, Blue reminds himself, catching a billboard for the tournament they’ve just wrapped up featuring him and Lance on one side and Red and Cynthia on the other. Just another song and dance. Another set of lights heating his skin. Another place, person or product to shill, only this time it’s him and he has no idea what he’s shilling.
He’s kicked from his thoughts by the buzz in his pocket.
Red: Nervous?
Blue huffs, a vein throbbing from his temple.
Blue: thanks genius, but i’m fine
Red: You don’t look fine.
Blue frowns and flicks away from their conversation onto a page for professional trainer gear.
They pull up at the venue, joined by another wave of security as they scuffle over empty steps towards a lifeless wing of the tournament’s stadium. Not a week before, the place had been a spectacle of merch stalls, photographers, and thousands upon thousands of battle-hungry fans. From the stage, it had been a sea of Pikachu ears and Chespin hoodies, the air in the foyers teeming with the heavy scent of popcorn and raclettes.
Now, it was a ghost town, host to only conferences and the odd pageant or orchestra until the next thunderous battle.
Red’s eyes stick to the carpet until they’re pushed into their dressing rooms, missing the moment Blue glances at him over his shoulder.
There’s an angle to this, he reasons, staring up as a woman with lashes resembling a Florges dabs his dark circles with concealer.
That his relationship with Red isn’t a relationship at all, but a lapse of judgement—one he’s very sorry for and will never repeat again. He’ll find a spot on the wall to look at as he mentions all the kids out there who look up to him, in truth, apologising to their parents. If he does well, it’ll salvage his rage candy bar deal and the sponsors will trickle back over the next tournament. He’ll work it off. The best part is, none of it has to be true. He’ll shut the blinds, tip the cleaners twice over, and order a second cab with several departures between.
His gaze hardens in the mirror.
By the time Red’s seated next to him before a black curtain and a set of high beams to mimic a vehicle, Blue no longer cares to wonder whether he’d torch his career in his shoes. The air is too thick with starch-ironed shirts and perfume, and the bustle of the crowd beneath the stage keeps him alert. A crew tapes their microphones to their coats. Red opens his mouth, bristling at their touch, but nothing comes out.
“Water,” Blue says, clicking his fingers and pointing at Red until they push a glass into his hands.
It’s not what he wants, but he drinks it down, avoiding eye contact until the interviewer arrives—a woman with a flaxen bob of hair and round green eyes.
Blue rises from his seat to catch her hand. “Alexa, right?”
“Oui,” she answers breathlessly. “It is a pleasure to meet you both.”
Blue manages not to eye roll. Everyone says that, and look where it’s gotten them.
Red mhs in greeting.
“Bet your sister’s jealous you landed this gig.”
“Oh, indisputably. But my lens is always focused on victory.”
Blue doesn’t argue. The only winner of today’s conference might be her career. Still, her sister’s a gym leader at Santalune Gym, and they’re basically battle legends. He figures it’d be a bad move for her to go ahead and destroy them.
Red swallows hard and pinches his lips shut as the camera crew initiates a countdown. Below them awaits a sea of lenses tinted purple by the lights. The heat reminds him of a sauna as his fingers sink into the seat.
Trois, deux, un…
“Good morning! I’m Alexa, and I’m joined today by two of the most famous men in the world. Champion Red and Champion Blue of the Kanto region.”
“Bonjour,” Blue answers, a bright smile clicking into place.
Red nods, the crease of his brow shadowed on film.
“We’re so glad to be back in Kalos. Me especially. I studied mega evolution at the Sycamore Lab on Vernal Avenue and I miss that High Roller Sushi from the Rouge Plaza, y’know?” Blue sits upright, pretending to remember where they are. “Anyway, before we get off track, I’m gonna come out with what I wanna say. Then I’ll take your questions.”
Alexa blinks, befuddled as he takes the reins.
“First of all, I wanna apologise for what everyone saw after the Lumiose Battle Week Gala. Red and I have come a long way since the Kanto Championship, and what happened there wasn’t my finest moment. Y’might even say I got carried away after my semi-final victory over Lance.”
“It was a video that shocked us all,” she cuts in with a laugh. “It electrified the battling world, turning the conversation away from Lumiose Battle Week onto your histories as trainers.”
Red stares ahead, avoiding her attempts at eye contact.
“How do you address the allegations it was staged?”
“Staged?”
Blue’s eyes widen for a fraction of a second.
“C’mon Alexa, would you believe we’d pull something so idiotic?” He laughs with his chest, pushing on before she can refute him. “Red values his privacy more than anyone, and I’m the last person who needs more publicity. I’m an open book! Just ask any of my fans.”
“I could never believe such a thing, but the timing and clarity of the footage has certainly raised suspicion.”
“Heh, we’re not a pair of Hydreigons. I can’t see everything that goes on behind me.”
“To add, there’s the romantic nature of your entanglement.”
“Romantic, huh? That’s one way to see it.”
Before the cameras, his memory of the video unravels into a blur. He remembers something about the rain and something about staring into Red’s dark, entrancing eyes as he crosses an ankle over his knee. Red studies his reaction, frown lines forming.
“We have our own way of communicating,” Blue elaborates, jutting a flattened hand. “When y’know someone long enough, it just comes naturally.”
He tenses as Red grips his leg, uncertain if it’s to persuade their audience or to comfort him.
He issues a warning glare, as if to say, I’ve got this, catboy.
Red stares harder, refusing to withdraw.
“I mean, how do ya think Red battles? It’s not like he shouts at his Pokémon. We’ve got that same level of synchronicity between us, and through that, we got swept up in Red’s victory over Cynthia. Our wires crossed. That’s all there is to it.”
“C’est pas possible!” Alexa’s tone softens. “Are you saying there was no romance in the kissing we witnessed?”
“Look, romance is a strong word—”
A reporter rises from the audience. “In light of the footage, how are we to understand your past as rivals?”
Blue blinks, Red’s grip feeling more claws than fingers.
“Nothing’s changed. He’s a world class trainer and I’m a world class opponent looking to wipe the floor with him at the next tournament. Next.”
Another audience member shoots to their feet. Followed by another, and another.
“Do you have any comment on this being one of the fastest circulated videos in history?”
“What would you say to all the young trainers out there who were shocked by your behaviour?”
“What does Professor Oak have to say about this?”
Blue jumps through the hoops, breath steady, smile sharpening between intervals.
Yes, they pulled numbers! Why wouldn’t they, he scoffs, eliciting laughter. He stares into the camera, casting aside the interviewer and whatever plan he’d devised in the dressing room as he apologises to every parent watching the broadcast. The thought of Gramps hits him like a bucket of ice, his pupils narrowing, swallowing thickly, as he chuckles and answers, “Zilch.”
After that, all he feels is Red’s hand tethering him to the lounge.
“Do you regret it?”
“No,” he snaps without thought.
“But only moments ago, you referred to this as ‘the greatest mistake of your career,’” catches Alexa.
“I…”
His gaze flashes at Red, striking, like polished amber, met with a glare that could stop an Ursaring in its tracks. Nothing else comes out of his mouth. The room murmurs and bustles, cameras clicking away at his moment of hesitation. It’s rare that he chokes. Even rarer that he contradicts himself.
It’s not a mistake, he thinks.
Red’s grip slackens.
I’d do it again.
It’s not like he didn’t start on a kid’s allowance eclipsed by his winnings. He’d traversed mountains, surfed battered, icy coasts, and ascended towers of Gastlys hungering for the moment he fell asleep in which to eat his dreams. Sponsors didn’t make him who he was. He did, when he sacrificed his childhood to the dream of becoming champion.
Fuck the League. Fuck the media. And fuck him, too, for stealing his crown.
“It looks like Red wants to say something,” Alexa notes, leaning forward as the room stops to drink his reaction.
“No he doesn’t,” Blue answers, working to keep his voice steady. “Look, I’ve answered all your questions. This interview’s over—”
Before he can get up to leave, he feels Red’s fingers connect with the spot where his neck meets his shoulders, hooking him as they tighten into a squeeze. The touch flusters him, bringing to focus his pounding heart, subsiding anger, and impatiently bouncing leg.
“Don’t,” Blue hushes, forgetting the microphone taped to his chest.
His eyes beg to be let off the ride, but Red doesn’t let go.
“I’ll do it. Just let me handle everything.”
Red frowns sharply, eyes full of protest, and Blue cocks an eyebrow, reading: No. Not this time.
He mirrors the frown, wondering what that means until Red faces the camera, grabs him by the shoulders, and yanks him onto his lips.
The room explodes.
Blue holds down a yelp, adrenal glands bursting at their limit as Red’s mouth warms and soothes his own. He gives in, crumpling into the kiss with his entire, uselessly frozen body. The softness envelops him, grounding him through the yelling, the whitewash of camera flashes hot on his hands and neck, and the sharp, pitiless commentary of a journalist whose career just peaked before her eyes. He feels his sanity melt away like a Goomy slipping through his fingers in the rain.
Red breaks away with little warning, his expression empty, his stare a wall before their lenses.
“We’re done,” he mutters so near to Blue’s coat that everyone jumps.
“You’ve gotta be the most dramatic person I’ve ever met. Have I told you that?”
Mm.
They’re back on the balcony of Blue’s hotel room overlooking a dusky post-rain Lumiose, the Prism Tower sparkling to life at the start of the hour.
Blue sits on the precipice behind a row of foliage, his leg dangling off to the side, hovering over the street below. Red stands at the railing, tracking the planes as they fly over the city. He doesn’t bother urging Blue to move with Pidgeot strapped to his belt. Neither does Blue care to distract him with a movie neither of them will enjoy. They’ve watched the new footage several times over on the big screen, at last ditching the entertainment for something less demeaning.
Next to a half-eaten parfait and a plate of galettes on the patio table sits Blue’s Rotom. He catches the movement of Red typing in the corner of his eyes and scoops it up, ignoring its spinning eyes along with his latest batch of messages.
[18:06] Agent: A dessert brand from Castelia City is trending in support…
[18:06] Agent: Alexa is looking to interview you again before you fly out…
[18:12] Diantha: My congratulations to you both on your splendid union…
“Feelin’ chatty today?”
Red nods, narrowing his eyes before pressing send.
Red: I was tired of you talking for me.
“Then maybe you should talk more often,” Blue sneers, with a radiant smile to drive the point home. “You know, you’re all they care about at the moment. Seems like you took the heat off me for once.”
Red: Sorry I grabbed you.
“I grabbed you, remember? Back at the club. Y’know, there’s even a video of it going around.”
Red deadpans. He’s trying so hard not to encourage him.
“I know you’re sorry, but that’s not what you meant, is it.”
Red shakes his head.
Red: Are you *alright* with what happened?
“I am,” Blue says only a little haggardly, and Red lets out a breath. “They were gonna hold this over us for the rest of our lives, every premiere, every tournament, you name it. I’d be doing battle insurance ads that opened with: I’ve just made the greatest mistake of my career!”
At last, he wins a chuckle. He’ll take it.
“We can’t control what anyone thinks or says or does. The only way to win is to stop caring about it.” There’s a thought verging on wounded swimming in Red’s eyes. Before he can get in too many keystrokes, Blue confiscates his phone, adding his own. “I care about you, though. And hey, we’ve got Paldea booked next month. Plenty of time for us to figure this out.”
He hands Red’s phone back to him with the receipt for their flight seats on the screen.
Red smiles softly, and Blue looks away, fighting a blush. He allows Red to watch a group of kids skate over the crosswalk before continuing.
“My lawyer snatched the club footage, by the way. Our cameraman was some nobody who took photos of me with the bartenders. Handed in his resignation this morning. Trash took itself out.”
A perplexed sound squeezes out of Red’s throat.
Red: You’re not fighting?
Blue puffs, waving a hand. “There’s nothing to win.”
Red: You’re not fighting. You always fight.
“I don’t bother with small opponents anymore.” There’s a lilt in his voice that forces Red’s gaze to stop on his mouth, his focus quivering. “You, on the other hand…”
Red leans off the rail and onto the parapet to kiss him, inhaling deeply, unmoved by the honking traffic or the clouds of Noibats fluttering out of the city to roost.
“Paldea,” he murmurs, breathing slow.
“You and me, catboy.”
Blue reaches for his hand, his fingertips glancing over at a crawl before they’re enveloped by Red’s. The feeling is alien, much like Red’s voice, and for that reason he can’t get enough of it. The dwindling light ushers them inside, away from the Kalosian spring air and over to the lounge where Red’s latest vest is tossed, along with his better behaved Rotom and Pokéballs. Blue feels them jutting into him as he straddles him into the cushions, unable and unwilling to lessen his grip.
It’s only been a day, but holding hands feels natural.
He wonders if it’s overkill to take Red’s hand at the convenience store when they’re shopping for rage candy bars. Or through the airport, as they struggle to keep up with his luggage-toting Machamp past a flurry of lesser cameras. Or as they step off their air taxi and into the audience of the sleek new tower they’ve commissioned in the northeast mountains of Paldea. He hands the scissors to Red, who cuts the ribbon with great concentration, steeling himself for their obligatory photos next to Diantha and Geeta.
If Geeta was right about anything, it was the public’s willingness to welcome them back.
And if Blue owes Diantha anything, it’s a fancy dinner. One that Red attends, calmly tolerating the kisses she bestows upon him.
After that, it’s business as usual.
Blue wears their notoriety like a gym badge, slinging his arm around Red at every event and laughing along with anyone stupid enough to comment on the scandal of their union. It’s harder for him back in Pallet Town, where he shuffles him awkwardly into Daisy’s home for the holidays or sits across from Red’s Mom at dinner. He still does most of the talking, but Red’s thoughts are louder to him than ever. His glowing approval. His unyielding dissent. Most of all, his want, which hurts like hunger in his eyes.
Once he recognises that look, Blue can’t help speeding back to the hotel to draw the curtains and hit the mattress with him. He stares up at the ceiling of another unfamiliar room feeling Red nestled at side, not yet asleep, tracing patterns down his arm and entwining his fingers within his own. He accepts the gesture with a light scoff, touching his forehead onto his.
With his voice worn out, all that’s left for them is telepathy.