Stacy's Mom Syndrome

^{Pre-A/N: I didn't really feel like writing out backstory—let's just say, by some power of god, Green has convinced Red to come live with him.}

-

A thumb tack sinks into the corkboard slowly and with a bit of effort—Green's hand pulls back only a centimeter, and hovers over the photograph, his fingers breezing over its glossy surface. Red watches, hypnotized, as Green just stands there, eyes filtering over each picture.

"You do photography?"

Green shrugs, not having started a fraction at the sound of Red's hardly used voice. A couple footsteps, and Red is standing beside him, breathing as he stares at each captured moment of time. His fingers brush up against one of the more yellowed images, and its taped together corner gives way—it slides its way onto the floor.

The room is dead silent for the longest time. Red bends down half way, and his fingertips brush the edges of the photo—a tremble makes its way through his body when it becomes animate for a split second—he and Green's smaller selves pass each other knowing glances before they face that camera again, age old smiles filling up their faces.

"It's fine," Green's voice says quietly from behind the long running champion. "It's an old picture, so of course—" he crouches down, and Red, with a single breath, can smell pines, stadium lights and years of hard pressed, honest virtues—"it's a bit fragile."

Through the makeshift scotch tape corners, Red can see the torn up ends preserved parchment—as if Green has pulled the photo off from the wall many a time, conceivably in frustration, and yet has always tacked it up again, being the proverbially sentimental sap he is.

The cap wearing part of the duo remembers the day that picture was taken– his mother and Daisy are making light conversation as they snap pictures of the two from every which angle, and later, when the air is light and the sky is dark, Green talks about garlic flavored ice-cream and kangaskhan babies.

As Green continues to tack up the newly developed pictures, he talks—gradually, deliberately, and with nostalgia.

"I don't know why I bother keeping some of these—"there's a pause when he sands his finger over the face of his grandfather in one of the fresher photos. He laughs. "Maybe I should just throw them away." Still, Green doesn't make any moves to follow through on his actions, just keeps pinning up the pictures, the memories, one by one with a gentle eyes and fingers to match.

Yet, Red feels something perturbed inside of him at the idea. "Are you going to?"

"I might."

The last two are tacked up haphazardly in the upper crooks, overlapping the tops of some older mementos—

"Please don't."

Green chuckles low and hard, the mordant look on his face unsettles Red's belly. "It's not like any of it really matters."

And it's not like he cares—it's not like any of this even matters, but no. He grabs the other and pulls him close because he does care and all of it— every single frayed memory, each threadbare piece of developed film up there—all of it matters.

"Don't be stupid." Red's breath zephyrs its way through his russet hair.

Green's arms are clamped between their chests—his fingers bristle in the fabric of Red's shirt when he says, "I'm not being…" Red feels him squirm a bit—Green doesn't struggle too much (though he does still struggle) when he leans the rust haired against the wall—"Stupid." He seems winded and there's a hint of petulancy straining through his vocal chords.

It's funny how small the gym leader seems at this moment—he's always been taller than Red, and even now, the champion has to tilt his own face upwards just the tiniest fraction to have their eyes meet.

It doesn't take any more than two-point-five seconds for Green to realize his mouth is going to be compromised.

But Red takes his time, deciding just how and where to put his lips—and he takes even more time to just stare into Green's eyes. He's never done that before, is what the champion realizes—has never taken the time to notice just how well Green's eyes hold to his namesake: not very well at all.

They're hazel, jade watered down with at least three different shades of coffee. That doesn't make them any less pleasurable to look at, though, if only because they're Green's hazel eyes—the only pair that will ever be of any significance. Subsequent to what seems like hours burning holes into Green's eyes, Red finally goes through with it; Green's eyes are wide, wide, wide and his palms flatten against the wall, as if he's expecting it to help him out of this situation that can only be described as a rock and a hard place –

Kiss.

Fingers graze the skin over his jugular; what's going on, what are you doing? The paper tacked onto the bulletin board behind them rustles behind his ears.

Kiss, kiss.

Jaw, chin—there's a lingering ghost of lips over the corner of Green's mouth; this can't be happening, this shouldn't feel like it does.

Kiss, kiss, ki—

Red sucks lightly on Green's bottom lip, and that's where the line is drawn. The blush colored stains on the brunette's cheeks are deep and prevalent—he brings the back of his hand to his mouth and a thin coat of viscous saliva is left on his flushed knuckles. A sharp breath is taken—"I have to go."

Green breaks his way from the limb-made barrier Red has created, and the champion is left standing in front of his childhood, hung up and pinned on a wall in his rival's home.

Red doesn't bother hunting about the house to find the other—only half a minute after the confrontation, he hears the door to the apartment slam closed. His fingers feel rough against his own lips, still clammy with spit and the honey maple flavors of Green's skin. He's never felt so strange before—being rejected is an unexpected stirring in his life.

He isn't sure enough of his feelings for Green, of anything at this moment, really, to experience the sensation of sorrow; as of now, Red only feels confused.

As if on cue, Pikachu appears by his feet—

'I lost my playmate,' is what the mouse says through all his big brown irises and pressed back ears. Red bundles up the tiny animal into his arm and sits down on the edge of Green's cushiony bed—

"I lost mine too," he murmurs, stroking Pikachu's yellow fur.

-

After many stretched minutes of pacing about in front of the gym, Green's muscles are tender.

He can't do this, he can't do this, "I can't do this."

In his haste, he's forgotten to grab his keys—the glass door is stuck fast, and no amount of 'open sesame' will budge it an inch. The inside of his cheek is right close to being gnawed raw.

Eevee makes tiny mewling noises by the toes of his ash colored loafers. Green sighs and slumps his jacket and back up against the glass panel, sliding down onto his haunches and thudding his head against the door. Then, there's a bit of rustling before he feels eevee's fur tickle his chin—he sighs, and offers his best smile (one that's a bit twisted and tormented, at this point) and pets her head before planting kisses between her eyes and ears.

She starts to purr, and Green really can't help himself—he starts to coo and nuzzle her like a baby. "You're such a good girl—" there's nonsense between this point and the next "—aren't you?" She licks his cheek with her tiny tongue and squeals softly.

He laughs gently, continuing in infant-talk, "And Red's just a weirdo, isn't he?"

Naturally, she mews in agreement. Still, Green knows all he's trying to do is find a viable excuse for the event that took place what had to be only twenty minutes ago—

One that isn't mindless driveling for gay romance novels.

-

Red has taken to rifling through Green's bookshelf within those twenty minutes.

He's found reference books, mainly. Every so often he's graced with an aged, frail looking picture book—but it's mainly dictionaries, text books, and the like—which isn't so bad, considering Red doesn't feel like dealing with any type of emotionally tender writing at this moment.

Pikachu scampers along the shelving with light feet as Red tries to decide on some proper reading material.

In the end, he sits himself down with a dictionary whose binding is cracked in three places.

-

The line just keeps buzzing and crackling—after the third buzz, Green sighs and is about to end the call when—

"Green! How are you?"

Leaf sounds too energetic for this time of day—two in the afternoon on a Sunday. Green has always thought her to be the type to lay down and sleep the middy hours of her Sundays away; just curl up on the couch and nap like a skitty.

"I'm…"

The next words are crucial; after all, he's just stormed out of his own home without keys, therefore successfully locking himself out of the apartment and the gym all because his old time friend and new time roommate just made a pass at him.

So how is he?

"Good."

He can hear her smile through the receiver when she says "You sound a bit…frazzled."

"Didn't I just say I was good?"

"Touchy, touchy… so does it have to do with your boyrfrie—I mean, Red?"

Green knows full well that slip of the tongue was on purpose—he tries his best to take it in good humor. "How did you know?"

"You usually don't need help with anything else. You're usually pretty…" She seems thoughtful—the Gym leader can imagine her as he taps a slender finger on the edge of her bottom lip. "Self sufficient," is what she finally settles on.

"Thanks, I think."

Silence fills up the line.

"Green." Her voice transfers through with a chastising tone. "Don't call me if you're not going to talk."

"It's not like you're going to hang up now that you know I've got something to tell you."

-

Leaf had once asked 'if there was one word you would use to describe me, what would it be?' and Red honestly could not think of any, because there were so many words to describe one person—using only one when to even begin to describe the nature of the most seemingly simple human emotion required hundreds—how could it be done, especially when describing Leaf, of all people?

The same thoughts still stand when Red unthinkingly attempts to apply the question to his relationship with Green.

A single word? How could he even start?

These are the things it is not.

It is not E for easy, nothing as subconscious as breathing. It is not F for firm, or C for consistent—each second together, each word spoken could throw them for a whirlwind—it could leave one of them both hopelessly stranded and terribly alone, which leads to the rest—it was not safe. No, it is not S for safe, and it is not S for secure— because it's not like that. It simply isn't.

It is D for dangerous or even T for treacherous and even A for arduous.

It's something that Red has N: never tried before. Never with a girl, never with a boy, never with a Pokémon: never ever.

That something is an intimate—no, a romantic relationship. Sure, he's had practice—Misty and Erica offered, as many lasses and a scarce amount of school boys had. (Strange. Thinking about it now, Leaf had never even once bothered.)

-

"Wow. That's kind of hot."

Green tries to make his voice reflect the heavy scowl on his face—"It's not hot, Leaf. Not hot."

"I said kind of," she says meagerly and with little actual defensiveness—he can actually hear a bit of nonchalant in her voice. "So, how was it?"

"H-how was it?!" He cries in practical outrage— Eevee jumps at her owner's sudden raise in volume, and Green flushes when he hears his voice crack. He continues talking in a loud, harsh whisper, "What the fuck do you mean how was it?!"

God help him, he can smell her as she shrugs offhandedly—"Don't be such a girl, Green. I mean, he's a good kisser, right?" and it takes all his power to just not throw his poke gear onto the pavement at that moment. Instead, he just tries to breathe—all that he manages is a string of curses and an array of fuming rhetorical questions sprinkled with manic laughter.

"Fuck this," he pants out after a long while of just uttering pure blaspheme. "You're crazy, and I'm going home."

-

When Red opens the door, Green is standing there looking M for mortified.

"I forgot my keys."

Once upon eight years ago, Red believed he was madly and helplessly in like with Green's sister, Daisy, because 'like' in seven year old speak was equivalent to the big L word. ('A profoundly tender, passionate affection for another person.')

Thinking about it now, Red realizes it was nothing more than Stacy's mom syndrome.

-

Green wakes with the sun the next morning—his bed hasn't done the past eight hours any justice and as he walks slowly, inaudibly through the single room apartment, he inevitably passes his futon couch. Red is sleeping there, perfectly straight and military-esque. He can't help but smile.

And that's when it slaps him in the face—that 'it' just happens to be his minds projection of Leaf in all her just-woke-up glory—Green has never thought of Red in that way. He probably never will, even after they've kissed, held each other—Red will still be Red: the brightest color of the spectrum, the best Pokémon trainer of them all, and a bastard with communication issues.

With that in his mind, Green can tend to the potted stem in his window sill at ease. After all, there's no real need to rush things into an intimate or romantic relationship, and for Green to think that Red will ever go misty eyed with lust (and for him of all people) is a concept unreachable and unreached for by his mind.

-

The next morning, Red wakes to see Green tending to his houseplant, tender sunlight hitting his cheeks. Eevee is curled up beside the painted pot and stirs only when Green prods at her maw with a tiny cherri berry, freshly picked, as it seems.

She licks his fingers, and he puts on a smile that looks too old and knowing for his years—and that's when it hits Red like boulder.

Green is only fifteen, and so is he. Still only fifteen years into life, and they've already made names for themselves—

Red can't help but think they've grown withered on the inside over the last couple of short years— like they've grown too old too fast, and though they won't wilt like plants any times soon, youth has been lost long before the years of legal adulthood.

But they have time. Time to re-explore childhood's picture perfect moments, time to mend gaping wounds and tiny cuts and time to find out that kangaskhan babies are actually called joeys—

There will always be time to spend with one another.