A/N:

Pointless & plotless fic. Basically I wanted to write Green and Blue making out... so I wrote Green and Blue making out? Also, first Oldrival fic in two years. Kind of feels like coming home.


Morning kisses

They're staying the night at an expensive hotel because of a Pokémon Association conference held in Saffron with afterwards a party (obligatory, unfortunately) and even he didn't quite fancy travelling all the way back to Viridian at three in the morning. As for the expensive part: Blue wouldn't accept anything less, of course.

She'd danced all night, being the radiant centre of attention in her sleek black dress. He, for his part, had mostly excused himself from conversations and looked at his watch every fifteen minutes as the evening proceeded. Quite unfortunate that apparently these things were considered part of the job. A bit of an outrage, too.

But despite having a seemingly never-ending supply of energy at her disposal, Blue was more than happy to kick off her heels when they'd finally retreated to their hotel room, and let herself fall back on the king-size bed with a drawn-out, "I'm knackered.'"

Green was too, albeit more of the mental than the physical sort. Enduring small talk was tiresome.

After they'd changed clothes – and Blue had spent ten minutes in the bathroom scrubbing off her layers of make-up – they lay down under the covers, too tired to even exchange a proper goodnight. As he turned off the light, Blue was already asleep.


When Green wakes up he feels rejuvenated. Perhaps there's something to say for overpriced beds, after all. He isn't sure what time it, and nor does he particularly care to check. Instead he peeks at the woman lying next to him, just now stirring into awareness. Her hair's slightly messy, but still attractively so. Undoubtedly courtesy of all the product she uses (though of course Blue would insist it's just her natural beauty).

She yawns behind her hand before sleepily turning to Green. "I want breakfast," she mumbles.

"Get dressed then," he answers, not even sure if breakfast is still being served.

"No, ring roomservice," she mumbles again, dismissively waving a hand in the general area of where the phone stands, and closes her eyes again.

Green sighs. Of course he picks up the phone anyway, because he needs breakfast himself and if they're staying in a fancy hotel they might as well reap the benefits. As he orders, Blue interrupts him with her demands, face on the pillow and eyes closed but mind apparently set on strawberries and scones. She has a remarkable talent for being (seemingly) asleep and still making sure she gets what she wants.

Green rolls his eyes, requesting extra strawberries with the receptionist lady but drawing the line at ice cream.

Someone's gotta be the sensible one here.

As they wait for roomservice to arrive, both doze off again. The bed's soft and sunlight filters through the beige curtains. It might be a beautiful day outside, but surprisingly Green doesn't care much. Well, he'll spend all afternoon training outside, he vaguely thinks, making up for current laziness.

After awhile there's a knock on the door and a voice announcing roomservice. Naturally Blue doesn't stir – she also has a remarkable talent for feigning sleep in order to dodge less pleasant tasks – so with a grumble he throws his legs over the bedside and blearily walks towards the door. He probably looks like a reawakened zombie, but hey, vanity has never helped a person.

He still rubs his face before opening the door.

The breakfast cart is loaded with food (toast, croissants, fruit, scones) but it's the smell of coffee that makes him almost salivate. He craves coffee. The rest can wait.

As he returns to the bed, Blue pops herself up on one elbow and looks at the cart expectantly. Her eyes light up as she takes in the scones and strawberries.

"Looking good?" he asks, taking in the image of Blue at something-something in the morning.

"Mmm," she agrees noncommittally. Her eyes then turn towards him and her smile grows. "Are you also part of breakfast?" she asks coyly.

The corner of his mouth turns up slightly. "We'll see," he just says and slips back under the covers.

As Blue feasts on her scones with strawberries ("not as good with no ice cream, but it'll do") Green relishes his coffee. Yes, he is aware that starting the day with black coffee might not be the healthiest thing in the world, but it's the fastest way to clear his head, so there you go.

Blue, meanwhile, chatters away, saying something about some b-rated celebrity she met yesterday and mix drinks and wanting to go to the beach (Green doesn't attempt to find the common factor between those topics: he'd stopped paying full attention after the soap star topic was broached). He rubs his eyes.

"You talk too much, woman," he mutters.

Blue merely rolls her eyes. "Here, have some toast. You've only had black coffee so far, no wonder you're so chagrined."

Green decides against telling her this is pretty much his default mood (she should know) and instead accepts the buttered toast from her.

"How many scones have you had?" he asks with an eye towards the the fast-emptying bowl.

"Oh, I don't know," she answers unconcernedly, "d'you want some?"

"No thank you, I'm not big on them."

"I knew you'd say that," Blue grins, "because I didn't plan on sharing anyway."

It's his turn to roll his eyes.

The bed becomes a little messy, especially when the croissants appear (he is reminded why he never eats breakfast in bed) but despite being annoyed he doesn't comment on it. He already knows what Blue's answer would be, after all.

Either it'd be 'you're too stuck up, live a little' or 'I know a way to make the bed even messier'.

To which he'd merely roll his eyes (again).

He wonders if they're really that predictable, but decides it's probably a side-effect of the whole love-and-live-together thing. (Bad) habits rubbing off on each other and secrets eroding.

Hmm.

Blue lets out a content sigh when she finally announces that she's had enough, and stretches her arms above her head. The image is somewhat similar to a Persian stretching its legs after a good meal, before contentedly laying down to sleep in the sunlight. Well, there are less fitting Pokémon to compare Blue to, certainly. Green takes her silence as his cue to somewhat tidy up the bed – meaning shoving the crumbles off the covers and not to worry about it.

"See, these are the assets of quality hotels," Blue remarks contentedly. (If she could purr, she would.) "Nice breakfast, good beds... I don't even feel my feet anymore."

"Well, that's nothing to worry about," he deadpans, and receives a jab to the thigh from said feet.

"I mean I don't feel my feet hurt anymore," she explains in an I-should-be-eyerolling-here-tone, "which is also good for you because it means you don't have to massage them."

"Oh, lucky me indeed," he agrees wholeheartedly, thinking that being a good boyfriend should not include giving foot massages.

Blue has closed her eyes again, smiling now in that satisfied way that only happens when you're warm, comfortable, stress-free, and just had the pleasure of a good meal. He's feeling rather relaxed himself, too.

After another unfruitful attempt to make the bed crumb-free, he scoots over to her, putting a hand on her shoulder. She opens her eyes and turns to him. He likes how she looks in the mornings – there's something vulnerable and honest about her without the layers of make-up and masks that appear when there's other people around.

"You've got some jam left there," Green remarks – chides – not surprised in the least. She's a rather messy eater, especially when it comes to the things she loves (strawberry jam; strawberry ice cream; strawberries in general).

He extends a finger to wipe it off, but thinks again, not quite fancying sticky fingers. Instead he leans in and kisses the corner of her mouth; licking off the red stuff in one careful swipe.

Blue lets out a giggle – if twenty-two-year-old women giggle – and looks at him with a gleam in her eyes as he leans back.

"Now you taste like strawberry too," she says.

"Your masterplan I bet," he sighs, only half joking.

"Mmm," she agrees, and puts her arm around his waist. "C'mere so I can taste."

He rolls his eyes but sees no objections to that, and thus leans in once again, kissing her properly this time.

Of course there's the taste of strawberry, but he's used to that. It's become equivalent to Blue, anyway, like mint apparently has become equivalent to him (Blue complained that it didn't mix with strawberry, but if she wasn't going to quit her addiction, he certainly wasn't going to change habits either).

There is no mint taste now, though. Just strawberry, and softness. Morning kisses are strange like that: it seems their bodies are more pliable, sharp edges removed, mouth, hands, faces soft.

Surely it is psychological. Still.

Her two arms are around his waist and he presses closer. He likes the way she feels against him: skin and curves and long legs, one ankle hooked around his own. She moves her foot and trails it leisurely along his calf, up and down. Her idea of a foot massage, likely.

It's slow, and it's nice, and now and then Blue will make little sounds – soft sighs – undetectable if it weren't for the total silence in the room. Time has slowed down it seems.

Again: an illusion. Still.

After quite some time he pulls back a little, catching his breath. He pushes away the chestnut hair laying across her shoulder, making it bare except for the thin black strap of her nightgown. It's the one she always wears when they're going away, satiny and too short to be functional. He hooks one finger around it. Her eyes watch as he lowers it. Now there's just skin: light, inviting. There are no blemishes from her neck down to her shoulder.

He lowers himself and kisses the spot right under her jaw. She gasps a little. He repeats, opens his mouth slightly, leaves a wet trail down her neck. His hand goes from her shoulder down to her side: chest, narrow waist, hip, thigh. Her body is warm against his.

Although real at first, the longer he's at it the more exaggerated her sounds become. "Green, you're so good at this," she moans as he reaches her collarbone.

He stops mid-kiss and raises an eyebrow at her.

"Oh please," she smirks in response, "you love it when I compliment you."

He doesn't deign to give an answer, seeing as obviously it's not true.

(Well. Maybe it is a little.)

Before he can finish what he'd started, though, he suddenly gets flipped on his back and Blue's on top of him. Her lips are very red, he notices – all natural this time.

With her fingers she flicks some hair away from his forehead. "Shall I now demonstrate how good I am at this?"

"Be my guest," he replies with another raised eyebrow and then she leans in to kiss him.

It isn't a passionate kiss. It isn't a demure kiss either. It's one of those slow, tantalising, drawn-out kisses that would leave lesser people immobile. He's not one of them, of course, though it cannot be denied that the longer the kiss goes on, the less easy it is to gather his thoughts.

Pesky woman – though it's a bit hard to recall in this instant all the actual reasons she annoys him (apart from currently robbing him of his sanity) because the things he likes about her are all the clearer. Sort of jumbled together, not a very organised list – but there's her hair, tickling his face now and then, faintly smelling of the rose shampoo she uses; and her hands, very soft, one tangled in his own hair, the other holding his face just so; her full breasts, pressed against his chest; the slight scent of her perfume, still detectable after a night's sleep; her legs, arms, sighs, mouth.

Her left hand travels down his arm, prickling his skin, then sneaking under his grey t-shirt. The light touches leave goosebumps on his skin. He doesn't get how such a simple action can create such strong reactions, but has long given up on trying to understand. Her hand wanders further up his chest, hidden from sight by fabric and its owner – but very real in touch, very warm. He squirms a little. She smiles against his mouth.

He relocates his hand to the small of her back. The fabric of her nightgown is so flimsy it might as well be taken off.

As he contemplates doing just that, she pulls away a little.

"D'you know that morning kisses are my favourite?" she murmurs.

Green does know – but is fine with reminding her all over.