治 療 師 。// 🌻

id love to rp a modern au where all the region kids live on cul-de-sacs with their region names as the street names… but every region is represented in the street and how everything looks

like kanto ave is the street where every house backyard forest borders on a forest and the trees in front of the houses are the tallest things around. the houses arent overly large or small and always shade somewhere on the street for someone to rest in

kalos way is full of overly fancy houses and decorative lawn ornaments. fountains and gated walkways. the people that live there are all rich as fucking hell and own almost overzealous amounts of french imported furnishings

Hoenn. overgrown with weeds that push through cracks in the sidewalk, interspersed with flowers that border on exotic. theres two neighboring houses with treehouses that connect over the fence and everyone thinks the two kids living in them either love one another or absolutelyhate the other one, and everyone knows that youll get a thousand mosquito bites if you stand in one place for too long

sinnoh st is… religious. theres a church on the end of the street and a big rift between the east side of the street and the west side of the street– some people say its like a mountain splits them in half with the differences that pile up there. still, the people can be really endearing and there are flowered borders to the sidewalks, so its not all that bad

and i want the kids living on these streets in different parts of town, in which kanto way and johto crst are two away from the other and the kids all meet at the park at night to just talk,but the kalos kids are on the other side of town and attend private schools, not quite a small one but not quite a big one

(and then you throw in the oddly paranormal events, kids being haunted by purple mists and ghosts with sharp smiles, kids that can read minds and heal wounds at will, and theres kids that never lose in a fight and kids that you cant say no to, but they cant be witches– witches dont exist. so what are they?)

I JUST… i like to imagine the kanto/johto kids sitting on street curbs and talking in the dead of the night… shitty suburban lifestyles where you want to sneak out but have nothing to sneak out to, sleepless stars and scuffed converse digging into the sand thats been hollowed out underneath the swings

huddled whisperings about spirits that are haunting green that start with laughter and end with wide eyes– and green is still sick in bed not with them and blue is denying it, but red swears he saw the thing creep around when they were together

late night bike rides along the side of the highway by the unovan kids trying to get to the big city and back before the morning so their parents dont catch them, sinnoh kids going to the lake and swearing they saw things hovering above the water,  and everyone knows that blue has some serious daddy issues (but not as serious as that ruby kid, only he knows about that) and the blonde girl from kanto ave that moved in with her uncle without ever explaining why (because news travels fast, always has always will)

and its this intricate mix of suburban town rumors and serious paranormal activity, the slow realization by the collective that theres something off going on that no one really understands, and that maybe ghosts and spirits are real and maybe that explains why some kids have such bad nightmares that they never wake up, why some people swear they hear voices in their heads

He’d like to say that there are two different types of rains.

There’s the rain that sounds like fingernails tapping animatedly, agitated and loud and audible even through the curtain of his pillow folded over his head. It's demanding as well, clapping in a manner akin to something frantic before it roars its own approval; in a way, it reminds him of Red. It isn't particularly a good way, nor a bad way, but perhaps something leaning towards bittersweet: He hadn't seen him since he'd left to train a month ago.

Lightning illuminates his bedroom for a moment, snapshotting the furl of his blankets around his restless body; he compulsively smooths the sheets outwards before sitting up entirely, swinging his legs out into the crisp air and padding towards his kitchen. There is a cool pot atop his stove and a row of metal tins lining the wall filled with teas, loosely leafed and fragrant when uncapped; most of them are gifts from Daisy. Even here, he can hear the rain pattering against his roof and he finds himself momentarily thankful that he lives in a sturdy home with an even sturdier roof, built specifically for the frequent storms that sweep across Kanto. He flips open the top of the pot, fills it, and sets it to boil.

There’s a stack of photos that Blue gave to him resting on the counter, candid snapshots that she, and by extension him probably never should’ve had gotten.  On nights like these when he’s mostly alone, he likes to grab them and flip them through; there’s the photo of him carrying Yellow on his back as she sleeps, (that one is one of his favorites,) the multitudes of photos that Blue has of the two of them in various, sometimes incriminating positions, (those are less his favorites) and the occasional planned photo with all of them smiling at the camera.

His absolute favorite is the only one that is out of the pile of photos and placed separately, not yet framed but nearing the few photos he has that Daisy has given him. It’s taken by Red at arms length, his blurry grin half cut off to focus instead on Blue, perfectly posed with pursed lips and Green but a shadowed frown behind a glimpse of Yellow’s hair, her face covered by her hands and her height too small to allow her to breach more than the very bottom of the photo. He can’t exactly pinpoint why he likes it to the extent that he does.

If he stops to think about it, he can’t actually think of a single photo in which Yellow isn’t either sleeping, hiding, or too distant to properly make out; it’s odd to him, because she herself is so vividly animated in his eyes. (Or perhaps it’s because he trained her, still trains her when she has the free time that he sees her that way, just like how he sees Blue as much, much more than a short dress and a wide smile, or Red… Red, he still sees as an ass. His best friend of an ass, but an ass nonetheless.)

The rain lessens momentarily into a finer mist,(the second kind of rain) coating the windows more silently to allow the roaring in his head to take center stage. A frustrated huff escapes him, soon followed by his lithe hand carding through his sandy hair; his thoughts for the night seem to veer towards his friends more often than he's used to.

Maybe it isn't a bad thing. He's perfectly aware that he isn't the most friendly person around, knows that respect and camaraderie are totally different things. There are many people who respect him, and in turn many people whom he respects; there are few he can call his friend. ... And what even is a friend? There's no definition he can apply, no single box he can fix Red, Yellow, and Blue in all at once. He can't organize them and file them away in his mind. They're complex ideas, living things.

The pot whistles and he moves it off the heat, idly watching steam rise from the spout. He's lost in memory now, completely and totally submersed in his thoughts. Nothing could pull him away from his--

The doorbell rings.

His train of thought derails entirely and catastrophically explodes along the inner part of his skull. Sure, it's only 10 in the afternoon or so, but he'd been planning on resting early. He'll have a busy afternoon tomorrow if the rain doesn't stop all of his challengers from showing up at his gym's door. It's too late for a visitor regardless, and the fact that it's pouring rain gives him the idea that opening the door could lead to the opening of a horror movie. Instead, he turns away and tries to start making his tea.

"Gr-Green? Are you in here?"

No, scratch that. He knows that voice. That's Yellow's voice. The spoon in his hand is placed gently atop the counter; he turns and lopes towards the door in three large steps, then swings it open. Just as he'd thought. Yellow stands outside, looking as if the wind is about to blow her away any moment. She's got a practical raincoat on, (it's a deep mossy green, he notes) and rainboots as well. Her lips are almost blue; her hands wrap around her trembling frame like a horrible parody of a blanket. He takes one look at her, then quickly pulls her inside.

"Hey!" She greets, which he returns with a nod. It's startlingly peppy considering she's cold enough, temperature wise, to cool the air around her. He stares at her in the silence, waiting for her to explain exactly why she'd shown up at his door. A part of him is concerned that if he opened his mouth, a stream of words would start and never cease. Deep breath. Keep it in. Keep it under control.

Her hands reach towards her wet mop of hair, pushing it all to one side and then wringing out a majority of the water. It splashes to the floor at her feet. (It's impolite, but he'll let it slide. He's mostly fascinated by how long it is when it isn't bound in a ponytail and tucked up in a hat.)

The silence stretches onwards. She realizes she should be explaining herself.

"It's raining," she begins. When she catches sight of the exasperated expression he wears, she clears her throat awkwardly and continues.  

"It's raining--" She repeats. (He knows.) "-- And my roof started leaking but I don't have a hammer. I have boards, and a ladder, and I have a bucket and everything else! Just no hammer. I don't know where I put it. "

The look he gives her is absolutely incredulous.

"...You want to borrow a hammer?"

"Yes!"

She smiles at him, and he momentarily wonders how she ever gets cold with such a sunny disposition. It's both impressive and astounding-- but he's too caught up in a whirlwind of uncomfortable, brotherly feelings to really appreciate it. It's not like this with Blue, or Red. He cares, but he knows they can take care of themselves. He's aware that Yellow is more capable than any of them, but with her? He worries.

"Was now really the appropriate time to come borrow a hammer, or could this have waited until after the storm was over?" He responds. She opens her mouth to answer, then snaps it shut when he raises a hand to cut her off. "Rhetorical question. It's not, and you're not walking back while the storm is still going."

"But--!"

 Again, no time to respond. He’s already turning away, walking over to the little closet where he keeps his towels so he can throw it over her head. 

  “Don’t be an idiot.” He replies. His voice is quiet but not gentle, chastising her without outright telling her what she’s done wrong. Yellow glances at him, nods. The slight smile that plays across her lips says that she’s grateful; for once, he’s glad he overfilled his tea pot.