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She was happy he wasn't a small-talk poet nor entertainer. He was a witty whisper in her ear, hand placed firmly on her back in a supporting manner, he was one to offer a smooth reason to leave an uneasy conversation with overeager guests. He was her go-to plus one on those contest evening events, and she was his.
He would always stay longer if she wanted to, but he had sneaking out of those events engraved into his nature, and she wanted to eat something that wasn’t tiny portioned and put on a weird, anxiously small paper plate. She reaches for his hand and squeezes it gently, nodding her head toward the exit.
He was a guy with whom she could grab takeout from a small street booth, still in full fig and eat it sitting on the edge of the sidewalk. He would let her take half of his fries without a word and later he would kiss her senseless if she let him. May started to notice that she would take it more as something that could or would happen than a surprising incident that took place once or twice.
They sat on the curb still warm after a sunny day, his suit jacket thrown over her bare shoulders. She had a precise taste when it came to evening dresses which were problematic with the nightly temperature drop, but solvable by his companion often and eagerly, accompanied always by the same set of remarks. ‘I’m going to get a cold because of you.’ ‘You never learn.’ ‘Don’t mess it up and give it back later.’
He sits, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up, a paper cone not too long ago full of fries now halfway gone. Drew is fishing out the remaining fries as he catches her gaze and smiles at her warmly. She smiles at him, a stroke of sauce smeared above her top lip. He puts fry into his mouth and pulls out a wrinkled clean napkin with the Pokemon Fanclub logo pressed onto it from his pocket, one from an earlier party.
‘You have no style,’ he quotes, and May laughs at the reminiscence of their first meeting ‘and no finesse,’ he cleans her top lip with familiarity and causality that surprises her and puts the wipe away back into his pocket.
He was a pretty good plus one to have.
Pokemon Center sleeping quarters were known and as homely as a spot on the road could be. Drew always sporting his white sleeping shirt with a worn-out ugly print from an event long passed. May in a familiar hoodie snatched from her dad’s gym sweatshirt batch. Tired after the whole day of practice they would sit together to rest up in their casual company, late at night, in quietness far away from the contest buzz. This time she got a room with CRT-TV, probably as old as Max at this point, humming its slightly blue light across their faces.
They sit in the darkness together, watching late-night reruns of old league battles, sometimes as old as a decade. Kanto league bouts in which Lance still looked young, attempts of trainers that came close to beating someone from the elite four and, Drew’s personal favourite, the first battle of Cynthia as official Sinnoh champion. When Wallace would appear on the screen Drew would casually mention how she could beat him one day, maybe, if she focused, and she would laugh it off with a witty response but grow a little inside at his compliment.
She would lay on the bed, her hand propped up on one arm, and he would sit on the floor with his back against the bed frame. Sometimes, just sometimes, when the moment is right, when the action on screen is intense enough to mask it she would wrap her loose hand around his shoulders and slide her fingers just an inch below the fabric of his collar, absentmindedly caressing his skin, whilst making comments about anything that was happening on the screen. He didn't seem to mind.
They are sitting in the Pokemon Center lobby, waiting for their Pokemon to complete a pre-contest checkup. Some people, especially younger girls, look at Drew and point a finger at him before shuffling away shyly when May or Solidad catches their gaze.
May sits squeezed tightly with Solidad on one couch, both women's lips pursed tightly in an attempt to not burst out laughing. Across them - Drew, with his face hidden in his palms.
‘Let’s check if we qualify for the title,’ Sol suggests, digging in her purse for a pen.
‘You two are just evil,’ Drew says, his words muffled by his hands.
‘Okay May, let’s do one for one,’ Solidad states in a matter-of-fact tone, poorly attempting to not laugh, her pen hovering just above the shiny paper of Coordinator Weekly. Title of the article, or rather - quiz, written in bright green with purple outline states proudly: 'ARE YOU HAYDEN’S DREAM GIRL?’
‘May, what is your favourite flower? Poppy,’ May shook her head theatrically ‘Dandelion? Or maybe option c - Rose.’
‘That’s the one,’ May nods exaggeratedly and Solidad puts a big ‘X’ on the answer.
‘Okay, Sol. At parties you usually, a - dance the night away, b - talk to someone in the corner…’
‘No need to read the rest of the answers, I talk to a lonely green-haired, handsome man in the corner. That’s my party plan,’ Solidad says confidently.
‘Which of PokeChannel movies is your favourite, a - High Poke Musi…’
‘I can’t. I’m going to get another coffee,’ Drew announces, standing up suddenly.
‘Get me one too, please!’
‘Me too!’
‘I will think about it.’
‘He annoys me, but I love him,’ May states, putting her PokeNav away after a quick convo with Max. ‘I feel like it’s a repeated pattern,’ she adds, nudging his shoulder playfully.
He wonders what he should say, words he is unused to saying stuck in his throat. It sounds natural when she says it and she does it often, talking about her family or directly to them, over the phone.
She tells Dawn one night, after Wallace Cup when they are getting back to Pokemon Center after a night out together. May wrapped her hands around them as they are walking together under orange streetlights. One arm on Dawn’s waist, another one sneaked under Drew’s jacket paralleled. This evening smells like wine and small peachy flowers that bloom this time of the year. Her voice full of warmth and confidence coming with this confession let out into the night.
They sit at a cafe another morning, two of them together with Solidad. Their table was stationed near the window. It's a brisk morning, and some people are taking a jog with their pokemon along the adjacent street.
‘You know I love you, Sol,’ May drops casually, with ease, in a way as straightforward as if she was asking Solidad to pass her sugar.
She isn’t afraid of it and he isn’t experienced in saying it out loud, their different upbringings suddenly very apparent to him. He wants to believe that she knows and doesn’t need to hear it.
She was good, she did not need to touch him to make him feel her, her smile radiant, knowing, lips turned in a semi-sarcastic grin after a comment directed, always hiding something more, another meaning.
They usually don’t need many words, but they still would understand each other. Convenient, considering Drew's difficulty with communicating feelings with words. So he just takes her hand in his and puts it on his chest, above his heart beating heavily. That’s how he speaks. How many times were they supposed to touch accidentally or not at all?
And then she would smile against his lips with her hands tangled in his hair.
He would sometimes get shy in his Drew-shy-way, but only when they were in private. Out, on the stage, he was confident. In himself, his skills, and his pokemon. Standing tall, bowing gently to the audience, no matter if he lost or won. Never angry at anyone but himself for his losses.
He never pulled away, never stepped. His hair was smooth against her fingers, his jacket fabric coarse, well-worn, well-loved. That's just how he was. It was a simple jacket, heavy cotton, slightly bleached out by the sun fading a terrible colour away a little. He could afford a new one, she was pretty sure, she saw the worn-out fabric and white threads by sleeve cuffs, which were cut neatly with scissors by Drew so the fabric didn’t come any looser as it already did.
Drew wasn’t one for changing and throwing anything precious away.
Sometimes she would think about it for a second when her lips were pressed against his, his hair spread out on a pillow, and his breath heavy. He would put his palm on her cheek and address her with full name with such deep piety she never had any doubts about what he meant.