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Even now in their adulthood his youthful habits stuck.
Sure, so did hers- but she had a right to be forgiven of them. Champions don’t receive judgement in their own home.
(Their own…luxury…lumiose apartment…home.)
God he was lucky to share her bed.
Wake up early, train. Stay up late, train. The son of two respected veterans in the competitive scene, what was he if he didn’t give it his all?
He didn’t need the sleep, didn’t have time to eat, no time to clean or keep up with laundry, barely time to lounge with her before work, or gawk at her fancy outfits, it’s a miracle his hair stayed as clean as it did- He needed to get stronger. He can’t disappoint, he doesn’t wanna be useless, That’s the last thing he wants.
His stability comes in question when the same exhausted song and dance starts fucking with his emotional state.
The aloof stoic smart ass-ish Calem…a mess.
When his frustrations boil over, when his eyes blink back the moist sting, when he grits his teeth to keep them from going over board-
The littlest things set him off, not to rant rave or slam things but to just…crawl into a ball.
Laughter that verged sobs.
Serena always sensed it sooner than him.
That’s the good that came from studying your rival. Comes in handy when he’s your elite four head and the man you house in your bed.
Charity work.
The press called him her charity work.
(It made him so mad but oh did she laugh.)
(And he can’t stay mad when she laughs…)
Shared time and space, truth and superstition, life and death- she knows him well enough to see when his stoics fracture, to recognize how much pressure it truly takes to break him.
She knew he wasn’t sleeping well, several nights back to back- dozing off while perfectly standing. A champions work is never done but neither is the leagues.
When he came home that evening his eyes were all puffy, caught in the rain, soaked through, all lost and shell shocked.
Finally catching up to him.
Finally giving her a reason for forcefully escort him to bed where he ought to be.
He’s oh so stubborn. But now he hadn’t a choice.
She’s rebuked it.
Pushed gently onto the foot of the mattress, folded pajamas not far from reach, his limbs are too heavy to fight. He didn’t even argue.
Still in business casual clothes, his hair tied back into a now loose man pony. His bangs not quite sure what side of his face they belong to.
The most he musters verbally is a meek mumble. Limp and slumped in on himself, her fingers get lost in that shaggy raven chin length hair as his ponytail holder looped around her wrist, pulling his gaze up to her…her and the tauntingly warm towel she wielded.
Hands working down his waterlogged button up.
His hazed over drooping gaze neatly breaks her heart.
So entirely spent. for what?
“Oh sweetie…”
She hates to pity him so vocally, knows how much he hated it. It hurt his pride more than any loss. But he looked so tired.
Her forehead pressed to his, soothing over his scalp with her nails. She expected him to pull back, to scoff at her, lie and say he’s fine, beg to not be babied…but he didn’t. And that says so much more than any pleading could.
A wobbly smile spread at his pouting lips. Her voice soothed his mind.
It’s funny how the stoic trainer always fell into childish manners, boyish charm. So eager to follow in his parents footsteps he never let himself truly indulge his younger years, it creeped up on him the second he lost the will to fight it off. A subconscious desire to relive a peaceful time where no one stared at him with such high expectations…
To be pampered.
“You need to take better care of yourself.”
She tried to sound stern, tried to scold, to enforce some form of tough love…but he melts through her fingers to the littlest of care.
“I’m sorry…” his words slur lazily, groggy and sorrowful. His brows loosely knit up at her concern.
Worrying her felt bad, but her holding him here…cradling him in his time of need…fussing over him….that felt good.
He’s so lucky she loves to pamper.
She sighs “don’t apologize, let’s get you into bed.” Her thumbs caress his cheeks, he hummed to the touch. Thick gray lashes fighting to ultimately fall shut.
Steadily stripping his clothes, he shook himself off like a yamper. So far from a respectable sight.
And how nice it was to replace tight polyester with simple sweats.
(Fancy pajamas are her thing.)
She placed her lips to his forehead, a clear cherry gloss sticky on his skin. A small grumble struck at the texture, his smile turned nothing short of dopey.
She let that nurturing nature shine when her neighbor trips over his own feet, she makes herself a good caretaker, better than her own mother could ever, no matter how rare these moments are.
No power struggle, no bickering rivalry over getting the upper hand, no spiraling self doubt when he couldn’t reach a finish line set too far ahead. Just…Calem. adoring, delirious, Calem.
She knows how much trust it takes for him to be so vulnerable without pitching a fit. Hated breaking that calm unassuming persona for most people, even her sometimes.
It’s a gift in its own right.
Letting her love the way she wants.
She leaned down once more, peppering his cheeks in light kisses, not letting a single inch goes untouched. He squirms. A returning pout.
Her soft praise has his head swimming. He wrapped his arms around her waist, lazily tucking his head just below her shoulder blades, hiding from her onslaught of attacks. He shamelessly clung to her, her shirt gripped in his palms. His fingers soothing over the soft fabric.
“Sleepy...” she didn’t frame it as a question, but rather a teasing statement.
An accusation…maybe.
He mumbled something she had to guess was a “No”…which is a lie, obviously.
“Liar, and a sleepy liar at that! the worst kind…” she tsked, shaking her head as she ruffled his hair.
If he were more lucid in the moment he’d fire off an equally playful comment right back at her…
But like this he just whines with a dramatic flair. Too tired to keep a conversation.
And when he wakes…a bath.
(He even smelled sad.)
(Dreadful things love lets you look past.)
(Even your ever pathetic partner.)