A/N: I actually wrote this a year ago, when I was still using my "NarutoKyuu" account, and after a great length of inactivity, I've felt the urge to write fanfiction again. I actually feel in need of a lot of comfort recently (which my friends have been so good in giving me) so I thought this one-shot would be a good comeback fic. So, I'll just say this is dedicated to anyone who's been feeling down and out, and just needs a lift and I'll stop rambling. Now let me crawl into my corner of unoriginality. Please alert me if it seems as if I am copying someone or if something is terribly off about the fic (and/or the rating). Thanks and enjoy.
-caelumdeity

Don't Give Up

It's been years since the fight to become champion.

It's been a month or so since he finally convinced him to come down from that damned mountain of his.

Still, he isn't surprised one rainy day when Pikachu – wearing that all too familiar hat – runs up to him on his way home and, almost desperately, pulls at his pant leg.

He isn't surprised either when Eevee eagerly jumps from his warm, dry shoulder to join Pikachu on the cold, wet sidewalk with only a small glance back to make sure that he follows.

He only takes a few seconds to make sure his coat is tight around him and to readjust his grip on his umbrella before he takes off after the two Pokémon, heedless of the people around him.

After a few seconds, minutes – hell, maybe even hours – of splashing down the grey sidewalks, he finally comes to an alley. It's not dark, and it's not too formidable – Viridian isn't known for its high crime rates, after all – yet he still finds himself hesitant to enter.

It isn't a fear of being attacked that's keeping him.

It's a fear of what he'll find.

He remembers one time, on that damned mountain of his freezing his extremities off, when he had finally asked why he secluded himself there, cut off from the world.

He didn't really get a proper response in the sense that he hadn't received an explanation, but he had been more than ready to provide physical support when he noticed honest to goodness tears falling down that ever stoic face.

Truthfully, he still doesn't know or understand what's going on in his mind, but what he does know is that it's still there, even though he does a pretty good job at hiding it.

It's this thought, the memory of his best rival, best friend, breaking down, that keeps him moving forward into the alley, regardless of what he'll find.

It's hard to see through the rain, which seems to be falling harder at every step he takes, and the dank and the gloom, but he finally makes out a faint shape, curled up against the dead end wall with the two Pokémon surrounding it. It's a little sad how even Pikachu's normally cheerful, yellow fur is dull and dim.

He shifts his concentration back from the Pokémon to the hunched over figure. It's a little inappropriate for the moment, but he can't help but think He's going to die of hypothermia one day, dressed like that in weather like this.

He doesn't say it aloud, for obvious reasons, but what does manage to escape is a soft, choked – whispered, "Red."

The figure – Red, not just any figure, he has to remind himself – doesn't respond.

Given, he probably didn't hear him over the loud pitter-patter of the rain, so all he can do is walk even closer.

Pikachu is right by his master's side, gently tugging at one of the legs of his jeans and Eevee is at his other side, nuzzling his other leg.

At a lost, he can't figure out anything else to do other than to hold his arm out stiffly to cover the hunched figure – it's Red, damn it, why – with his umbrella. So, it probably isn't doing much good because the figure was already soaked to the bone and now he's getting wet, too, but he has to do something.

"Red," he tries again and whispers. Why can't he speak any louder?

There's a small whimper from one of the Pokémon – he can't tell which, not that he's paying attention anyways – and, well, he can't really do anything else. Abandoning the now ineffective umbrella and tossing it to the side, he falls heavily on his knees and crawls closer to the curled up figure –Red, Red, RED – close enough to be able to tell that, despite his tough front, despite his stony exterior, he's shaking from the cold.

Without much more thought he makes the final move and gathers the figure – this can't be Red, but it can and is – up into his arms and hugs him tightly.

And yet, still, the only thing he can say – whisper – is, "Red."

His heart drops when he receives no immediate response. What else can he do? He wants to help, he really does, but how can he help when he doesn't know what's going on in his mind?

As the silence wears on, only broken by the increasingly harsh pitter-patter of the rain, he can't help but feel the need to say something else. Anything else. But he doesn't know what. Because, again, what can he say when he doesn't know what's going on?

Then, and he can only excuse his delayed awareness on already being wet from the rain, he finally realizes that he's not shaking from the cold – he's crying.

It's only happened that one time before, and he really doesn't know what to do at this point except to hug him even more tightly.

"Red," he tries again and this time he manages to whisper out more, "I'm here – we're here – for you." When arms finally – slowly, so slowly – come up around him to acknowledge the embrace, to accept comfort and support, he is urged to say more. "Don't give up."

His heart soars when he finally replies, verbally, especially since Red – yes, Red – has always been sparing with his words.

"Green." The arms around him pull him closer, the hands pressed against his back clench around the fabric of his coat.

It's just his name, barely a whisper, but it's enough for him; he can hear the desperate plea Help me. Stay. I need you.

And Green will probably never know or understand exactly what goes on in Red's mind, but he does know that he will always be there, and maybe that's all that Red wants – needs.

"Let's go somewhere where it isn't wet and cold, huh?"

"…Yeah."