A/N: They're much older in this—early twenties at the very least—and I realise this is much, much, different from what I usually write.

I don't actually know where this came from.

WARNING: This ficlet deals with dark themes, namely suicide—hence the M rating. Please, keep this in mind if you choose to read it. However, I promise that if too many people are offended, I will take this down without hesitation.

Disclaimer: I don't own Pokémon, or Paramore. Fear not, this is most definitely not a songfic.

The first thing that registered in his mind was the blood. That the tiles were stained; stained a horrible, horrible red, and the bath water mixed with it in a vile concoction that was unhealthy and unclean, in a stark contrast to the paleness of her skin and the vibrant flame of life he had come to associate with her. It was red, and she was pale—so colourless, so pallid, so lifeless and white—and the blood was all hers, and he could not understand what had happened, did not want to understand it in that desparate moment He did not know how to react, even though he knew she was dying, slipping through his fingers, falling into the void, forever beyond his reach, and he knew he should do something—anything—to save her, but he could not think of what, he could not think, did not know what to do, and the red of the blood taunted him, the same colour as roses—innumerable roses that he had gifted her with—and the bandana she had worn as a child, and now it was the colour of her life spilling out onto the tiled floor of their bathroom, in their house, her slipping away from him, slipping away from their life together.

The next thing he noticed was the razor—one of his shaving razors, a gift from her; how ironic it was that it should be instrumental to ending her life—fallen from her limp grasp, and he could imagine how when she had been too weak to hold it anymore it would have tumbled to the floor, and the sound of metal ringing on tiles would have been an awful muted clanging that, had he been able to hear it, would have made the scene only that much more horrible. Then his eyes, as if of their own accord, followed the seemingly natural path, and he saw the cuts. Great big slashes, all across her wrists, and he felt helpless, so helpless, and he was taunted again by the blood and he had to save her but he did not know how and she was slipping away.

And he screamed, the sound tearing from his throat and shaking in the silence of the bathroom, and he fell to his knees, helpless, and feeling as if she had left him already—he could tell she had gone, left him, left them, what they had; in the end, had that not been enough to keep her there? He could not understand, he did not know what to do, how to save her but he had to save her, and then, the guttural screams ripping his throat up as they tore from his lips, causing him pain that he relished because it meant that he was being punished for letting this happen to her—then, he let his gaze rake unashamedly over her, over the paleness of her skin, and he noticed the flicker in her neck. The screams stopped, and the tears began, because there was a pulse and he could still save her and she was still alive. With trembling fingers he reached out, and he could barely see, because the tears blurred his eyes and what if he had merely imagined it? What if he was having delusions, blinded by pain and heartbreak and terror, and—

It was real. It was real—there was a pulse. She was still alive—if only barely, because she might still be lost, his mind sneered at him, and he banished the thought because there was hope and he could still save her, and she was not lost yet. For, with his shaking fingers, he had reached toward her, and though the blood was still there and it was still red and it was still taunting him, he had rested his fingers on her neck and felt the flutter of her skin, and even though it was faint and barely there, the fact remained that it was there, and in that moment all that mattered was that there was hope. He blinked rapidly to clear the thick tears from his vivid green eyes, although it was to no avail, because his eyes filled again as soon as he cleared them, but they were tears of relief now, not of pain and heartbreak and absolute terror as he had seen the blood and realised that he might have lost her. With the fumbling, quaking fingers of his other hand, he dove into his pocket and pulled out his phone, and the emergency officers could almost not understand his pleas for help and if he could not they, at least, had to save her, because now he had hope and he would be damned if he would let that hope die—she would survive, because he loved her and she was his light and his everything, and even though when he ran his hand down her arm to clench her frail hand tightly within his own the blood—her blood—ran onto his skin, he did not blanch at that reminder of how close she had been to leaving him forever, because he knew that now he had resolved not to give up on her, she would not leave him—she could not—because he loved her and he needed her to survive.

The voice on the other side of the telephone was a light, a becaon of hope in that red-stained, terror-filled darkness, and he clung to it desparately, because the nameless voice promised that they would be there soon, and they would help him—help her—they would save her, and she would live, live to see another day and to live out their life together like he had always hoped they would—together. He hung up, amazed that they had been able to understand his frenetic pleas for help and for someone to help him save her, and he pushed his phone back into his pocket, not caring that seconds later it fell out, barely noticing that the blood which stained the tiles was now staining it. He interlocked their fingers, forcing himself not to panic at how she did not respond and she was lying there so lifeless, and he ran his other hand through the chocolate brown hair that he loved and it was still as soft as he remembered, except the blue eyes that were once so full of life and love and hope were closed and he could not see what emotion they held, if they held any at all. And he did not know how long he stayed like that before they came, her frail hand within his own, whispering promises to her that he would not let her leave and they had so much left to live, together, always together, and when they did come he screamed as they tried to force him to leave the room, and eventually they gave in and let him stay because she had almost left and now he was not going to leave her.

And he watched with worried eyes as they lifted her from the bath and he tried not to think about how her body was so limp and so frail and so lifeless and how she had deathly-pale skin, and he fretted as they wrapped her in white robes and carried her onto a stretcher and then into the ambulance and he had to stay with her, they had to understand he could not leave her. And even though he did not understand why she could have done this, what he could have done—was it him? What had he done?—he chose not to question it for now because it meant reliving the blood and the pain and the terror and the heartbreak and then the relief, and because they let him stay with her, and he was never going to leave her ever again, and he would stay with her and protect her and he would never come this close to losing her again. The whole way to the hospital where they promised that she would live again, he stayed with her, beside her stretcher in the back of the ambulance, and they watched him, in their white coats with their sympathetic eyes and he wanted to scream at them that he did not want their sympathy because he was not going to need it because she would live.

But when they arrived, he tugged at his chartreuse hair and it was not the flick of his younger days; that was reserved now only for her because he knew it got a reaction out of her and if she did not live he did not know what he would do—he tugged at the roots of his hair in frustration and he wanted to scream and weep and cry again because they were taking her away from him, even though they promised that they had to take her away to save her. He swallowed thickly and allowed them to, because they had promised and he trusted them, because they were trustworthy and they had saved people's lives before, so they could save her and even though he had not been able to save her they would be able to save her.

He watched them wheel her into the room, and the blood had been cleaned—that horrid, red, taunting blood that had been spilling from her and killing her—but she was still pale and lifeless and so close to death, but he would not let himself think that way because they would make it through this—together. They looked on him with concerned eyes, although there was a business-like determination to their expressions now, and they promised him that he could stay outside her room and they would call him the moment that her condition was stabilized and even though she had lost a lot of blood they promised him that she would live.

And he lay down on the couches outside her room, where inside they were breathing life into her again, and when he was able to see her she would be as he remembered, full of life and a love that was just for him and she would survive—as he lay down, he let the tears run unashamedly down his cheeks and he did not bother to wipe them away. Eventually, eventually, sleep came and with it a blessed relief because it meant that there was no more reminders of blood and heartbreak and her still, lifeless form was no longer there tormenting him.

He was woken by a hand shaking his shoulder, shaking him awake, and for a moment he could not remember anything that had happened, and then he looked around and his surroundings registered in his clouded, sleep-fogged brain and everything came rushing back, and he gripped the arm of the person who had woken him as if it were the last thing holding him to this world. For a moment their face betrayed no emotion, and he wanted to scream and weep and demand that they let him sleep because he did not want to be awake if she was gone, because if they were trying not to let him see what they felt that was what it meant—that they had broken their promise and she was no longer there and she had left him, left behind the promise of everything that they were meant to be. Then, slowly, as if enjoying having stretched the moment out, the face hovering above him broke into a smile and they nodded, and a fresh flood of tears broke loose because it meant that she had lived and she was still with him and they would continue to live out their lives together, and he was so filled with relief that he felt he would burst.

He leaped from the couch where he lay and winced a little because he was sore and stiff from lying on an uncomfortable couch for so long but it did not matter because she was there, and through the window he could see her, see her chest rise and fall and the machines monitoring her heartrate beeping steadily, assuring him that she lived and she had survived, and in that moment nothing else mattered except that he go to her side and be with her. The door swung upon on oiled hinges so easily at his lightest push, and they cleared out of the room respectfully, giving him peace to be with her, and even though she was not awake yet, she looked so much more alive and as he pulled up a chair beside her bed he began to weep anew with relief.

He took her hand within his own and he wondered at the magic that they could work in this place, for her hand no longer seemed so frail, but like the hand he remembered, soft but strong and everything that was her, and he interwove their fingers together and laid his head beside hers on the bed, carressing the side of her face and her neck lightly with his fingers, ignoring the bandages wrapped around her wrists and all that they represented because she was alive and he loved her and that was all that mattered. He whispered to her that he loved her, his voice thick with tears and cracking with overflowing emotion, and if he concentrated hard enough, he could have sworn that her fingers wrapped around his own, returning the gesture even subconciously, even though she might be awake then.

In that moment he forgot, forgot the red that had been her blood and before that his roses—oh, the irony, that it could represent both love and, at the same time, the white coldness of death—forgot that he had nearly lost her, because nothing else mattered now that he was there and she was alive and he knew she was alive because he could see it and feel it and the proof was irrefutable. And he knew, knew that he loved her and he would never leave her again, because she had almost been taken from him, and even though it had been her that had set it all in motion and he did not understand how or why, he knew that she was alive and she must love him and whatever else was thrown at them they would get through, because they had gotten through this and they would get through anything else.

Together.

"Because I've seen love die, way too many times, when it deserved to be alive; and I've seen you cry, way too many times, when you deserved to be alive." – Emergency, Paramore.

A/N: Seriously, if anyone gets offended by this, I'll take it down; just tell me in a PM or review or whatever. It should be said that in no way do I condone suicide; there are many helplines and resources available, and if your situation is that dire I urge you to contact someone who can help.

- Naranne.