Notes: Feelingshipping here (i.e. Yellow and Green), with a very, very little bit of Luckyshipping (if you squint). The sort of one-sided love angst is upped here, with the fic split into two parts. Apologies for any errors or OOC.

Disclaimer: I don't own Pokemon or any of the characters. If only...

He loves watching her draw.

She bends over her sketchbook, blonde strands that stray out of her ponytail hovering over the paper. Sometimes, if the wind picks up, her hair will begin to float and flutter, beautifully, elegantly. Seeing her seated on the grassy knoll, facing a gentle breeze, and her fantastically talented hand moving to create the most wondrous pictures, is a scene so wonderful he sometimes wonders if he is dreaming - it can't possibly be that good.

Yet it is - she is sketching, rapidly, lightly, delicately, her back to him, a small, fragile, solitary figure, as he has often dreamed. He feels tempted to go over and see what she is drawing, but he already can guess what it might be - her Pokemon, the picturesque view, or Red.

She always draws Red. Never him, always Red.

It's not that she is unable to capture the spirit of her subject - she is a gifted artist, and it doesn't matter whatever state she chooses to imagine Red in, she always gets it right - it's just the matter of who her subject is. He tells himself he shouldn't, and shan't submit to the green-eyed monster. If she loves Red, let her be - it's her choice, and she is no longer a child, and besides, who is he to be jealous? What does he mean to her, anyway? Why should he hope...

He just hopes that, for once, she might draw him instead. Once, when she had to run after a playful Chuchu, she left her sketchbook on the grass, which he picked up and returned to her - but not before leafing through it, studying every carefully penned piece of artwork. Her Pokemon seemed to be trying to leap out of the paper, Mewtwo had been drawn with a certain level of innocence; there were scenes of battles, of scenery, of cities, of trainers: many of Red, of course, and some of Blue, with her never-messed-up hair, of Gold and Silver and Crys, a few even of Ruby, Sapphire and Emerald. None of him.

He closed the sketchbook, taking care not to disturb any of the pages, and taking even more care to ensure that no trace of hurt ever crossed his face as he handed the prized possession back to its owner.

He loves watching her draw, even when he is always disappointed at her choice of subject to draw.

She finds it so hard to draw him properly. He's not easy to read - he's ever so serious and intelligent, even aloof, at times. Sometimes, she begun a sketch of him, only to abandon it soon after, worried that she can't quite get his features right, and ends up rubbing the pencil marks out until the paper is worn through. With someone, or something else, she wouldn't fret so much - while she loves sketching, and does have a measure of belief in her abilities, she knows she can't always get things right - but she doesn't want a drawing of him to be less than perfect. Never mind if he never sees it; she'll constantly be reminded of her failure, and will always be tempted to rub it out - which she does so, albeit halfway through her sketch.

Sitting on the grass, with the wind streaking past her ears, is the most comfortable, she discovers. Partly because the breeze carries with it all the fresh, unadulterated scents of nature, which she adores; partly, because a cool current always helps her to prevent a heat from rising up her neck. She knows how easily she blushes; when she knows - feels - him watching her as she sketches, her pulse begins to race and she starts to worry whether she is beginning to turn red. Please, please, no - not in front of him. It'd be so hard to explain to him - either that, or he'd think it was because of Red.

Once, it might have been because of Red; but now that she knows that he's infatuated with Blue, and vice versa, she's let go of him. There's no point of continuing to crush on him, she knows. They may laugh at her naivety, but several teary nights later, she has come to understand that she needn't, and shouldn't spend all her efforts on unrequited love. She has to move on.

She is alarmed at how quickly she's been able to move on. Perhaps she wasn't all that deeply in love with Red after all? She's not sure. All that she's sure of right now is the air ruffling her hair, which is falling all over her face; and he's watching her, from somewhere behind, and she's worried that in a moment she will be completely crimson. She wonders if he's ever looked through her sketchbook - would he be confused, or let down that she's never made a complete sketch of him?

She wishes, someday, she'll be able to draw him properly.