The apartment complex was… lackluster, to say the least. A collection of three-story buildings clad in gray siding, bisected in the middle with open-air, cement steps, interspersed with pot-holed parking lots and cultivate greenspaces long gone to rot. There was a heavy air of wetness, thanks to the proximity of the ocean, though the glory of Slateport Proper was a few miles walk away.

Memo was three-courses into an all-day cooking fest, blasting Selena and putzing around his apartment in his house sandals when the song cut out and his phone dinged. Giving his hands a wipe, he picked up the device and read the text.

His heart sank a little, but he still smiled.

No, you’re in the right place, he messaged back. It’s hard out here in this gangster’s paradise! Hang tight, I’ll send an escort. She’s red and white and crazy, you can’t miss her.

“That’s your cue, crazy pants,” Memo yelled across the little island to the red-and-white form slumbering on the couch. Up like a bolt of lightning, Memo had to race Oona to the door; he flung it open, and the Galarian Zigzagoon tore out into wild of the Slateport apartment complex.

Oona knew what Alexei Ivanov smelled like because of his scent hanging on Memo’s clothes, so it was easy enough to find him. She zoomed down the stairs and ripped around the corner fast enough to make skid marks on the concrete sidewalk; with her teal tongue lolling, she made straight for Alexei, crashing through a barricade of trashcans on her way, sending the metal lids flying and scattering refuse across the sidewalk.

Once she got to him, Oona began to run mad circles around his feet, charged by that endless Galarian Zigzagoon energy that sent them zigging and zagging for eons. Occasionally, she would literally bounce off the wall, ricocheting back down to the sidewalk, gently herding Alexei in the direction he was meant to go.

Oona was more hurricane than escort but she did eventually get Alexei Ivanov to the right building and up the stairs. She didn't stop moving the entire time, sprinting up to the landing and back down again, even once running along the handrailing to the steps.

Meanwhile, memo was putting the finishing touches on his grand offering. He'd made three courses of food-- a spiced chicken salad with harissa carrots, chorizo paella (since Alexei couldn't have fish), and pork burritos smothered in salsa with fresh-smashed guac. He'd bought wine, and also bottled water, since he wouldn't drink anything out of the tap himself, and a homemade pitcher of strawberry-mint-guava lemonade.

He knew of Oona's impending arrival by the noise of her approach-- a crescendo of steps down the hallway, and away, and then back again. The shorter the time it took for her footsteps to be right outside his door, the closer he knew they were coming; as such, he managed to pull open the door at precisely the correct time.

“Hello there, handsome stranger,” he said, leaning faux-seductively against the doorframe, arms crossed over his GRILL DADDY apron. “Welcome to my humble abode--oh, look out,” he reached out and gently pushed Alexei to the side as Oona, having made a lap of the building, came crashing through the doorframe. She slide on the tile flooring, headfirst into a broken cabinet door (this explaining the breaking of said door) then skittered right, trouncing towards the couch, which she hit hard enough to make it rock backwards. It fell down with a thump, and Oona, job complete, tossed herself on her back, tongue lolling, panting like she’d just run a marathon. Because she sort of had.

“C’mon in,” Memo said, once the chaos had passed, and he ushered Alexei out of the questionably carpeted hallway and into his apartment proper.

It wasn’t dirty, by any sense of the word, though the outside of the complex did seem coated in a fine layer of grime. It was just.. Spartan. Simple white subway tiles gleamed on half of the room, meeting up with gray carpet that Memo kept immaculately vacuumed. There was a short, two-section long island with cheap lavender formica countertops; with the lack of room for a true dining table it was where Memo ate most of his meals. An L-shaped line of matching lavender cabinets took up the entire entryway wall, with a small, white fridge, and a dinged-up old gas stove/oven combo, above which hung a microwave. The walls were off-white. By far the most expensive thing was a tall shoe rack behind the front door that housed Memo's impressive collection of kicks.

The living room consisted of a singular sofa on one wall, and a TV stand with a small flatscreen on the other. Down a short hallway to the left, there was a bathroom, with a toilet, sink, and shower, and a small bedroom just big enough for a twin bed with no frame, just a box spring, resting on a carpeted floor.

It was cheap, poorly lit, but well maintained. And, currently, it smelled amazing, like spices and tomato and cooking meat. The flamboyant piano tones of Selena’s Si Una Vez filtered quietly through the air.

Memo stood back, hands on his hips, and looked at his hard work and his life’s accomplishment of living on his own, such as it was.

He was proud of it. Such as it was.

“Who, Oona?” Memo asked, artfully spinning two wineglasses down from a cabinet and placing them on the island. “Naw, no sugar. She’s always like that. Most Galarian Zigzagoon’s are-- they’re creatures of pure chaos.”

The creature in question gave a loud snore, signaling she had fallen asleep. Her foot jerked in a dream kick. It was a chaotic sleep.

He didn’t blame Alexei Ivanov for wanting to wear sunglasses and appear incognito in this part of town. Sometimes, Memo forgot that Alexei was, like, actually somebody in Hoenn, and when he remembered, he felt a little thrill of pride. He’d keep that bit to himself, for the time being.

“We are, generally, a shoes off household,” Memo said, turning back to the stove where the paella was kept on ‘warm’. “But we’re also a ‘heat is expensive’ household, so I keep guest slippers if your toes get cold.”

It was Hoenn, so he rarely had to use the heat; but the weather’d been weird lately. Maybe something to do with those funky distortions…

...Memo suddenly remembered his recently busted nose and came up with more excuses to look away from Alexei.

“Yes, I made dinner, and if I dare say so, I outdid myself.” He pointed with a spoon to each dish cluttering up the island as he elaborated: “Baby spinach, Tunisian chicken, Harissa carrots-- they’re kinda spicy, so I’d try ‘em first-- uhh, pickled shallot, almonds, parmesan. Oh!” He pulled the lid off the paella pot, dabbing the dripping condensate on an oven mitt. “I made paella-- it’s not traditional because, you know, no seafood, but it’s still pretty good. And there’s burritos in the oven, they’re not quite done yet.”

Far be it for anyone to say he was not an excellent host.

“Can I get you something to drink?”

Memo’s smile beamed of pride when Alexei headed straight for you food. “Yes, of course. To quote Sleeping Beauty, be our guest.” He pulled an ice cube tray shaped like flip-flops out of the freezer and distributed a cube into each wine glass. “I made it for you, anyhow. Well, for us. I mean.” He hid the coloring of his cheeks (and the swelling of his nose) by turning away to pour some of the rose colored lemonade into each glass.

He only had wine glasses. He’d thrifted a set from the Goodwill when he’d first got his apartment and just never felt the need to get normal ones.

He also let the comment about getting drunk early slide because, while logic would dictate that he could have meant ‘not getting drunk this early in the day’, Memo’s immediate thought went to there would be time for doing that later in the night and honestly that was a lot of expectation for his poor little brain to unpack.

“Help yourself,” Memo said again, spinning around the island to open a drawer full of mis-matched cutlery. He handed Alexei a spoon, fork, and knife. “There’s plates in the cabinet above the toaster.”

Memo blinked at the correction, amazed his years of watching Disney movies with his sisters had failed him so suddenly. Almost as though the narrator behind his every move and function was not omniscient and definitely didn’t realize they were writing the wrong thing.

He was a bit sheepish to eat in front of his guest and waited until Alexei had grabbed a serving before helping himself. The burritos came out of the oven shortly after, bubbling with a bastardization of queso Memo’d whipped up from canned cheese and fresh veggies. His abuelita would either whack him in the head with a spoon or applaud his ingenuity.

Not that he’d ever know.



The lemonade pitcher was mostly ice now and the wine had a decent dent in it-- which had mostly been Alexei because Memo’d slammed his first glass to take the edge off his nerves and then been a little more conservative with his second. As it was, he wasn’t inebriated, but his cheeks were warm and the dull throb of his still healing nose had faded, thankfully.

Alexei caught him off guard when he spoke.

“You mean you didn’t come just for my charm and my food?” he teased, flipping his locs over his shoulder with mock sass.

At some point Memo had taken his wine glass (still full!) and moved into the living room. Oona had vacated her spot on the couch and rolled onto the ground, where she lay on her back on the carpet. Memo scrubbed a stockinged foot over her stomach and she wagged her tail in bliss.

Memo wouldn’t lie, Alexei could’ve asked him to jump off a building into a pool of sharks and lava with him and he’d have said yes.

That being said, he did have the grace to have a serious expression when Alexei mentioned danger. His first instinct was to warn the other man away from… whatever it is. Alex had a lot of things going on, what with the bleeding, and the dying, and the like; he really didn’t need to go sticking his nose in danger.

Memo swallowed the inclination under a sip of wine; it wasn’t his place to tell his part-- er, friend? That he kissed, that one time? Arceus hotsauce christmascake, this was hard-- to tell his friend what he should and shouldn’t-- and, thereby, could and couldn’t-- be doing.

His fingers did tense on the stem of the glass, however.

His face split into a happy grin when Alexei asked if he wanted to come along.

“You had me at hello,” he said, winking. “Or, in your case, sheep pictures on your phone. I’m in.”

No where are we going. No what are we doing. No question as to what the possible danger could be.

Just unwavering, complete, and total support.

It was funny to see the play of expressions that traveled over Alexei’s face at all times-- like troubadours in a drama troupe. He was utterly incapable of keeping his emotions a secret, and Memo found that endearing to the highest degree.

“Just like that,” he said, leaning back against the armrest of his couch, legs splayed out long across the floor in front of him, one calf resting on Oona’s steadily rising and falling belly.

“No bubble suit,” Memo confirmed after a snort of laughter. “You’re an adult and I trust you to judge what is an appropriate amount of risk to put yourself in.” Even as he said it, his stomach was twisting in knots. If he’d had his druthers, Alex would be in a bubble suit-- but it was that kind of thinking that strangulated relationships. So, sure, the thought of his boyf-- his-- the-- Alexei-- traipsing off into danger made him nervous as all hell, but it wasn’t right to forbid him the adventure.

“Besides,” he adds, “I’ll be there to protect you.” It’s said with just a little bit of pompous sass, and the smile it’s coupled with is quick and full of cheek.