five months ago, aaron left the faust-connors estate on a sabbatical. no forewarning — just a bedroom full of dirty laundry, molded-over cereal bowls, and a crumpled up letter discarded on his bed. father winter had read his lovingly crafted plea for a girlfriend, presumably, but the response aaron got back was resoundingly broad and did not accompany a girl cradling an air fryer like a bouquet of flowers.
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he could've turned to greyson for relationship advice in his darkest hour, maybe, but aaron was of the mind that his roommate got absolutely zero bitches, so he turned to the internet instead. after a cursory search, he had puzzled out the problem — him.
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girls want pokemon trainers. girls want guys who hit the gym semi-regularly. with his pikachu tucked under one arm like a basketball (as a football was no longer an apt comparison) and a duffle bag slung over the other, he walked out the door and didn't come back. [break][break]
until now, of course.
[break][break]
like greyson's prodigal son (or a demonic entity he accidentally summoned into his life via ouija board), aaron returns. the doorknob jiggles, then a knock. then another. 
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"hellooo."
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then comes the gentle thunk of aaron's head resting against the door, ear pressed against the wood to listen for signs of life. 
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"i lost my key."
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more knocks.
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his mom had covered rent, right? 
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"greyson?"
[break][break]

+ Greyson Connors                  

aaron waits near the door, ready to beat the hell out of whatever intruder or ghost is fucking around in his room. his grip on his controller turns white-knuckled at the sound of his doorknob wobbling. he sucks in a breath and cocks his arm back, heart pounding in his chest as the door opens and hands reach out —
[break][break]
— the shriek that follows is drowned out by a scream of his own. the controller slips from his sweaty hand and clatters uselessly, inaccessibly across the floor, unpausing the game in its tumble. at the same time, the intruder makes a loud, unghostly thud as they unceremoniously fall to the floor. the swell of imminent danger music from the television makes his panic tenfold as he weighs whether he should book it for the front door or kick the ever-loving shit out of whoever is sprawled at his feet.
[break][break]
then, they say his name, voice pleasant as a breeze in summer. it's mint, they say. it's hard to forget a guy named after a flavor of toothpaste. oh, and he has popcorn. 
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"what the fuck," he spits, not realizing he's been saying it under his breath like a fevered prayer from the moment his own screaming stopped. "what the fuck. mint? the guy from the fucking volcano?"
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aaron stumbles away, feeling the wall for a light switch. he flips it on, squints from the sudden brightness that floods the room, and sets burning eyes on the guy sitting on his floor. "no fucking way, dude," he says, voice bordering something between anger and sheer incredulousness. "i was about to beat the shit out of you — why the fuck were you creeping around in my room? and — and — how the fuck were you in my room in the first place?"
[break][break]

+ mint frost  hehe

jeez, greyson is like a katamari character, sucking up whoever the hell he comes across into his friendship sphere. bumping into each other a bunch of times makes it sound like they've never properly hung out before. noah's attempt to bump into him again looks to be coming up short, but at least he gets to spend some time with the cooler, funnier, smarter, and, most importantly, sexier roommate at [ADDRESS REDACTED].
[break][break]
the conversation is punctuated with an avalanche of cardboard boxes spilling out of the freezer. aaron kneels down and begins collecting his fallen treasures into his arms with the delicate embrace of a father cradling his newborn child. somewhere above him, noah chimes in and aaron snaps his head up, eyes bright. "bro, you know elekid cuisines?!" a box slides off his arm and lands on the tile with a sad thunk. "they're mine — they're cheap as hell so i've been stocking up." 
[break][break]
he spreads his hoard out on the kitchen table and stands there, motioning broadly with one arm. he looks like he's showing noah some psa graded pokemon cards, but instead it's just a grand variety of elekid cuisine flavors — including some questionable themed meals for holidays that have already come and gone earlier this year.
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"ever have the goldeen sticks one?" he points to the box in question, its packaging nostalgically outdated. "i swore it was discontinued for the longest time but i found a couple a few weeks ago." 
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+ noah faber        

"i'm not terrified of ghosts, man," he protests quietly as they climb the stairs. each time the stairs creek below his obviously counterfeit sneakers, his face contorts. jaw clenched. brow furrowed. "i just don't want to be jumped by some crazy alive person that's up here." aaron and greyson look like a couple of string beans — not exactly intimidating to a squatter defending their mansion. 
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upstairs looks like much of the same. a large, dusty hallway branching into different rooms like veins. the nearest door is slightly ajar and the room beyond is shrouded in darkness. 
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the overhead light inside the room flicks on briefly. then off. skittering footsteps. aaron pales, at a loss for stupid quips in the face of real danger. without taking his eyes off the door, he punches lightly in the direction of greyson's arm in a bid to grab his attention.
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"yo..." you seeing this shit?
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+ you're not the one 4 Greyson Connors

[attr="class","pokeclass"]

the two of them are like fire and oil. there's something about an empty-sounding yeah that really gets him going (not in a sexy way) and, in turn, his accusation draws emotion back into her voice. "it might as well have been our butts with the way you were touching me!" most people would have realized by this point that this is a stupid, career-ruining hill to die on, but aaron is a special kind of hardheaded. 
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but stormy must have been some kind of idiot tamer with the way her next question stops him short, his argument dying in his throat with a quiet, ugly wheeze of air. why am i still standing here? he looks down at the card reader in his hand. "i ... dunno." in truth, he's been lingering to get the last word in. 
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the impending bad review dawns on him, settles like a rock in his stomach. he is fucked once he leaves her property — and not in the good way. would she call corporate? would she call the cops? Greyson Connors will probably pop a blood vessel if his coworkers show up at the apartment, searching for a rogue delivery boy that was a meanie to an elite four member.
[break][break]
"i guess i should, uh, go."
[break][break]

+ Stormy Silph

aaron simply can't catch a break. one of the many reasons why he's chronically single manifests itself in stormy's voice, a deluge of verbal diarrhea as she shits all over him. a faker? a dick? when did this become a comedy central roast? 
[break][break]
"i'm being a dick?" aaron lets go of the coffee cup once she's got a hold on it without having a hold on him along with it. "i'm being a dick?" he repeats, placing a card-reader-holding hand on his chest. "i'm literally buying your breakfast for you!"
[break][break]
"you—" he points the card reader at her, now, face still red, "you know what, you should be buying me breakfast the way you were feeling me up like that. there's no way you didn't know my hand was there." 
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+ Stormy Silph

"because," he reiterates. "you've been a great customer." aaron never finished high school, but even he could read between the lines in situations like this — and he can't even read. he's hitting on her vaguely enough to give him plausible deniability. plus, she's taking a long ass time to look through her purse and he has other places to be. "you tip pretty good and sh—and stuff, so i'm returning the favor."
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he's returning the coffee, too, with difficulty. her hand rests over his, fingers curling over the back of his as she traps him in an overwhelming amount of man-woman contact.
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"i—" aaron feels flustered and frustrated bundled in one confusing emotion. as he looks from the cup to stormy, he sees his own feelings reflected in her face, hears it in her voice. "i-i can't, you—"
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stormy seems unaware that she's got his hand as collateral, gorilla-gripping the coffee and him as she demands he lets go. an unexpected yank has him taking one step towards her. [break][break]
"i'm fucking trying to," aaron hisses, his face hot now. he flexes his fingers experimentally, brushing them against her wrist. physical proof that he isn't even holding her drink anymore, despite her accusations that he's a big, ol' incompetent idiot who doesn't know how to hand someone their coffee. "look down, dude, you're holding onto me."
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he risks a look down himself, like someone peering off the edge of a high rise building, and gets an eyeful of their illicit hand-holding. his stomach does a flip. 
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+ Stormy Silph

cussing? at him? on this christian pokemon-raising internet forum?
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her biting response feels like a verbal slap to the face. a spark of indignation ignites in his belly, rising like smoke up his throat. a "fuck's that supposed to mean?" of his own finds its way against his teeth but, without another word, she snuffs out a flame and returns to awkward little embers in front of him.
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maybe, he concludes as his own spark goes out, she's one of those don't talk to me until i've had my coffee people.
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"it means," aaron says after drawing a steadying, customer service breath, holding the cup out to her. "the meal's free."
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he pulls back, employing the same fucked up fake out that she had performed on him a minute ago. only — she reaches out with enough conviction to brush her fingers against his as he's moving the coffee away. her skin feels soft, warm, rich. it feels like something someone who uses 3-in-1 shampoo shouldn't be allowed to touch, but here he is. 
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aaron pushes back against her hand. his face feels warm, and he has an inkling that he might start turning red soon if she doesn't take the cup from him.
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"y-you, uh, you got it?" he really doesn't want this liquid chill pill to splatter across her walkway due to a clumsy trade-off.
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+ Stormy Silph

aaron stands impotently as stormy rifles through her purse for any sign of hoennian currency. he musters up a semblance of usefulness by offering to hold her cup, imagining that this small show chivalry will linger in her mind. then she'll ask him out because he's so cool. and then, they'll get married. no prenup. 
[break][break]
stormy holds the cup out for him. he reaches for it, only for her to pull her hand back before he could grasp it. he glances up at her, brow quirked, and feels a cup bump against his fingertips as she gives it to him for real this time. fucked up, he thinks, taking the coffee into his possession. under other circumstances, he probably would've given the thought a life beyond the tip of his tongue. [break][break]
alas, he's a salaried man now.
[break][break]
"it's cool," aaron says, cavalier about her missing money and the unpaid food tucked beneath her arm. he sets his jaw, eyes roving between unseen interests somewhere in the shrubs. finally: "hey, listen, you've been a great customer so i've got you covered this time."
[break][break]
he smiles boyishly and holds her coffee out for her — then pulls it back out of reach. "here," he says, softer, and actually offers it to her this time. 
[break][break]

+ Stormy Silph

not to announce his parasocial relationship to the world or anything, but something really is different about stormy this time. she seems kind of like a real celebrity instead of a — well, someone like him. she's dressed nicely and giving him the vibes that he is way too far beneath her to be considered a cool guy and not just a vehicle to get food on her table. he fumbles with her food under his self-made pressure, awkwardly pressing it into her waiting hands. [break][break]
a delibird comes and goes, taking his delivery boy thunder with it. he's left holding a cd with no idea of the whats or whys behind this random gift. he shoves it into the ill-fitting space in one of his jacket pockets and fishes out a card reader from another.
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"you want me to hold that for you while you look?" he tries, brows raised, as she chomps down on the lip of her coffee cup and starts digging around in her pockets. seems like a recipe for spilling coffee down her trillion-dollar outfit and sending her spiraling back into her hermit hole for another ten deliveries — but what does he know? he's just the uberfeets guy. 
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+ Stormy Silph