✧

“That’s– that’s good, at least. Wouldn’t want you to have to fork over a bunch of money to keep your style up.” Though, he’ll likely need to do so to get a spare for his no-longer spares, right? Whatever, though– he should focus on now. Passing money across to Mo so he can afford to buy another pair of glasses isn’t what should be on his mind.

“The Piplup line has a tendency to be a little… regal in its style, especially when approaching evolution from Prinplup to Empoleon. I doubt you’ll have too much trouble with it, though– especially with my help.” It’s not meant to sound at all pompous– but Axel is meant to be the leading expert on Pokemon behaviours. “Prideful, yes. I’m sure your position as Elite Four could be fun for a Pokemon like Empoleon. I’ll make sure to set one apart and bring them to you as soon as I possibly can.”

What kind of disposition are they trying to train into the Piplup? Modest confidence? Or something more…? Maybe what Harkul can do for him…

“Let’s do our best. Your style of training will help the Piplup greatly, I’m sure.” And in turn… the Empoleon will help you back.

Molayne smiles to himself as Axel talks. It’s oddly comforting to see his little brother losing himself in his topic of interest, his eyes bright as he explains to him what he needs to know.

When Axel mentions the League, he raises his eyebrows a little. Imagine the look on the challengers’ faces when he brings it out in battle! He’ll have to reserve it for more experienced trainers, for sure (it’s easy enough for him to switch out team members depending on a challenger’s Trainer Card or passport when they scan into the League)...

He blinks, bringing his thoughts back in. Axel’s talking, and he tries to listen, but his head’s fuzzy, and he’s so tired. Vaguely, he remembers something about how sleeping on a concussion is bad for you, but he doesn’t care. Hell, he might not even have one. Maybe sleep will do him good.

“I’ll do my best with it,” he replies. While he didn’t hear all the details of what Axel said, he got the gist of it, and he’s trying not to let on how out of it he’s starting to feel. He stretches, ignoring how his joints and bruises protest, and gives Axel an exhausted smile. “By the way, Ax, I know I’m probably not s’posed to, but...”

Are you sure I can’t do more? I want to make sure you’re okay. Axel nods at Molayne, leaning himself into the hug a little more. It’s comforting, he’s with his big brother, there’s nothing to worry about. He’ll recover just fine, nothing to worry about– it might take a few days or a few months, or– or something! But he can’t panic about this! Molayne will be fine.

Nothing of his fears relating to Molayne potentially never recovering comes out, but he hugs Molayne a little tighter, almost to the point his fingers are pressing a little hard into his back. Axel’s not really noticed that, though– all he knows is that he can feel his brother in his arms, and that’s what he wants to know will stay for a long time. If all goes well, maybe it’ll last longer than he does.

He watches Mo aim for his missing glasses, and a small giggle comes from his mouth– it relieves a little tension he’s feeling, but not all of it. “Love you too, big idiot.” Axel pats Mo’s shoulder, before motioning at his face. “You got a spare pair or anything? I imagine the style you like to wear is… difficult to come by.”

Oh! Mo’s interested in a Pokemon… that feels pretty good, he guesses? And he’s asking about Empoleon, which is the one he’s legally allowed to give out to anyone he sees fit. “Empoleon? Evolves from Piplup. Little water penguin, that one. Friendly as all hell.”

But maybe not if I train it. It might end up stubborn as Callum.

“You wanna act like joint-custody? You look after him most of the time, but I’ll take him for a bit and train him up, so he feels comfortable around us both?” Specifically you. I want to make sure it isn’t stubborn to your commands.

He squeezes him back, then lets go. Even though Axel’s fingers were sinking into a sore spot on his back, he doesn’t mind all that much.

“Yeah, I’ve got a spare pair at home,” he replies, with a slightly-sly smile. He can feel that Axel’s a little nervous, and as much as he appreciates his brother caring about him, he doesn’t want him to get all wound up over it. “There’s only one place I can get those stupid frames, and considering how clumsy I am, I always make sure I’ve got at least one.”

As Axel talks, he listens intently, making sure he doesn’t miss anything despite the drifting of his thoughts. I’ve never really raised a Pokemon that doesn’t start as Steel-type before. This could be interesting -- a step out of my comfort zone, or something like that.

     At what point in Guzma’s life did his anger start inspiring fear in others? There were times where his rage burned so hot that even Plumeria’s calm expression was shifting into something nervous as he went through it. Often, after anger, shame comes swinging after strong as a damn punch to the gut.

            The shame made his face hot && his throat dry, as he sorted through what felt like every word he had ever learned, && found none of them sounded right together. What could he say that’d even start to fix this? Guzma had burned every bridge && then kicked the ashes. Sure, he was dealt a bad hand in life, but that didn’t justify dragging Mo through the mud when he was doing his best, too. The man gets one of the biggest honors on Alola, && one of his best friends bounce && refuse to even look him in the face the following years.

          ❝ It wasn’t right. What I did. What happened, ‘tween us. The three of us. God, Molayne, for years, I been a fuckin’ idiot! You know, for years I couldn’t even hear y’alls names ‘cause I was so bitter. ❞ Guzma looked at his hands like they’d give him some answer, but all he saw were injuries past healing wrong. ❝ … Bein’ pissed’s easier than the alternative. ❞  Anger was something he knew how to deal with, fundamental now to who he is. In moments seldom, he wondered if it would always be. ❝ … I ain’t askin’ you to forgive me, Molayne. Ain’t done shit to earn that, but I’m… ❞

          Guzma’s hands unfurl from fists, his palms now with small indents from the pressure of his nails. His posture slumps. ❝ I’m sorry. I did wrong by you. An’ I’m sorry.  ❞

“I...”

Now there’s a familiar set of emotions. All too often he’d gone through the same emotional rise-and-fall he’s seeing now, though the anger was a different flavour to Guzma’s -- teeth-clenching frustration rather than white-hot fury.

Why can’t you just fucking talk to him, like a normal civilised human being? Is he too far up his own ass to talk to you, too? Who the hell does he think he is, pretending he’s better than you when you’re the one who managed to do something actually goddamn respectable with your life?

Either way, it always fizzles out as quickly as it came, leaving him hollow and miserable, and he can see it’s the same with Guzma.

Despite the hundreds of scripts in his head, the imaginings and re-imaginings and re-re-imaginings of this he’s played out in his mind, he’s at a loss for words for a long moment. It takes him a while of thinking, of staring out into the skyline and hoping the words will come to him, for him to work out what to say.

“I-- What I did wasn’t right, either,” he admits, swallowing hard. “I was-- stupid, and angry, and prideful, and... upset that you couldn’t be as happy as I was with the whole... the whole situation. I didn’t even make the effort to understand where you were coming from, I just...”

He can feel his voice rising in his chest, a testament to long-pent-up frustration, and pauses for a moment, letting the anger recede like a wave. “I screwed up too, y’know? And just because it was in a different way to you, doesn’t make it any less horrible and... and shitty of me to do.”

         Even with the two of them desperately pretending to be casual, the weight of the years wrought with such a horrible venom between the two ( or more properly, from a bitter Guzma refusing even the chance of an olive branch offering from his more accomplished counterpart ) sat there like a bag of sand. Guzma could feel the back of his neck get a little hot from an anxiety uncommon to him, but given it remained isolated there he refused to vocalize it.

            Molayne brought to his absence to the forefront, a while, haven’t seen you. Somewhere deep in him, it twisted his guts to a fine bow for a present that was resolutely unwanted. What Guzma had done was wrong, Molayne worked hard, it wasn’t his fault how the cards played out &&―

          ❝ Been uh. Busy. Workin’ under Hala now, been doin’ my fair share of work ‘round Mele’mele. How uh… how’s life? ❞ God. This was abysmal. He felt his throat get tighter with the strain of everything on his mind, he cut his question off. ❝ God, fuck it, Molayne. I thought that if I … damn, nah. Ain’t gonna explain it. Can’t just waltz back in && expect― ❞ He can’t seem to put his thoughts to word. He wasn’t built for explaining, he was built for action. He clenched his fists beside him tight, an attempt to get his poise back.

“Mele’mele?” Mo never would’ve guessed his old friend would wind up in the place their journey started. It makes sense, though, that they’ve almost come full circle with this. “I’m, uh, I’m glad that’s working out alright for you. I’ve -- I’ve been, um...”

Shit. Shit shit shit. He senses the anger and frustration growing in Guzma’s posture, and it sends panic flickering through him.

“No, it’s -- it’s fine.” It comes out a little more forcefully than he’d intended it to. “You can talk about it, Guzma.” He almost leaves it at just the first syllable, but the old nickname dries up and dies on his tongue. “I’d much rather you did that than you just -- not talking about it, and leaving it unsaid, and acting like everything's fine when it isn't.” God knows they’ve had enough of that between the two of them to last a lifetime. “I don’t care if it hurts, or upsets me, or whatever, just...”

Until, of course, he makes the discovery that his entire desk setup is now suspended four feet in the air by a system of ropes and pulleys.

Burnet recalls when she first found out that she was pregnant – she had told everyone from her colleagues back in Unova, to the Research Lab staff, her own parents… she was sure she had even sent out a group text when they had gotten past the first trimester! So, surely Molyane must have found out? The woman – who could blame this easily on ‘baby brain’ – moves her arm upwards, and places her hand behind her head. “Y’mean Kukui didn’t tell you?” She was almost certain that Kukui would have! He was, after all, his best friend!

                    “Either way, yes! We’re having a baby!”

Oh my god. Oh my god.

How could he have forgotten this? How could he have let something so important slip through the cracks? Exactly how fried has his brain been recently? He knows what Kukui’s like, but he doubts that he’d forget to tell him something as important as this.

“Either that, or it just...” He makes a vague flapping gesture by his head. Whoosh. “God, I’m so sorry, I have no idea how I forgot, I just-- you know how it is, with work and stress and stuff...”

Despite how bad he feels about it, he knows now’s hardly the time for him to mope -- for about half a dozen different reasons, front and centre of these being that his best friends are having a BABY, what the HELL oh my GOD.