Watch it, Numbskull!

@aithcras

His circuit around the traphouses were done for the night. It was no secret that the heat wave in Alola had been affecting all of its inhabitants, but Team Skull took it the worst. Being in the run-down corner of Malie City served them no real favors, certainly, particularly for their health. Humidity and heat were festering together to create a wide outbreak of what Guzma only described as ‘bacteria fuckery,’ but it was elaborated by one of his educated underlings as ‘dysentery.’ Whatever the fuck that meant. Regardless, he and a couple of the healthy goons headed to the nearest pharmacy and bought out whatever medicine they could for the symptoms–causing quite the dent in the Team’s total budget. Whatever. He needed his people to be healthy, and they could pay him back later. But after going around the slums and passing out medicine to his sick members, Guzma had about enough for the night.

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     “ i SAID i’m fine, ”  gladion snapped, but the pink-haired girl staring him down merely kept her arms crossed, raising an eyebrow.

                                 “ you don’t look fucking fine, kid. ”

     and she had a point. everything felt sore—was that from sleeping on the ground for three days, or something else? his face definitely felt warm—but that could very well be the effects of this fucking heat wave  ( he had picked the worst time to leave home ).  he couldn’t deny that his head was pounding, and it was no secret that he looked like a mess. his skin was blotchy  ( sunburn or sickness? it was anyone’s guess ), his hair frizzy and sticking in… more directions than it was supposed to. and certainly, his all-black, skinny-jeans-and-sweatshirt getup were not helping matters. still, exhausted as he was, he continued to glower up at her.

a boy?

rubbinoffthepaint:

A low whistle blew out of Guzma’s lips as he hadn’t seen a clean home in over… a long time. The last clean ‘living quarters’, as he would call them, were the living areas in the Aether Foundation far behind the blockades in the back of his mind. That sheer, pristine interior–he hated it. Something that clean had to be bad for the eyes. Humans weren’t meant to be in hyper-sterile areas.

But they weren’t meant for the near-toxic waste dump that was his apartment.

Long story short, this was a hell of a nice place.

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Kukui watches the way Guzma plows through the bag of chips with a detached sort of amusement. Is he even stopping for air, he can’t help but wonder through a sip of his hot cocoa. Thankfully, his choice of drink is approved, and the comment made elicits a chuckle out of the man. “Well, I agree with ya on that. There’s just somethin’ ‘bout ‘mallows that really spruces up a cup a’ Tapu Cocoa. If I had t’ add anythin’ else… maybe some whipped cream.”

He doesn’t have that in hand, though, so just marshmallows for them.

“Real cute. She’s a good match for you, Kooks. You both have that—I’unno. Really energetic smile? Y’all like, smile all the way in pictures. Like with your teeth and, y’know, everythin’.”

He faced Kukui with a nod of approval.

“Proud o’ you, I guess. Looked like a pretty good time.”

The words stung as they left his mouth, despite their sincere honesty. A good friend would want to wish the best for the other, right? And despite years of an unbridled grudge stemmed from jealousy, he could still find himself getting past that for Kukui. It was hard to be bitter to someone so sunny and positive.

To someone who deserved this amazing life.

“Wh–What? Excuse me, kid, did you jus’ use the word ‘pops’ in a sentence, like, in a conversation? Why you soundin’ like some 1940′s Castelia mob man, or somethin’. Dude,” Guzma laughed at the end of his abrupt critique, shaking his own head.

The question itself did have some weight in it. Yeah, only very vaguely could he remember Hau’s old man… old was hardly the word. Both of his parents were hardly older than Guzma if he remembered right. But Hau’s dad…

“Eh, not as familiar as y’mom, but yeah, I seen ‘im. He was a shady lookin’ bastard. Shady and flighty.”

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“Yeah- What’s wrong with that?” He huffed, cheeks heating up a little in embarrassment. Let him say pops you monster. “I’m not a mob man though, don’t get the wrong idea!”

So Guzma thought his dad look shady, huh? For some reason, he wanted to deck Guzma in the face for that, but he didn’t. He couldn’t deny he was right, after all… Though for some reason, he couldn’t come to fully hate the man.

“Nah, if you swore on y’life that you was a mobman, you’d be shot dead. ‘Cause that promise wouldn’t be worth nothin’--soft lil’ kid that you are. Too fluffy. Too nice. Definitely not the kinda thing good kids should be doin’.”

He sat in silence after his ever-snarky commentary, mulling over memories of his own father that he could only dream of escaping. Why couldn’t his own father leave? Why couldn’t he have been that lucky?

rubbinoffthepaint:

A nasty laugh bubbled from Guzma at the melodrama of Kukui. Perhaps not intentional, but it was usually Guzma himself that dabbled in the dramatics. Kukui? Fainting? If only the little rat pack could see the regional professor pass out from… emotional… stimulation… Guzma scrunched his lips into a disappointed pout. Er, probably wasn’t the best idea to laugh at him. He needed to check himself for his old, bully-like behavior that his therapist told him not to dabble in. The fact that he did anyway was just a reflection of his true character. Didn’t matter how big he was; on the inside, he always was a bit of a weasel.

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Kukui observes quietly, feeling his nerves go haywire. He didn’t expect to make the offer, but now that it’s out in the open, it’s not like he could take it back. A part of him truly wants Guzma to accept while the rest blares in warning. In the end, he has to treat a guest at somewhere around 3 AM in the morning and he finds it not a terrible prospect. He manages to flash him a genuine grin. “Don’t worry. I may like t’ eat healthy, but I do like t’ enjoy snacks every once in awhile. No kale chip in my home.”

Home. He’s inviting Guzma into his home. Before that thought could seize him, he gestures at the door. “Well, come on in.”

But they weren’t meant for the near-toxic waste dump that was his apartment.

Long story short, this was a hell of a nice place.

A sly grin grew on his face once again, this time, not one so menacing. It was simply a secretive smile–one that knew things the other person didn’t. Guzma nodded, tapping the side of his head with his finger.

“Yeah, surprising, ain’t it? A jughead like me ‘boutta get launched into the schoolworld. But… uh, circumstance prevented that reality, y’know? But it was my bad to let circumstance take that from me–you ain’t gotta do that. There is no obstacle in y’way, kid.”

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Circumstances, huh? What kind of circumstances could the man be talking about? Now that he was talking to him, he realized how little he knew about Guzma. To be fair, they had only briefly met years ago, at least that was the encounter he could remember. Back then he didn’t have much of a reason to pry though, seeing as he was simply focused on helping his friends and becoming stronger. There was the whole Aether Foundation thing too, but he’d tried to forget that mess.

The question itself did have some weight in it. Yeah, only very vaguely could he remember Hau’s old man... old was hardly the word. Both of his parents were hardly older than Guzma if he remembered right. But Hau’s dad...

“Eh, not as familiar as y’mom, but yeah, I seen ‘im. He was a shady lookin’ bastard. Shady and flighty.”

He still didn’t like this uppity kinda attitude. What, talking all clear and precise like he went to some good school or something. Was he trying to be condescending? That would have really sent Guzma over the edge, as he already hated privacy invasion, information sharing, and general friendliness.

Then he brought up the incident of time’s past… not one of many Guzma-induced incidents, but the big one that he once tried to run away from.

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He stiffened at Guzma’s harsh words. Yes, when they had met, he had seen a similar harshness in him, although that was to be expected, considering the situation surrounding the two of them at that point was rather grave, indeed. He was… furious, then, just as Dulse was, with heightened emotions of fear and anger beyond what they would normally exude — or at least… he assumed such with Guzma. But to be frank, he knew little about the man, and with his size and with his demeanor, he was beginning to get a tad bit… frightened of him.

Dulse understood where his hesitations lay in each of their encounters, but his display of such hesitation… frightened him slightly. He was very assumptive, aggressive, though… if these ‘reporters’ were hostile in nature, he supposed he could not blame him.

The answer was, well, unlikely, as Guzma was eternally at the mercy of the Alolan law as of just last year, so it would be no surprise for them to show up and help the weird stranger spewing nonsense in his living room. Fine. If he needed to take matters into his own hands for this obtusely nosy reporter, he would. He knew how to do it cleanly and quietly.

His eyes sized up his prey in front of him, clenching and unclenching his fists as the sensitive subject wore his patience dangerously thin.

rubbinoffthepaint:

One trait that never benefit Guzma in dire times was his unchangeably loud natural volume, that, on a scientific basis, was pretty impressive, but in most social situations, led to bigger problems. It seemed now his abrasive speech was only making things worse for his company, despite the reassuring tone he did his best to genuinely display. Not that he didn’t mean it, he did, but his voice was such a megaphone of aggression, he tended to always sound mad.

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It feels like he’s in a relative free fall, suspended in a plane between wakefulness and endless darkness. Kukui isn’t sure where he lies right now, but it’s not necessarily a good feeling. His mind is like a room filled with white noise – it’s blissfully silent, except for a low, consistent hum. It’s a nice feeling, if a bit unnerving for his thoughts are never silent. Even in quietude, there still exists a sound that paves way to many dark thoughts. There’s none of that right now, and he’s unsure how to feel the long he’s stuck like this.

As he trudges on in the direction he can only assume is correct, a small tip-tappy of paws on the grass followed close behind him. He didn’t trust this sound. All the times he’s been followed back to home, back to base, to the Shady House--no way anyone was going to fuck with him tonight. Guzma sharply turned around to leer at a...

Rockruff?

It wiggled its bottom with excitement. Finally, the attention it was looking for--kind of. Guzma glared at its bright, blue eyes, disapprovingly frowning at the happy face barking back at him. He was never big on the fluffy, cute Pokémon. Especially these little runts. Vague flashes of memory sporadically poked the corners of his mind of the several Lycanroc he fought off in the alley dumpsters during his homeless days... To him, the dogs were only a competitor for food.

On instinct, Guzma bared his own teeth and barked back, though it was more of an ugly, bitter growl from the bottom of his diaphragm. No matter. It was enough to scare the little runt away. He nodded with satisfaction. Good riddance--it probably just wanted to scavenge off of him, anyhow. Rule number one to survival was to never trust anything cute and fluffy--and that’s final.

His march toward the lab was uneventful from then on, as he hissed and growled at any brave (though unfortunate) Pokémon that dared to walk by him at this hour. Guzma wasn’t in the friendly mood for Pokémon unless it was his own team of buzzing badasses. A smirk of pride grew on his lips at the thought of them until--

Movement. On his shoulder?

“You up, ugly?” he teased, his signature ugly laugh following behind, “you sure knocked the fuck out. No worries--think I see your place. Close to the beach y’self, eh? Pretty nice.”

His remarks ended with a bad harmony of sing-songiness, chuckling to himself before setting his company onto his own two feet. Guzma placed his hands on his hips with pride. Kukui was easy weight to carry--no doubt he needed to put on some weight sometime soon.

“Mmm? Oh, yeah, no problem. I’ve carried so many people back home in m’day, honestly woulda lost track if P didn’t keep up with everyone. Someone’s gotta carry everyone back to tha’ house. Only makes sense it’s the strongest guy on these shitty islands.”

Guzma snarled his teeth into a smile rather vainly to show his ostentatiousness. Like he already knew, dramatics were always more of his bag.

“Welp--guess I’ll--”

he stopped at Kukui suddenly offering him inside, nearly making his heart sink. Or, it did sink, and it sank so quickly and so heavily he could hardly keep up. Someone... else’s house...? A younger facet of his mind seemed scared to accept the offer out of fear that something... something could...

No. He didn’t need permission to go to Makani’s house anymore. Both of the deadweights at his childhood home were dead and gone to him.

With spite fueling his judgment, and still riding the high of a long-awaited reunion, Guzma nodded.

Plotted Ahead! | @rubbinoffthepaint

Guzma was somebody he remembered. Strange as he was, he was genuine and full-hearted; he remembered his birthday when it’d come by, even though that was over a month ago by now, and even bought him a plane ticket to Alola for him and Jace to have a vacation actually worth having for once in their lives.

And honestly, being in Alola for the first time was… both a treat and a curse, really. It was a beautiful region, don’t mistake him — there were actually colors to look at, and flora abound, people were so friendly for once instead of keeping to themselves and shoving you if you happened to shoulder them too close. The place was bustling and booming and lively — but he supposed it was that stark contrast between this metropolis and the hellscape he was used to that just put him on edge. Or the jetlag. He blamed the jetlag.

What sounded good? Or rather, what even was available? Guzma never recalled going to the grocery store as he promised himself the week before, so making some simple chorizo and eggs was out of the question. He lazily trudged through the clutter of his apartment, kicking empty pizza boxes and crumpled foil to the sides of his hallway. Making it to his kitchen, which was as undeniably trashed as both the rest of his house and his own appearance, Guzma let out an indifferent sigh to his environment. Sleepy eyes darted from mugs with liquid and mold to unfinished, week-old boxes of take-out.

He never got the hang of cleaning up after himself.

Opening the fridge, he almost expected to see it chock-full of crappy beer as it was in the old days, but his suspended state of consciousness came to a halt with reality. Oversleeping always disoriented him pretty badly. His grip tightened on the handle of the fridge with disappointment.

Okay, so, day-old pizza, or pre-packaged tortellini?

Cold pizza, obviously.

Before he could shove two slices in his mouth at once, unwelcome knocking came to the door, immediately irritating him. Oh, a guest? This early at--his eyes moved to his greasy oven. 2:37 PM. Yeah, way too early. Almost intent on ignoring the knocking, he was too annoyed and tired to just let whoever was there to keep knocking.

Guzma stomped over, yelling through the door before opening.

“Whaddaya want!?”

He swung the door open, still yelling before registering who his guest was, accusingly pointing at them.

“Can’t you read!? Nobody allowed on this here property, a’ight!? And you sure as hell ain’t Rosa the Tamale Lady!”

“Well o’ goddamn course travelin’ makes you smart, kid. You talk t’people, you get connections, you see pyramids n’ old boats n’ shit. Seein’ history in person–good for your brain.”

Guzma tapped the side of his head, giving Hau a knowing glance. Was anything he was saying making any sort of goddamn sense? Fuck, he hoped so.

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“Pyramids and old boats, huh?” He repeated after Guzma. “That does sound kinda interesting, yeah.”

Hau continued to listen to the man, trying his best to wipe his shocked expression off of his face quickly after hearing something he had NEVER guessed would be the case if he didn’t hear it from the guy himself. 

“Yeah, surprising, ain’t it? A jughead like me ‘boutta get launched into the schoolworld. But... uh, circumstance prevented that reality, y’know? But it was my bad to let circumstance take that from me--you ain’t gotta do that. There is no obstacle in y’way, kid.”

Every spray of the shades of yellow he splattered on the canvas were all tied together in creating an image in his mind’s eye. Across the canvas was an shape much similar to his own watch, though the shading was still a work in progress. With each stroke he embellished his own regrets and mistakes from the weight this object held. But what was he supposed to do with the gift? Lose his only collateral with his name to it? What kind of pathetic adult didn’t own anything to their own name? Nothing federally approved–the only thing left that was his was an overpriced reminder of the bitch he once served.

With each stroke, Guzma only felt more rage.

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Well he… supposed he couldn’t blame Guzma for not recognizing him. That was the point of a disguise, no? To appear as human as possible, and not recognizable as the blue-skinned, jumpsuit-clad alien he had first arrived at. No, in this present state, he had already taken on human clothes, human skintone, even a human alias. In a way, past the shock, he was almost relieved that someone who had even known him as his original self did not recognize him now. It meant that his disguise was working.

He tilted his head to the side when the other went on that he may be a reporter of some kind; he supposed that would make sense ( as far as he could remember reporters… acting like ) that his questions seemed to be of the interview nature; without the connection to one-another personally having established itself, it seemed as though he was prying.

Then he brought up the incident of time’s past... not one of many Guzma-induced incidents, but the big one that he once tried to run away from.

Hell, did he break the damn kid?

Confused eyes focused in the midst of observing the younger man having some… kind of breakdown? Guzma wasn’t exactly sure–he himself was notorious for having several in a day, but his included episodes of vindictive words and punches–his outbursts were explosive, sudden–violent. This wasn’t typical for him to witness. Was the kid just shutting down? The quick string of words in his train of thought ran in circles, chasing itself into a panick-y vortex.

Guzma was actually becoming concerned.

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Guzma’s voice sounded like it was far away now he was growing a little lightheaded. His shallow breaths made it harder and harder for him to get the oxygen needed to function, and balling himself up like that wasn’t helping much either. Neptune had caught up on this fact rather quickly, and white flippers gently pried the boy’s face away from his knees. Next up to be pried away were his hands, leaving his blubbering face open and vulnerable for both his Primarina and Guzma to see.

Guzma tapped the side of his head, giving Hau a knowing glance. Was anything he was saying making any sort of goddamn sense? Fuck, he hoped so.

One thing that Guzma had loved for years–decades–since he ran from home.

He loved, loved terrifying people. 

The raw rush of power he felt when watching people tremble under him, beg for his mercy, beg for any saving grace only for him to take it away and kick them even lower… he remembered how much he loved it. How his adrenaline would only pump faster the more a person would cry. That vulnerable, pathetic state people put themselves into when they were terrified used to make them laugh for being so easy to break. Weak–everyone was so weak to him. He’d openly point and laugh for how pathetic they were, how uncalloused their soft hearts were–he would laugh at how easy their lives were, how they never, not once, could even understand what true fear was until he lifted his fist to watch them cry for help.

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It’s such an awful, awful feeling. Kukui hates feeling so vulnerable. He’s always told himself that he needed to be strong, that he can’t crumble because there’s so many people who’s looking at him for guidance. For if the strong falter, where does that leave the young ones? He thought he had better control, he really did but here he is, crying openly at the open beach, underneath the night sky, in the presence of the one who made him cry, and the one he’s crying for. 

With how Kukui was looking, this was not in his favor.

He could just see a reflection of himself in the behavior--the distance in his eyes as his brain spiraled down, hard and fast--reaching for lost things left buried that are meant to stay in the dark, things not meant to be resurfaced under any circumstance--thoughts forbidden to be brought into light.

Guzma knew this mindset very, very well. This was the same one that tore a rift in his own brain every time he warranted himself a failure--every time the gold medal wasn’t his, that rift would open and the echoes of time’s past would bellow to him the same thing a man once did in his cursed childhood home.

Guzma, what is wrong with you!?

The phrase was as clear as a bell to his ears whenever anything went sour, and even worse, the substantial fear that followed. The terrible, awful anticipation of pain once failure and disappointment found him--a fear so violent he had to deliver the pain to himself before anything else could.

When they were children, did Makani ever know how bad... it really was?

Did he know anything was bad at all?

“C’mon kiddo, let’s use our legs. We got walkin’ t’do, and you best be doin’ some sleep. Ain’t nothing better for tears than knockin’ the fuck out.”

Maybe a little too personal.

And judging by the sudden weight on one of his arms as Kukui fell limp, perhaps. A little too, er, accurate.

This was by far nowhere near the first time someone had passed out next to, on, or around Guzma. This was something, scenario-wise, he was pretty familiar with. But... nobody could see him with an unconscious body now in his rehabilitation stage. Even worse, the unconscious body of the Alola-recognized Professor Kukui!? If was was caught then and there, he’d be in prison for the rest of his days, behind the same sad, grey walls and rusty iron bars that still held Guzma in its clutches in his nightmares. His body shuddered at the thought of returning there.

He had to think quick before anyone could possibly see.

Guzma removed his own shirt, luckily for Kukui, washed that day--and lazily wrapped it around his head to cover his recognizable face--then held him up over his shoulder to carry him like a sack of potatoes. For Guzma, his company was nowhere near heavy--this kind of delivery was just fine.

He started to the lab, to which, he still recalled was near the beach. Or something. It was... somewhere. Not in the city, but it was a ways in Iki Town, kinda close to Hala. Or something. The time being the wee hours of the night, somewhere between two and three, worked especially to his advantage: this close to the sleepy town of Iki--nobody was going to be awake.

So, now that he could meditate on what just happened... did Kukui fall asleep, or did he, like, just check the fuck out for a second. Because if it was the latter, Guzma would have to get someone to call an ambulance, and bribe them with what little money he had to convince the police force that he wasn’t directly involved or responsible.

Which would be tough. The police loved dancing their shitty dance of mockery around him.

rubbinoffthepaint:

They did share a singular nervous glance at each just beyond Guzma’s slip-up, possibly checking to see what the other thought. And if he could guess, they were looking for the same thing. A singular, doubting reach for the reassurance that the label was intended… that he meant it, and for the other… if the phrase was even remotely acceptable. The last thing he wanted was to mess up what may be his final chance–after messing up every single one before. Kukui could only have so much patience. What was the breaking point?

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He’s a coward. He’s a huge fucking coward for upping and leaving like this. Kukui knows what he’s doing will give off the wrong impression but at the moment, the only thing on his mind is to leave before he’s hurt. Leave before he could find himself caring, only for it to be rejected. He’s an adult. He should be better than this, better at controlling his emotions but maybe, he never really grew up from that shy, chubby boy when it came to Guzma.

Before he’s even halfway through the beach, a hand suddenly yanks the back of his collar, stopping him in his tracks.

He loved, loved terrifying people. 

The raw rush of power he felt when watching people tremble under him, beg for his mercy, beg for any saving grace only for him to take it away and kick them even lower... he remembered how much he loved it. How his adrenaline would only pump faster the more a person would cry. That vulnerable, pathetic state people put themselves into when they were terrified used to make them laugh for being so easy to break. Weak--everyone was so weak to him. He’d openly point and laugh for how pathetic they were, how uncalloused their soft hearts were--he would laugh at how easy their lives were, how they never, not once, could even understand what true fear was until he lifted his fist to watch them cry for help.

rubbinoffthepaint:

Heavy familiarity seemed to wave through his companion’s expression at the mention of the trial. Shame turned Guzma’s veins to ice, and for a couple moments, he could feel and hear his own heart beating low in his chest. So, that many people had seen it. Being out of the loop the two weeks afterward and untouched with outside life had eschewed his perception of how much people knew about the whole ordeal. Come to think of it, it was the biggest social news in recent Alolan history. It was likely recapped several times on all broadcasting stations–showing the same footage of him fighting against security, crying out for his team. For freedom. For revenge.

Everyone saw that, didn’t they?

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Talking about his passion helps ease him some, but not by a lot. Kukui is still waiting for the moment everything would come crashing down. He’s not usually a pessimist, but he wants to believe that he’s just being a realist. It started out like every other time he crossed paths with Guzma. Maybe it’s a lot more amicable but things are just proceeding far too smooth. He’s afraid that the moment he believes in a positive outcome, it’ll all be yanked away.

And the casual mentioning of brother– it feels like that moment he’s been struck full on by a Gigavolt Havoc. 

Guzma remained wary with the thought fresh in his mind. He generally didn’t have any patience for anybody--who’s to say people wouldn’t give him the same treatment, as unbearable as he typically was? He never gave anybody a second chance for anything, yet he was given the flexible luxury of chance all around him, whether he wanted it or not.

Or, the more weighted question, deserved it or not. Obviously, the answer was no, he didn’t deserve any of this after everything he’s done--and lucky for his own jackassery at the trial, he interrupted the judge before he could finish reading all of his charges. 

He’s done a lot to Alola and it’s people, and they’ll never know just how much. But he always will.

His wandering focus returned to Kukui once he spoke again, internally thankful he didn’t address the unintended term of endearment. Yeah. That was something he’d rather not go into full detail about. Good thing it was glossed over.

“Well no shit they gon’ tell you not withstand a fuckin’ oh-ko. Like--we ain’t Pokémon, y’know? Shit actually gon’ kill us if we ain’t careful. Like--what, what you gon’ do next? Fissure? You’d literally fall into th’ ground you goddamn sack’ o’ bricks!”

His playful name-calling brought a relaxed smile back on his face. It was in Guzma’s nature to playfully tease and bully, perhaps not the best strategy for gentle conversation, but it was natural to him. And it was hard not to be comfortable around Kukui. He never asked too many questions, and he was always good about letting things just be. Guzma nodded at the truthful remark... it was true, they hadn’t talked intimately in two decades. The last time was not months before...

Before that.

The same beach, the same distance, the same feeling--they lived out shadows of their own time’s past. One final heart-to-heart before his own departure, swearing to never return.

“Yeah... been a while, huh? We ain’t talk like this in years, ain’t we? At th’ same time, feels like no time’s passed.”

But everything changed since then. Everything about the two young boys had changed since their last heart-to-heart on the very same beach.

Before he could say anything else to his company, he suddenly felt his heart sink deep into his stomach as he saw Kukui nearly excuse himself entirely. What? He furrowed his brows, confused. Wasn’t... wasn’t this what he wanted? Did he just not get the right vibe from him... No, this is what he wanted the whole time, a genuine conversation without one injuring the other. Or, on more common terms, rejecting.

Was this some kind of petty revenge? For all the times Guzma had foolishly been an asshole? Was building up this trust, this sincerity, all for nothing?

Asshole.

Guzma stood up, and stormed after the man. Fuck no. Fuck no--Guzma knew what he damn well deserved, and that was a bullet to the head, if not worse, but he also damn well knew he hated being walked out on, and that was not going to happen on his watch. Any move that showed he was the lesser, that he wasn’t in charge always felt like a personal attack on him. Fuck what therapy said--he’s going to drag his ass back out to the sand, whether Kukui liked it or not.

His long strides beat the professor’s eventually grabbing him by the back collar of his shirt, and yanking him back. Impatience fueled Guzma’s already overflowing strength as he held the man in place. A malicious smile grew on his lips, and eyes teetering on an outburst scanned his victim.

“Where the fuck... you think you’re going?”

The words sounded both hostile... and, underneath the thick layer of violence, concerned. He’d never take these measures had he not cared for the person--whoever else it would be, but he’d be damned if he was going to let this time go. No. He was far too stubborn to let a good time, a relaxing night--fall through his fingers.

“You ain’t gonna sit back down with y’big brother? Huh? Fuck, y’got too much to do? Ain’t this what you wanted?”

Guzma’s volume only increased--unluckily for his company, his lungs were nearly unlimited with air and volume--as Guzma was already a naturally loud speaker.

“Ain’t you wanna sit down and jus’ talk!? You wanna help me!? Or you jus’ doin’ all this to make yourself feel better!? I’m not a charity case--I’m not a fucking burden--I’m not some shitty punching bag you can take care of, a’ight!? I’m a person. We--”

Finally, he felt his own volume decrease.

“We’re people. It’s you--and it’s me. It’s just us. And... and if this some petty shit you doin’, fine. I get it. I was an ass. But--I be growin’. And--I wouldn’t even be talkin’ if it was anyone else but you, man.”

Humility now coated his words, his initial anger seeping into the sand.

“I’m not as merciful as you. I’m not as patient as you. So--So I’m not letting you leave, okay? You were too patient with me--but I’m not giving you that leverage. I want you here.”

He finally let go, realizing his own aggression long after the fact.