Kukui's home stood along the eastern shore of Melemele island. From the outside, it looked like an old and worn shack in the middle of the beach, half-falling apart and scorched on all sides from the energy of pokemon attacks. The front door didn't sit quite right on its hinges, and the stairs up to the deck creaked with every step. Almost every bit of the structure had, at some point, fallen victim to Kukui's DIY repairs. The sands surrounding the shack were warm and glistening, and the ocean sparkled brightly out before it. Sycamore sat on the bottom step of the stairs, wiggling his toes in the sand as he waited patiently for Kukui to show his face. Zip rolled and tumbled along the beach, chasing the crashing waves down and being chased back up. He would jump and roll and hiss at it, flapping out his frills to try and scare it off.
Kukui's boat wasn't too far off; he could see it in the distance, drawing nearer and nearer, and Kukui himself waved at him from the helm. Sycamore gave him a lazy wave back and, with a grunt, slid his feet into his sandles and pushed himself up, brushing sand from his knees. He went down to the small dock, watching the boat putt along. Soon, Kukui was expertly bringing it in to make berth, and he tossed the mooring line to Sycamore, who deftly tied a sturdy knot at one of the posts.
"Gus!" Kukui greeted as he hopped down, "how long has it been?" He threw his arms around Sycamore's back in a strong, amicable hug, and Sycamore squeezed him back, patting his shoulder.
"I think our last fun meeting was your bachelor party," he mused, "and after that, only the one League Conference. It's good to see you, my friend!" He helped Kukui unload some of his equipment, carrying it back across the sands and up the steps of the shack. His own luggage was waiting dutifully at the top of the stairs—enough for a week or two, depending. He didn't want to be bothering Kukui forever. The man had a life and a family, and it wasn't Sycamore's intention to disrupt that.
"I keep waiting for the invitation to yours," Kukui joked back at him. He didn't keep his front door locked, something which Sycamore could have never imagined doing back in Lumiose. Instead, he merely shouldered the door open and dragged one of his boxes inside, holding it open with his foot for Sycamore to follow him. "I know that's going to be the wildest party of my lifetime, man."
"Aha," Sycamore laughed hollowly, "yes, I suppose it will. You'll be waiting a few years yet, I'm afraid." For a second, Kukui paused, his smile faltering, but then he laughed it off and came back out to help Sycamore bring his luggage in.
"Well, that's no problem," he answered, then in a poor approximation of a Kalosian accent with a grand, sweeping motion, "'you're still young, and ze world is vast!'" This drew a laugh from Sycamore, who swatted playfully at his shoulder.
"Mon dieu! I don't sound like that! Do I?"
Between the two of them, they were able to get all of Sycamore's luggage up into the small loft overhead, tucking it neatly away next to bookshelves and the wardrobe. The sleeper sofa was already made up, with a big fluffy pillow, well-loved sheets, and even a small pokemon bed for Zip.
"Sorry it's not much," Kukui apologized, and Sycamore shook his head, sitting down and stretching back comfortably onto the sofa.
"I should be the one apologizing," he replied, "all I'm going to do is mooch off your food and sleep, anyways. I promise, I won't overstay my welcome." Kukui sat down next to him, and again his smile fell. This time it didn't return so easily, and he placed a comforting hand on Sycamore's shoulder.
"You're welcome to stay as long as you need," he said firmly, "and not a second less. I know it's been a lot. Burnet and I are here for you, whatever you need."
He needed his lab back, but that was never going to happen. His mind turned back to the shitshow in Kalos, the League officials marching in, the pokeballs forcibly ripped from his hands and belt. He took a deep breath and tried to think of something else. Anything else. He had to.
"Thank you," he managed to force out, "thank you, Kukui, that means a lot."
"Do you need a minute?"
"No... no, I'm fine. I'm only tired."
Kukui didn't seem convinced, but instead of pressing the matter, he jerked his head, and Sycamore followed him reluctantly down the ladder and into the kitchen. He sat at the counter where Kukui pointed him, and then his friend bustled around, rummaging through the fridge, firing up the coffee pot, pressing buttons on the microwave. Minutes later, a snack of towering nachos sat between them. Sycamore didn't care what it was, really. He was just happy with something to occupy himself. He took a few chips fused together with gooey melted cheese and popped the whole thing into his mouth, chewing in large bites. He chased it down with watery coffee that he could only stand by making his mug mostly half-n-half, but that, too, he was happy to have. He sighed contentedly as the stress relieved from his shoulders. It was bound to keep him up all night, but it was a price he was willing to pay, for now.
"So," he said, "while I was waiting, I stopped at the berry farm up Route 2."
"Oh, yeah," Kukui replied, "the Kalosian one, right? Did it live up to your expectations?"
Sycamore laughed. "It was Kalosian in name only—well, maybe in mulch, too, but mostly in name. They're harsh on their workers there, aren't they?"
Kukui's brow raised.
"Are they?" he asked, "they always seemed pretty well-treated when I've gone."
"I don't think so." Again, he shook his head. "No, the man I spoke with said they're not even allowed to talk to customers. That seems like an overstep, doesn't it?"
"Hmm... that does sound weird," Kukui admitted, scratching his beard thoughtfully. "I'm certain they're always happy to help when I go. I don't remember ever hearing they weren't allowed to speak." Sycamore took another sip of his coffee and frowned, resting his chin on the back of his hand as he reached for another cluster of nachos.
"Strange," he mused, "I wonder why it was only him?"
"Maybe they scare all the customers away." Kukui shrugged. Guzma did seem like an intimidating fellow. Maybe he was onto something. Well... it really didn't matter, did it? He shrugged and crunched on his chips.
Burnet didn't come home that evening—her lab was on one of the neighboring islands, Akala, and her work kept her busy most days. Kukui assured Sycamore he'd have a chance to see her plenty before he returned to Kalos. So then Sycamore offered to help out downstairs in Kukui's lab. He was a researcher. He could make himself useful. But that was shot down before he could even begin to think about begging. Instead, Kukui forced him to sit on the couch and watch spy thrillers all night until they passed out.
When Sycamore next woke, it was to the sounds of feet slapping against the hardwood floor, and to the feeling of slimy drool trailing down the side of his mouth and into the scruff of his jaw. Groggily, he pushed himself up to his palms and grimaced as he wiped his mouth on his wrist, trying to make sense of the noise.
"What's going on?" he mumbled, "where's the fire?"
"Gonna be late!" Kukui called to him from the kitchen, where he was busy tying his hair back with one hand and buttering a slice of toast with the other, "hey, have you seen my shoes? Where'd my shoes go?"
"What?" Sycamore repeated before slowly lowering himself back down onto the couch.
"I'm teaching at the trainer's school today! I'm gonna be late!" Kukui shot by him, stuffing a corner of the toast into his mouth to hold it as he finished tying his hair into a tight bun at the back of his neck.
"Xerneas keep me," Sycamore said blandly, pulling the pillow to his chest, "you're an anime."
"Shut up and help me find my shoes!"
He grunted as Kukui slapped him with another large pillow, but otherwise didn't move. Suddenly Kukui was dashing back in the other direction, and from his sideways position, Sycamore watched him tromp all the way down the stairs, throw some things around, then rush right back up, jamming his usual cap over his head. Then, he ran to the couch and threw himself to the floor, fishing under it with one hand for a moment before pulling his shoes out like a magician pulling a quarter from someone's ear.
"Your toast has touched the floor," Sycamore told him, "please throw it away."
"Can't hear you!" Kukui announced cheerfully, despite him being right there, where Sycamore had a great up-close and personal view of the top of his head. He ran to the door and slipped them on his feet. "Have a good nap!"
And just like that, he was gone.
Sycamore sighed and planted his face back into the pillow. He would go back to sleep. Or just lay there all day. It was warm enough that he didn't think he'd need a blanket. But time passed by, and despite his grogginess, it quickly became clear that he was certainly and truly up. He sat upright and yawned, giving a mighty stretch to rival Kukui's incineroar, and went up to the loft to change into a fresh pair of clothes. Kalos was much cooler than Alola; he always wore long sleeves there, rolled up, but ready to go in the case of a chill. It was strange to wear the short-sleeve button-down and the cargo shorts, and for a second he worried he was dressed too much like Birch—but no, because at least Sycamore had a sense of style.
Zip was waiting for him at the kitchen counter when he came back down, and Sycamore greeted him with a pat on the head and a ripe, juicy mago berry. Then, he turned to the coffee pot. He stared at it. It stared at him. The horrid memories of the watery coffee came washing back over him, and his mouth curled in disgust. No. He needed the real thing, or as close as he could find to it around here. God, he felt like such a snob.
"I think there was a cafe back in town," he told Zip as he went to pull on his own shoes, "I bet they would give you some whipped cream if we asked nicely." Zip clicked and jumped down from the counter, scurrying to Sycamore's side. He reached down to give the helioptile a good scratch behind the frills, and off they went.
Bullshit. That's what this was. Bullshit.
The Hau'oli city mall was always packed, and today was no different. It was filled with locals and tourists alike, all going about their day: shopping, eating at the food court, walking slowly when Guzma wanted to pass them but was trapped on all sides by people going other directions, you know, the usual things. It's not like he wanted a lot. He wasn't holding up a shop for their cash. He wasn't trying to steal the goddamn spray paint. He was being good for once. He was following the rules.
He fumed in front of the craft store register, his clenched fists resting on the counter as he eyed the cashier with a sneer. She looked nervous, but she wasn't backing down.
"You need to leave," she told him, her voice just on the verge of trembling.
"Take my goddamn money," Guzma snarled in reply, brandishing his handful of bills at her.
"Get out," she repeated, "I don't want you Skull goons running around my shop. Running around the island, even! If you want to trash Alola so badly, go find somewhere else to get your supplies."
"Bitch," Guzma seethed, "I just need some fucking markers. Sell me some goddamn markers."
"I'm not going to sell you something so you can go around defacing every building in the city!" she snapped. "Now get out! I'm calling the police!"
SLAM.
She jumped a foot in the air as Guzma pounded his fist on the counter, and one of the other customers fled out the door and down the mall corridor.
"For the love of god," he growled, "I'll fuckin' tear down this entire fucking store. All I need is green."
She lunged for the phone. Guzma lunged for her arm. He caught her just before she grabbed it, and for a second they struggled. He thought maybe she would scream, but instead she grabbed a plastic ruler from behind her and whipped it around, smacking it into his face, catching one of his eyes. Guzma swore and stumbled back, clutching his hand over the hurt eye, and was about to yank Pancake's ultraball off his belt when there was a quiet cough behind him.
"Pardon me," said the foreign man from the berry fields the previous day, "I was hoping to check out?"
Guzma rounded on him.
"Are you kidding me?" he snapped, "can't you see I'm in the middle of—" But he paused as he glimpsed the outside of the shop window. The mall security was on their way. Not again. Guzma swore viciously under his breath. "This isn't over," he said, jabbing an accusatory finger towards the cashier, "I'm gonna take every fuckin' green marker I can find in here, asshole!" He stomped his way outside to meet his fate.
"Guzma," said Carl, the mall cop he was most familiar with at this point, "I've told you before. You can't come back here anymore."
"Fuck off, Carl," Guzma snapped as he stopped in front of him, crossing his arms, "what you gonna do? Put me in a room? I'm so fuckin' scared."
"I'm just going to arrest you, at this point," Carl replied tiredly, "I'm sure Nanu would be happy to have your company for a few weeks."
"Arrest me? Sure, Paul Blart." Guzma snorted. "Arrest me for what? For tryin' to buy some art shit? Really, Carl? Really? I wasn't even stealin'! Man, she wouldn't take my money!" Carl leveled him with a dry look.
"Remind me. Who's knee-deep in community service hours, right now? I seem to remember you're spending weekends scrubbing all of Po Town."
"Fuckin' hell. I need a green marker, Carl, it ain't the end of the fuckin' world." He raised his arms and face towards the ceiling to shout. "Guardians strike me down now if I ain't tryin' to draw a goddamn caterpie!"
"Guzma—"
"Whatever!" Guzma stomped past him, shoving him with his shoulder. "I'm going!"
He was still fuming when he marched outside and went to sit on the steps leading down to the street, his face set in a bitter scowl. The wind blew softly through the town, ruffling his hair. He took a deep breath.
He'd let his anger get the best of him, again.
"Guzma, what the hell is wrong with you?" he muttered to himself, giving himself a couple good smacks against the forehead before dropping his head into his hands. It was always like this, and he couldn't stop it. Even now he still wanted to just rampage. Break some shit. Puff himself up and yell. Hit someone. He couldn't think clearly, and it got him into trouble, just like always. He couldn't keep himself in line for two fucking minutes. No wonder Skull had fallen apart like a broken vase.
Light footsteps approached from behind him, but Guzma hardly looked up as Sycamore came down the stairs and gracefully plopped himself beside him.
"Allo!" Sycamore greeted him with a smile, "I hoped you didn't get too far. Here." He reached for his pocket and pulled a single green copic marker out to press towards him. Guzma raised his head a little, brow furrowing.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" he asked, almost as confused as he was angry, "what the fuck is this?"
"It's a green marker," Sycamore answered helpfully. He pushed it towards Guzma's nose. "You see, I was going in to ask for directions, but I always get flustered, going into a store and just not buying anything, so—"
"Fuck off," Guzma told him. Sycamore's smile never faltered.
"When I'm upset," he said, "I like to focus on something simple, like a cup of espresso." He wormed the marker between Guzma's face and his palm, then gently patted him on the shoulder and stood, hopping down the last few steps. "I'm going to the cafe. I'll buy you a drink." He started walking without waiting for an answer. Good. Let him go. He waited for the stranger to take a few steps out before he stat up, turning the marker this way and that to look at it. He weighed it in his hand. Then, he slipped it into his pocket.
"Hey. Wait up."
He jumped down to the sidewalk and hurried to catch up to him.
The pokemon center wasn't too far down the street. Guzma hesitated a moment before they went in. He could get away with visiting the center on Route 2, because he'd been going to it since he was a kid. People were weary of him, but as long as he minded his own business, they left him alone. Here in the city, it was like everyone had the same big 'beware' poster of his face. He got kicked out of more joints than he got let in, and he could feel the dirty looks on him the instant he stepped foot inside. But Sycamore walked with a purpose, balancing his helioptile on his shoulder like a pro, and with Guzma trailing just behind him, went straight up to the cafe counter and leaned on it as he smoothly ordered a latte with an extra espresso shot.
"What would you like?" Sycamore asked him, "no, wait, let me guess, you seem like aaaa... hmmmm... you're a cappuccino kind of person, aren't you?"
"I, uh, don't drink coffee," Guzma replied awkwardly, then shifted on his feet as he looked to the barista. "Um, just a Tapu Cocoa. ….Please." Sycamore's eyebrows shot up, but he slid his cash across the counter, then sauntered to the side to wait on their order. For one horrible, long moment, Guzma thought they were going to stay in to drink, but instead, once their drinks were in hand, Sycamore lead him back out and down the street to the marina, where he found an unoccupied bench to sit and gaze out across the waters. Guzma went instead to lean on the safety railing, test sipping his scalding cocoa every few seconds.
"So what are you working on?" Sycamore asked once they'd been settled in for a few minutes. Guzma glanced over his shoulder at him.
"What's it to you?"
Sycamore shrugged. He was stretched out wide on the bench, knees leaned out comfortable to either side, one arm resting out along the back of it. When he spoke, he would motion with his latte, holding it in a grip loose enough that Guzma was briefly concerned it would end up on the ground.
"It's nothing, I suppose," Sycamore answered earnestly, "but it seemed like it was important to you." Guzma took another test sip of his cocoa, wincing as it seared at his tongue. It was going to take forever to cool down. He set it carefully on the railing next to him and instead turned his attention to the sand far below. He could see a few little wimpod wiggling around down there.
"I sketch in my spare time," he admitted, "and a lot of bugs are green. I go through green a lot."
"You like bugs?"
The wimpod scurried about, darting here and there as they scavenged in the sand, and Guzma couldn't help but feel a smile tug at his lips at the sight of their little feet crawling along. He glanced around on the ground for a second, then finding a few stale, stray french fries, scooped some up.
"Love 'em," he said as he tossed the fries over the side. They scattered in the wind, plopping into the sand and sending the wimpod scurrying. One fry hit one of the pokemon on the head, and suddenly there was a high-pitched cheep and they scurried faster. "Ah... oops... Well, they're just cool, see? All those arms and their silly fuckin' eyes. Just somethin' 'bout the way they look."
"I have a friend who paints," Sycamore said, "but all she paints is furfrou. It astounds me how many different ways she can paint one pokemon."
"Why'd you really give me the marker?"
He looked back again to see Sycamore leaning back, his face turned pensively up to the clouds.
"Because...," he thought aloud, "because... well, you seemed to be having a bad day." He leaned his head back further, flashing another charming smile. "And everyone deserves to have some small kindness, now and again, no?"
"I was about ready to start breakin' the windows."
"A very bad day, then. But have things turned around?"
Guzma shrugged.
"I guess."
"Well then, there you are."
With a sigh, Guzma took his cocoa and came around to sit next to Sycamore, who didn't seem particularly concerned with making room for him. Up close and personal, he had no choice but to really take a good look at his face. He can't have been much older than he or Kukui. He looked tired—but he was foreign, Guzma reasoned, and he knew flights to Alola were long. Of course he would be tired. Sycamore's eyes were likewise flicking over him. He seemed preoccupied with his thoughts, though Guzma largely decided he didn't quite care why.
"So what brings you all the way to Alola?" he asked after a moment.
"Ah... no reason, I suppose." That answer was much less earnest. "Just needed time away to clear my head. And I'm visiting a friend while I'm here, so there's that. I'm sure you know him, the pokemon professor that lives outside the city?"
Oh.
Oh, no.
Guzma wasn't sure if that was just too good, or if he ought to just split then and there. Hell no was this all somehow Kukui-related. He'd made a point not to speak to Kukui since the Aether Paradise. He wondered if this was all part of some sort of elaborate set-up, some scheme his childhood friend had whipped up to get him to spill his heart out like some moron.
"Of course," he muttered to himself, though he was certain Sycamore heard him, "of course you're with Kukui. Bastard doesn't know when to quit." Bitterly, he gathered his things and gulped down a mouthful of his cocoa.
"Wait," Sycamore said, "what do you mean? Doesn't know when to quit what?"
"Tell him Guzma said to fuck off," he seethed in reply, "I don't need or want his help And you know what?" He took the green marker as he stood and threw it at Sycamore, who scrambled to catch it, only to spill his latte all down his front with a startled, pained hiss. "I don't need yours, either. So you can fuck right off, too."
"Guzma?" Sycamore called after him as he stomped off, "Guzma, what did I say?"
Clouds were starting to roll in on the horizon. As he ignored Sycamore's shouts behind him, Guzma only hoped it would rain the next day. He really, really didn't want to go into work."
