Nanu's apartment was always coated in a layer of meowth fur. It was hard to find a place to sit that hadn't yet been shed in, and no matter how hard Guzma tried he always left looking like he'd grabbed ten meowth and rubbed them all over his clothes. It was something that had bothered him the first few times he came to stay the night, but now, as he entered ahead of Nanu and flipped on the lights, the thought was almost comforting.
The home was pretty small, overall. He was a man of simple means and simpler needs, and besides a small kitchen and a futon sofa in front of his old TV, the majority of the house was dominated by cardboard boxes, cat trees, and pokemon beds. The instant the two opened the front door, every meowth inside woke and approached them, yowling for food. Nanu pushed by Guzma to grab a huge bag of pokemon kibble from the closet, and dutifully, he scooped serving after serving into a long line of bowls on the floor. Guzma, meanwhile, headed straight towards an inflatable mattress on the far side of the room to drop his things off, then helped himself to a glass of water before flopping down onto it. Outside, trees creaked and moaned in the howling wind and rain, and Guzma idly found himself wondering how Gus was doing.
"Damn storm's going to bring the power lines down, at this rate," Nanu grumbled as he knelt to pet his cats. "Praise the guardians, the skies should clear up by morning."
"Thanks for pickin' me up today," Guzma told him around sips, and the old cop shot him a glance as he pushed himself to his feet and dusted off his pant legs. He hardly ever smiled, but for Guzma, who had been dealing with Nanu long before the man was even assigned as his parole officer, it was simple enough to tell when he was at ease. Even back during the Skull days, Nanu had occasionally brought Guzma and even some of the grunts into his home. There was an unspoken bond, there. He was sure by now that Nanu, for some reason, enjoyed his company.
"Don't mention it," Nanu replied. He sat himself down on his futon with a grunt, and immediately he was surrounded by no less than four meowth, two of which fought to sit on his lap. He pet each of them gently on the head before turning on the TV and flipping through the channels. It was getting late; after the observatory, Nanu had to put his hours in at the precinct, and he'd given Guzma menial tasks to complete around the office. When it was dusk, the old man treated him to sushi, no matter how loudly and aggressively he told the waiter they were splitting the check. The trip back to Po Town was long enough, and now, just after ten o'clock, there was absolutely nothing good to watch.
"Come on," Nanu groused as he paused long enough to catch the opening sequence of Sharptillery, "all they play these days is crap. Where's a good noir when you want one?"
"Just put on CSI," Guzma told him, "that's all you ever end up on, anyways." He ignored Nanu's long, suffering sigh and began to scroll through chatter on his phone, mindlessly liking and rechattering art that popped on his feed. A few meowth came to curl up on him, one at his side, one on the back of his knees, and one just on his lower back. There was no escape. There was only meowth. Nanu watched a few more minutes of Sharptillery before flipping channels again.
He would be like that for a while, Guzma knew, changing channel after channel, bitching about what TV used to be like until he stumbled across some old procedural cop drama to roast, and then eventually he would have a beer and fall asleep with the TV still on. Usually, Guzma would have to turn it off for him and find him a blanket. He huffed a small laugh under his breath. For being the Kahuna of Ula'Ula, old man Nanu really was hopeless.
"Hey, now," Nanu finally said, "there's something. Just for you, kid. Take a look." Guzma rolled his eyes, briefly glancing up from his phone before doing a double-take. Nanu had ended on a home improvement network, and as Guzma watched the screen, a husband and wife were busy renovating part of a farm house for their client.
"I don't watch this kind of shit," he said without thinking, then turned his eyes back down to his phone. He could feel Nanu's eyes on his back now.
"You should," the Kahuna told him, "get some ideas for fixing up that mansion. There's only so much you can learn from idiots online. If you're going to turn this into a business—"
Guzma cut him off.
"Who said I'm going to turn this into a business?" he demanded, feeling maybe a bit too defensive, "I'm fixing up what my li'l shits broke. I ain't runnin' Tool Time." Nanu shrugged.
"I just feel like you've got something good going for you," he explained, "contractors can make a decent living. It's honest work." Guzma snorted.
"'Honest work?'" he repeated, "I got honest work now. You know it don't pay shit. Ain't nothin' gonna pay shit. Fuck the system."
"You need to start thinking about what you're going to do with your life. You're not going to want to be at the berry farms forever."
"Are we seriously having this conversation right now?!" This time, Nanu didn't answer. Guzma knew better than to cause a fuss. There weren't many people left who tolerated his ass. There were less who would even let him into their home. Even more, he liked Nanu. The old man was alright.
But hot damn if all this meddling didn't piss Guzma the fuck off.
"You keep buttin' in like you're my fuckin' dad or something!" he snapped. "'Guzma, why you wastin' your time on berries!' 'Guzma, stop bein' so fuckin' useless and get a real job!' 'Guzma, what the hell is wrong with you!' I'm a fuckin' disappointment, I get it."
"I never said any of that," Nanu patiently reminded him.
"You were fuckin' thinkin' it!" He drew tightly in on himself, heart hammering and mind racing. The words were tumbling out before he could so much as think, and he cursed himself over and over. "I never asked for your help. I don't want it. I don't need it. Ya almost as bad as fuckin' Kukui. You know, I coulda been workin' tomorrow? Earnin' some fuckin' cash? But nah, big Kahuna Nanu, he gotta get his filthy hands in on shit. I bet you get off on draggin' me all over the islands, ya goddamn self-important tepig."
Nanu pushed himself steadily up to his feet. Guzma flinched back instinctively, suddenly feeling small as even the meowth abandoned him. Nanu came to stand over him, hands in his pockets and thoroughly unamused. It was only when he lowered himself to take a seat next to Guzma that the latter realized he'd been shaking. Nanu placed a heavy hand on his shoulder.
"I'm not not your dad," Nanu told him solemnly, "I'm not going to hit you."
Contrary to everything Guzma had ever known of the old cop, he still wasn't quite sure he believed him. He couldn't help but flinch again as Nanu suddenly squeezed his shoulder—gently. But still suddenly. Seeming to realize his mistake, Nanu slowly drew his arm back, instead folding his hands neatly over one knee. They sat like that for a while, the only sound being that of the house renovation shows from the TV, until Nanu let out another long sigh and began to fidget with his watch.
"I don't mean to be so over-bearing," he continued on, "I just worry. You're a good kid. Had some major hiccoughs in life, but nothing you can't bounce back from. And you're scared. I get it. Believe me, I get it."
"What the fuck would you know?" Guzma whispered, "some lawful stupid idiot like you, bet you were always the goody-two-shoes. You're just another useless cop."
Nanu's glare had more teeth than a garchomp, and for once, Guzma had the decency to lower his head in shame. The old man had that strange kind of power. Always had. Maybe he used to be a priest, used it to scare all the sinners to confession.
"You're going to stop disrespecting me in my own home," Nanu ordered, "we both know you don't have many friends left. Losing more is a luxury you can't afford."
A strange power, indeed. Without lifting his head, Guzma whispered out "yes, sir," docile as an indeedee. Nanu's gaze softened, and he was quiet again.
"I was just like you when I was a kid," he finally admitted, "my family moved to Kanto when I was seven. Parents weren't the best. Didn't fit in at school." He leaned in to pointedly catch Guzma's eye. "Got in my fair share of fights. Started to fall in with the wrong crowd when I was fourteen, fifteen? Anyways... ran with them for a while. Did some real fucked shit."
"What," Guzma tried to joke, "broke a few legs?"
"Worse."
Guzma believed him, this time.
"What changed?"
And without missing a beat and with his face just as straight and serious as always, Nanu told him, "I was twenty-three, rotting in a cell, and staring down the death penalty when an obnoxious old man offered me a plea deal. I took it. Got a few old friends executed, spent five years in the slammer and consulting for Interpol when they called. Next thing you know, that annoying old man got me on parole and hooked me up with a job on the force."
Death penalty? In Kanto? An anxious chill shot up Guzma's spine. That... was certainly a lot worse than a handful of petty theft and defacement charges.
"What the hell did you do to earn that?" he prodded, but this time Nanu shook his head.
"Those ain't the kind of stories I give to company," he answered, "what's done is done, and it should stay in the past. My point..." His hand slowly returned to Guzma's shoulder. This time, he didn't flinch away, though he was certain he damn well should have. "...is that there was a second chance for me. I was the lowest a man could be, and I turned that around. You don't have to do this alone. You just need to work with me, here." He patted his shoulder, then pushed himself back up to his feet and went to lay on the futon. "Turn the TV off when you go to sleep. I'm tired."
That was about as close to a 'goodnight' as Nanu ever gave anyone, and as he went, Guzma tried to reoccupy himself with his phone. His mind reeled as he tried to make sense of everything the old man had dropped on him, and by the time he was snoring, Guzma was panic-googling Kanto criminal law sentencing. Torture-murderer? Serial killer? Maybe Nanu had kidnapped the prime minister and held him for ransom. He swallowed hard and put his phone face-down on the inflatable mattress. It had to be just a joke. There was no way a Kahuna of all people could have been in line for the death penalty. He quickly turned the TV off, shooed some of the meowth away, and bundled up in a thin layer of sheets like a metapod, convincing himself if he couldn't be seen, he couldn't be targeted.
He couldn't sleep at all that night.
The morning was beautiful and clear. The sun stained the horizon a bright and inviting orange, and although the waves were still a little choppy, they didn't churn with the same ferocious intensity as they had in the previous day's storm. Sycamore admired the way the waves sparkled in the light, the way the sky was becoming bright and blue, as though the simple act of reuniting Kukui and Guzma for a brief moment of cooperation was simply turning the woes of the world around. He knew it hadn't ended the absolute best—Kukui told him how they almost came to blows—but it was a start. A start to something. Life, as Sycamore felt he knew better than most, was an endless cycle of beginnings and endings, and something that ended could very much begin again, if given new purpose. It had been like that with Lysandre.
It was funny, in a way: watching Kukui and Guzma feud wasn't too unlike his own feud with his beloved and lost friend. He remembered the fight that drove a seemingly insurmountable wedge between them, before Sycamore moved to Sinnoh to study under Rowan, himself. He would have liked to say he was the cool-headed Kukui in the equation, but with a wry smile and the memories of how stubbornly he refused to return Lysandre's letters, the fights he picked on the days they were forced to be in the same room, he could admit to himself that perhaps he was a little more like Guzma. ...Well, knowing his own track record, maybe more than a little. And, as his phone chimed and he frowned at his notification, maybe a little more than in the past, too.
"Who's that?" Kukui prodded next to him, and Sycamore cast him a glance as he took a sip of his latte.
"No one," he assured him, swiping the notification away, then stuffing his phone back into his pocket, "just spam."
"Don't you hate that?"
"Mmhm."
He was thankful that Kukui was still so preoccupied with his research. Guzma's charjabug, Cruller, was still tucked away inside an ultraball, but his friend had plugged it into his pokedex and was busy scrolling through the stats for the umpteenth time. He was too distracted to pry, and that was for the best. Sycamore hoped he remained distracted for a while, yet. Maybe it would give him time to take a nap.
They had spent the night at Hokulani Observatory with Molayne, and at some point, the heavy-set boy from the school, Sophocles, showed up. He turned out to be Molayne's cousin. The four of them spent the night playing board games and picking Sophocles's brain about the magnets. The boy was bright—so very bright! He was destined to be a pokemon professor some day, Sycamore thought. But the fact remained that all of them got too hopped up on candy and soda to sleep, and he was exhausted.
Today, they were all excited to take him to see Burnett's lab. Sophocles and Molayne caught a couple ride pokemon and flew out to Akala island, already. Kukui insisted he wanted to take his boat, and they needed to change beforehand, so he was taking Sycamore back by boat. Then, they would all swing by Burnett's lab and go watch a few battles at the Battle Royal facility up the road. It sounded like it was going to be a great time. They were just waiting for the marina to open so they could catch the first ferry back to Hau'oli.
"I'm thinking after the Battle Royal we can take Cruller out to Route 3 and battle some yungoos," Kukui mused, more to himself than to Sycamore, "testing against a normal-type should give us our best base-line for the results."
"We could bring Zip," Sycamore offered, "I'm sure there will be a level disparity, but it might give you a good idea of where Cruller stands."
"Does Zip usually battle?"
He laughed at that.
"No!" he told Kukui, "not unless he's fighting me for another mago berry. That little helioptile has a problem, I'm afraid. Perhaps I ought to stage an intervention." Kukui smirked as he glanced up briefly from the pokedex.
"Well, you'd have the most experience with them," he teased, and Sycamore took it in stride, grinning widely.
"Ah, it was like having an extra birthday party," he sighed wistfully, "except there was no booze and no cake and everyone was mad at me. Well, by the fifth time there was cake. It was good cake."
"Did it work?"
"No, it's illegal in Kalos for League officials to accept bribes, so I just had to keep smoking."
His phone chimed again.
"You're popular today," Kukui laughed as he pulled it back out of his pocket. Swipe away the notifications. Another chime. Swipe again. Sycamore's lips pressed into a thin line as he muted Diantha's texts, and his frown deepened as he realized Kukui was starting to lean over his shoulder for a nosy look.
"Do you mind?" he asked, and he meant to play it off as light and teasing, but the words just came out irritated and flat. He immediately regretted it as he saw the way his friend's face fell, the worry ticking his brow as he realized what was going on.
"Gus," he said, a little more quiet now, "are you two still not talking?"
"No. And I have no intention to for the foreseeable future."
"I'm sure she misses him as much as you do," Kukui tried to reason, "the three of you were together for so long, she must be grieving. You need each other, now. You have to rely on someone, and that's what partners are for."
Sycamore's hands balled into fists, and he took a deep breath. Now was not the time. He knew it was something he couldn't expect Kukui to understand—after all, the man had been dating the same person since Sycamore met him, had married her and settled down, even. Everyone had their own problems, and he knew Kukui and Burnett did, from time to time, but for once Sycamore felt confident in believing it wasn't the same. He had loved Lysandre, and he had loved Diantha just as much. They had loved each other, too. It had been the three of them against the world. Red carpet events hanging off each others' arms. Nights spent together on the couch. Awkwardly meeting Lysandre and Diantha's parents, and laughing at them trying to explain the relationship when all Sycamore ever had to do was show up and act charming.
It was hard to pinpoint where it all had gone wrong, but it had. The three of them had their problems, too. Lysandre and Diantha grew distant from each other. Cold. Sycamore spent most nights anxiously stuck between the two of them, trying to pretend the fights weren't happening and retreating to his work when the unspoken anger was too much to bear. Then all of a sudden they were breaking up, and Sycamore was being asked to choose. He hadn't wanted to choose. And then the universe chose for him. Clearly, he was supposed to be happy with the talented and principled actress, and not the genocidal psychopath who was crushed under Geosenge. How could he explain to Kukui, then, that he wasn't happy, that Diantha, alongside all of Kalos it seemed, cheered Lysandre's death, and he could not bear to look at her for it?
He knew it was probably more complicated than that. Knew that as that talented actress, as the figurehead of the Kalos League, she had to put on a show and praise the triumph of good over evil. After all, that was what Sycamore was supposed to do, and when he couldn't, look where it ended him? She had to protect herself as a champion. Logically, he understood, but the instant he replied to her, the instant he allowed the channel of communication to open, all of those bad feelings would come flooding through, and it would hurt them both all over again. His heart still ached, and despite the resentment, despite his grief and anger, he couldn't do that to her. So he would not answer, and things were better this way.
Sycamore was used to giving lectures at Lumiose University and at the Kalos Museum of Archaeology and Natural History, and he considered himself a fairly decent public speaker. There was a wide divide, however, between geeking out about old folktales and spilling the deepest recesses of his heart out for people to see. Unable to properly sum up his feelings, he shrugged one shoulder and slipped his phone again into his pocket.
"I have nothing to say to her," he told Kukui, "and this is one topic I need you to just let go."
"Gus," Kukui started, but stopped short as Sycamore turned his head away in a desperate bid to end the conversation.
"Let it go," he whispered again. Kukui sighed.
"Fine," he grumbled, "but you need to talk to her, eventually. Anyways... so... Zip and Cruller, battles out on route 3... Actually, you know what? I bet we could double battle with a few of the kids around here, and..."
Sycamore tuned him out, mostly. He just preoccupied himself with staring at the beautifully orange sunrise as they waited for the marina to open.
Lysandre would have loved it.
So things were definitely worse than Kukui thought. He'd expected Sycamore to be moping around all week. The man felt his emotions so deeply and with such raw intensity that, frankly, he wasn't entirely surprised to find out he was still depressed and probably not taking care of himself as well as he could have been. But that was going to be okay. Kukui had planned to put him to work, and once Burnett discovered he wasn't eating, he planned to stuff him full of food. Then, when it was time, they would send him back to Kalos and inform Sina and Dexio of what was going on so they could get him proper help. But now?
As they walked through Hau'oli outskirts, Kukui was coming to the uncomfortable realization that he was maybe in a little over his head. He'd spent his fair share of nights in the dog house, but he had to admit, when he compared the odd problem he and Burnett had to Sycamore's whole power-thruple world-ending break-up thing, he had a painfully small frame of reference and experience that would be useful. All he could think to say was to ask Sycamore to talk with Diantha, but he knew his friend could be stubborn as a mudsdale when he didn't want to do something. Beyond his sad attempts to convince him to just talk, dammit what else could he possibly say or do?
"So," he said for the first time since disembarking the ferry into Melemele, "I was thinking maybe after we test on the weaker pokemon around here, we could test Cruller's attacks against some more powerful trainers' pokemon. What do you think?"
"Alright," came Sycamore's half-assed response. It was better than the cold shoulder he was giving him on the ferry. Kukui would take any progress he could get. He pressed in closer to his friend as they walked, putting his hand amicably on his shoulder.
"We could even go to the top of Mount Lanakila," he offered, "some of the strongest trainers in Alola are up there. And you should see the view from the summit! Woo! One of those things you gotta see while you're here! You know, it's the highest point in all of Alola? Ah, I mean, as long as you're good going up that high."
"Sure," Sycamore answered him with another shrug, "heights don't bother me."
Something about that ought to have worried him, but Kukui shrugged it off. As long as he could just get Gus out of the house and invested into some work or anther... Really, the whole adventure to the observatory had been a blessing.
Soon enough, they came to Kukui's shack, and they kicked the sand out of their shoes as they slipped inside. Sycamore beelined for the loft and steadily climbed up the ladder. Zip was waiting for him at the top, which seemed to brighten his spirits immensely.
"Hello, my sweet!" he cooed at the helioptile, "were you good for me while I was away?" Zip clicked happily, and Kukui watched as Sycamore scratched behind his frills with a smile. "Ahh, yes you were, weren't you? You know what good boys get?" He shuffled in his bag for a minute, then held out an old and slightly mushy mago berry, which Zip excitedly snapped up.
Smiling to himself, Kukui went into his room to change. It was just as simple as swapping out his shorts and underwear. His lab coat was still mostly clean, and deciding he'd wait until they got back from Akala to wash it, threw it back on over his shoulders as he hummed to himself and went to put Dusty into his pokeball. He had that match as the Masked Royal, today. Burnett always got a little extra feisty after watching him sweep the entire field, and Kukui wanted to put his best foot forward.
"Don't take too long!" he called up to Sycamore as he went to get himself a quick glass of water before they left, "remember, we gotta get the first ferry back out of here!"
"Ah, no worries, my friend!" Sycamore called back down to him as though the morning had never even happened, "I'll just be a minute longer!"
Probably had to restyle his hair, Kukui figured. He was mid-sip when there was a heavy knock on the door. A visitor? He strained to think if he was expecting anyone, that day, but none came to mind. He wasn't a stranger to the odd unexpected visitor, though, and figuring it was someone looking for directions or a budding trainer looking for a new move, decided it wouldn't hurt to have a quick chat while he waited. He took his water with him and opened the door wide with a bright smile.
"Alola!" he greeted, then paused. Looker stood across from him in his usual brown suit, an apologetic smile on his face as he lifted his badge for Kukui to see.
"Professor Kukui," he greeted, "I'm sorry to call on you at such an early hour. I understand Augustine Sycamore is staying with you? I'd like to speak with him, if you please."
What?
Kukui eyed him strangely. Why was Looker of all people looking for Augustine? The man had only come to Alola to deal with the emerging ultra beasts. Shouldn't he be asking for Burnett? Wouldn't he know she was in Akala?
"I have a warrant, if it helps," Looker offered. Kukui blinked. Finally, he glanced behind Looker, processing the two cops from town waiting patiently behind him. Something was most definitely wrong.
Trying to keep calm, he smiled again and answered, "hey, no problem. Mind giving me just a minute? I'll let him know you're here. Just... just one sec." And very gently, he shut the door, taking a deep, deep breath before turning back towards the loft.
"Hey, Gus?" he called up again, far more calmly than he felt, "why are the world cops at my front door?" No answer, but the sounds of hurried movement. "Gus?" he tried again, and he began to climb the ladder.
Sycamore was kneeling on the wood, frantically shoving things into his bag. His eyes were wide and his hands were shaking, and he shoved his bag under the bed before just as frantically grabbing Zip's pokeball and recalling him, clipping it to his belt.
"Gus!" Kukui said again, a little more frantic himself, and Sycamore quickly held a finger up over his lips.
"Stall them!" he hissed in undertones, "please, my friend, I'll never ask for anything again, just—please, please, stall them!" Kukui hardly had time to register what, exactly, Sycamore had just asked him to do before his friend popped the window open and began the laborious journey of climbing down the side of the shack. He was still staring after him in shock when he heard him fall, then heard the cops shouting and chasing after him, and finally until he heard the heavy thud of bodies on sand.
"Merde! Let go—let go of him, he's mine! Vous n'avez pas le droit de le prendre ! Lâchez-moi ! "
By the time Kukui came to his senses and ran outside, it was to see Sycamore squirming and writhing in the sand with the two cops over him. One was yanking his wrists painfully behind his back to cuff him, and the other had ripped Zip's pokeball from his belt. Looker recited his rights to him as he spat and swore and cursed and finally begged for the pokeball back, his voice cracking.
"Please, he is all I have left, please, please—"
"What the hell is going on?" Kukui demanded, "Looker, what the hell?" Looker only turned back to him when he was finished with Sycamore, and Kukui watched helplessly as they pulled his friend to his feet and shoved him back towards town.
"I'm sorry," Looker apologized again, "Augustine is being held on charges of theft of Kalos League property and federal conspiracy against the Kalos League. I will be taking him back to Ula'Ula, where he will be detained until I can receive extradition orders."
"What the hell do you mean?" he repeated, "Gus is a recognized Kalos League official. He's a professor, for fuck's sake! He's allowed to travel with research pokemon!"
"No. He is not." The agent shook his hand, but Kukui hardly noticed, standing completely aghast as though a rug had been ripped out from under him. So... it was true? What Kiawe had said in class?
He watched his friend's back as he struggled and tried to pry himself from the cops' grips, futile and desperate. Things were much, much worse than he thought.
"Gus!" he called helplessly after him, "Gus, don't worry! We'll figure something out! I'll... I'll call someone! Anyone! Just don't... don't...!"
Sycamore cast a final glance back at him. He looked terrified. Absolutely terrified. Kukui watched until they pulled him far off and out of sight, and then, when his brain began to churn back into gear and the adrenaline overtook him, he whipped out his phone and made his first call.
"...Burnett? Hey, Gus's been arrested."
