"Augustine! Augustine!"
It was impossible to see more than a few feet in front of her face. The rain poured down in thick and heavy sheets, but it didn't bother Diantha. She was like Augustine, in that regard: she loved the rain. The heavier, the better. The steady drumming of its fall and the earthy petrichor it stirred into the bracing, invigorating wind usually kept her mind focused. Usually.
"Augustine!" she shouted again. She must have been nearly to town. Varda was next to her, protecting herself from the downpour with a shield of kinetic energy that she held overhead. The gardevoir's eyes glowed brightly with the raw energy of her psychic power, a gorgeous bright blue Diantha had always been enamored with. She had instructed her loyal friend to cast her mind out and search for Augustine, but something was wrong. She wasn't leading Diantha anywhere, and if she couldn't sense Augustine then that could only mean—no. No, no, no, there was no use thinking like that. He had to be okay. Had to be. It was the booze, maybe. Varda always had trouble sensing him when he was drunk. Because there was no way he would really—of course he wouldn't go that far, he still had so much to—so much to—
What did he really have left?
The realization brought a half-mangled sob from Diantha's chest, and she hastily tried to cover her mouth to stifle it. She knew things were bad, but this? If he had just answered her calls—if she had just had the chance to help him properly—if Lysandre hadn't been so astronomically stupid, if the League had been sensible, if Felix held even a modicum of understanding for their situation, the list went on and on. If only, if only—if only there wasn't a very real chance she was about to stumble across the self-inflicted corpse of someone she loved. She had to pull it together.
Next to her, Varda trilled, her eerie siren song soothing Diantha's worries just long enough. It probably wasn't easy for her to search for Augustine when she also had to calm Diantha's nerves, the champion briefly mused. She took a deep breath, then beckoned her pokemon on and turned on her heel, racing back towards Kukui's home.
The three met just out on the route. Diantha was first to arrive, the mud splashing up her ankles as she ran back. Burnet was next, coming from the mouth to Route 1 with a porygon floating along behind her.
"Anything?" Burnet shouted to her, and Diantha vigorously shook her head.
"She can't find him," she cried, "she can't—he might—might be—"
Burnet surged forward to catch her in a tight hug, shushing her and rubbing her back.
"He can't have gotten far," she told her, "don't worry. Things are bad, but we're going to find him. Everything is going to be okay. Okay?"
Kukui was next to come, skidding and sending mud spraying out next to them. Dusty, wet and stinking in the way that dogs did, slid along next to him, ears perked and eyes alert. Kukui was holding something in his hands, and for a second Diantha struggled to make sense of it, until she abruptly came to the realization that it was Augustine's t-shirt, the blue and white raglan he'd gotten when the three of them had gone to a Yesterday's Jam concert for his birthday. It was soiled and muddied, and it was one of his favorite shirts.
"Xerneas," Diantha bit out.
"He's a slippery bastard," Kukui shouted to them, "Dusty was sniffing around for a hot minute, and this was all we fucking found."
"Do you think he...?" Burnet began nervously, but Kukui shook his head.
"No," he assured them, "the trail headed back this way. We'll find him sooner or later."
He looked up and down the route as though expecting the rain to part, then turned an accusatory eye up towards the clouds as thunder rumbled overhead. Damn weathermen. Any time they called for sunny weekends, he got left up shit creek without a paddle. If only it would let up for just a minute... Kukui sighed.
"Burnet," he said, "maybe you and Diantha should go wait at the house."
Burnet frowned and looked up to the skies, herself, her porygon shivering next to her. Wringing her hands, she looked back off towards the routes. It would be difficult for one man and his pokemon to find anyone out in this mess. Burnet's porygon was specially trained to help her monitor the islands. It connected to her equipment at her lab, but it also connected wirelessly to her phone.
In any other circumstance, it would have been a godsend—she would have been able to scan the islands and find Gus's cell in no time flat. In the rain, though, the pokemon's shivers weren't just shivers. Kukui was pretty sure it was bugging out. He was surprised it hadn't shorted, yet, and with the lightning flashing the way it was, he would bet his last dollar the static in the air was messing with its perception.
"I can't go back," Diantha said, "Gus is still out there, I can't let him—not while he's—oh, Xerneas, oh, Xerneas, what if he's already...?" She began to pace again, her fingers tangling into her short hair as she worked to calm herself down. "Xerneas, this is Lysandre all over again, I can't, I can't do this, not again—"
When they looked to each other again, it was clear Burnet was thinking the same thing he was. She took Diantha by the hand and tugged her over, pushing her in front of the porygon.
"I think what my well-meaning husband is trying to say is," she offered, "we'll have better luck finding him if we can get Poly dry and connected to the computer. But it's a two-woman job, and I need your help!" Diantha took more deep breaths. Finally, she reached out to Varda, seeking her slender, tapered green hand. It was a beautiful thing to witness, the bond between a trainer and her partner pokemon, especially a psychic-type like a gardevoir. There was a glow that joined them, faint but visible. When it faded, she looked calm. Much calmer than before. Still tired; Kukui imagined the situation was taking its toll. All the more reason for her to rest.
"Alright," Diantha finally agreed, "alright, yes. I will help you with Poly, and then—then I'll go back out to look."
Burnet motioned her along, and they ran back towards the house. She exchanged one last glance with Kukui. He shrugged hopelessly back. Gus was smart. He'd already thrown Dusty off, once. The lycanroc was restless, shifting on the pads of his paws and eager to rush back off down the route. Kukui knelt next to him, giving his soaking fur a good fluff.
"Alright, boy," he told Dusty, holding the wet shirt up to him, "one big sniff. Let's find 'im, yeah?" Dusty sniff, sniff, sniffed, tail wagging, and on Kukui's mark, off he ran. Kukui followed after him, watching his lycanroc bound off back towards Hau'oli. He gave chase. Sometimes, he would lose sight of him in the rain, but he still ran. Eventually he would find Dusty sniffing in circles, tracking back on himself. Every minute felt like an hour. Every step took him further from Gus. Every turn was another circle. Another dead end. He was cold and wet and it was his own fault for not seeing it. He knew things were bad. He should have seen it.
Just like he should have seen it with Guzma.
"Dammit," Kukui growled to himself, "dammit, dammit. Why does this keep happening?" They'd stopped again. Dusty was circling the same bench over and over, and finally he barked and lunged for a nearby bush. "Gus," Kukui breathed in relief, and he followed hot on his dog's heels. It wasn't the weirdest place Gus had ever passed out in. He pushed the branches aside, ignoring the way they poked and scratched at his bare skin. Even before he found the single sandal, Kukui realized with a sinking feeling that the bush was far too small to effectively hide his friend. He pulled it out with a frown, turning it in his hands. Dusty barked.
"Yeah, buddy," he told the dog, "at this point, I wouldn't be surprised if he's running buck-ass naked."
"Hey!"
The sudden voice made him jump. Who the hell would be out in a downpour like this? Kukui whirled around. Oh. Great. Guzma was stomping towards him, an umbrella clutched tight in his hands. Behind him was his golisopod, who was delighting in stomping along the puddles in the street.
"Hey yourself!" Kukui shouted to him, "the hell are you doing out in this weather?"
"The hell am I doin' out here?" Before Kukui knew what was going on, Guzma was shoving the handle of the umbrella into his hand. "Dumbass, if you catch your death that cute wife of yours is gonna go full evil genius! You want her to start openin' up Ultra Wormholes all over the goddamn islands?"
It was an old umbrella. Weathered, but well-cared-for. Kukui wondered how long he'd had it. Guzma used to squat in Po Town, he reminded himself, he shouldn't have been surprised the man would be prepared for a storm. Kukui held the umbrella high overhead and beckoned Guzma under. For once, he was in an agreeable mood, and the two men huddled as close as they could under it. Dusty, whining, slunk between their legs. Pancake seemed happy to just play in the puddles.
"Guz," Kukui said, "I need your help."
He wasn't sure what to expect. He knew that Guzma had only loaned him his charjabug because Gus had begged him. His relationship with Guzma had been strained for well over a decade, at this point. Their battle earlier in the day probably didn't help things. He could see Guzma struggling, himself. Frankly, Kukui ought to have considered himself lucky his old friend had been willing to lend him the umbrella.
"Guzma, please," he tried again, "Gus is in trouble and I think he's about to do something really stupid."
It was really that simple.
"Alright," Guzma replied, "tell me what's going on."
He was high up. Really high up. And he was swaying dangerously close to the edge.
Augustine was exhausted from running, but beyond that he didn't feel much else. The rain on his face didn't matter, and neither did the wind buffeting his hair. Lightning would flash and thunder would rumble, and the static clung to his clothes like it always did. He used to like feeling these things. Maybe it was dangerous, but it made him feel alive. Now he just felt... well... he really didn't. And he wasn't sure if it was the booze or the pain that had finally numbed him.
He was out on Route 3, all the way up, teetering unbalanced along the cliff as he found his way back to the spot he'd picked. It was by that tree—the one guarding a lone patch of grass, just past the bridge. In the downpour it was impossible to see the ocean stretching out before him, but in his heart, Augustine held the image he'd seared into his mind: sparkling seas. Pokemon. Life. Lysandre would have loved it. And there were rocks enough jutting out of the waves to bring him to the end of the road.
"I'm sorry," Augustine whispered. To himself? To Lysandre? To the gods? Who knew? "I can't—can't do it anymore. I'm sorry."
He lifted the bottle of rum to his lips and took another sip, or tried to, at least. There were only drops left. He probably ought to stop, anyways. He was seeing at least three of the bottle. As functional of an alcoholic as he was, he needed to be able to walk a semi-straight line. He drew a deep breath, leaned uncomfortably far over the edge of the cliff, and squinted hard to try and see the bottom. Frowning, he looked to the empty bottle, then carefully held it over the ledge—and let it drop. He thought, maybe, he heard it plop into the water after just a few seconds. It was definitely high enough, and that was fine. Heights didn't bother Augustine.
He took a deep breath, flexing his bare toes against the rocky edge of the cliff. All it would take was one step, and everything would be over. Just one. He could do that. He could take one step. He swallowed and raised one foot up. Diantha would be furious. But she would get past it eventually, right? Just like she'd gotten past Lys—except, had she really? They were both hurting. All of them had been hurting. And Kukui and Burnet—they would be saddled with his things. His bags were still in their loft. He didn't mean to be a burden. He should have gotten a hotel room. Why was he so stupid to make them clean up after his sorry ass? Yveltal's claws, he was a failure.
They were all right. He was full of half-brained plans. Always had trouble following through. Hell, it wasn't until Lysandre got him the job as Rowan's assistant that he'd been good for much of anything. He wasn't sure what changed. One moment, he'd been a stupid, drunk young man, and the next he was mostly sober and even obeying Rowan's curfew. He didn't even have the balls to do it, then. It would have been easy, so close to Lake Verity. Rowan had stopped him, then.
That's what it was, wasn't it? It hadn't been work, Augustine realized with a sudden moment of clarity, it had been Rowan. He said he'd had a gut feeling something was wrong. Broke down the door to his room. Augustine ran a hand over his face, thinking back to the ambulance ride. The pills must have rattled around when they shook him, because he vaguely remembered having his stomach pumped. And when he was finally lucid, Rowan was waiting for him. He was a stern man; not one for excessive shows of affection or vulnerability. But the fear in his eyes when he found Augustine on the floor, the relief on his face when he finally woke up...
He could just imagine the look on the poor man's face when he found out what happened. A sob of his own welled up in Augustine's throat. He couldn't do it. Coward. Coward. Everyone lost people in the end. He shouldn't let that stop him. He pushed his hair out of his eyes, wound back up, prepared to leap. Another sob. He choked. Stumbled back, but he couldn't decided whether to go or to jump. If he wasn't such a fucking coward for once in his life, maybe he'd actually grow some fucking balls and do it.
He slumped to the ground at the base of the tree and curled up, burying his face in his knees as he futilely tried to shove his hair out of his eyes. He was useless. Couldn't even kill himself properly. The rain was starting to let up. When he buried another sob and wiped at his eyes, he could see through the drops to the other side of the route, all the way to the trees. They were dense and packed, but just barely visible was a gap between them all, and just in the gap, a sparkling, floating little piece of dust. No, not dust. Cutiefly. His memories still felt leaden, like a heavy blanket draped over his head, but he thought about that day, under the tree. Funny. It was only a few days ago, but still seemed like years.
Augustine cast one final glance towards the cliff. Not... not yet. It could wait a hot minute. With a shuddering breath, he pushed himself to his feet and staggered his way across the route.
They had searched around the entire island, at this point. The rain had slowed significantly, down to a light spit that allowed them to hurry their pace. Guzma's hair and clothes were sopping, and he felt beads of rainwater running across and over every last inch of skin. He couldn't wait to change into something warm, so the quicker they found Gus, the better.
"Dammit," Kukui muttered, "this is the second time. Second time all the way around the routes. I can't believe he's given Dusty the slip like this." His lycanroc whined pitifully and nosed at Kukui's hand until he gave him an absent-minded pat on the snout. He'd given Guzma the complete run-down. Things sounded bad. Very bad. And from the way his old friend described it, Gus had filled himself up pretty good on the liquor; people made bad decisions when they got this low. Guzma knew that first-hand. And those decisions would be made within minutes, sometimes. The chances that they would find Gus alive at this point...
He swallowed hard. Just the thought made his stomach seize. He'd hardly gotten to know him. His sad smile was still burned into his memory, first at the pier, then at the beach. Guzma knew even then something was wrong. He wished he'd realized how deep it went, then. Now here he was, standing over Gus's other shoe as they milled around near the edge of a tall cliff at the side of Route 3.
"Any way you look at it, this is bad," Guzma said, and Kukui lifted his hat briefly to run a hand through his tightly-pulled hair.
"At this rate, we might..." He took a deep breath. "...might need to just call Nanu. I... jeez... I have no idea what to tell Diantha, but we've been all over the island, and he's just..." Together, they looked over the edge. There was no body along the rocks or washed up on the shore. There were plenty of high cliffs around Melemele. He could have been anywhere. The thought hurt. Guzma jammed his hands into his pockets, his brow furrowed. When he looked back up, it was to find Kukui watching him carefully, and Guzma pulled a face.
"What?" he said, "what are you looking at me like that, for?"
"Nothing," Kukui said quickly, "it's nothing. It's just... It's been a while since I've seen you look that way about much anyone."
"Fuck off," Guzma answered half-heartedly, "now's not the time. Let's circle again." Kukui sighed.
"Maybe we should head back," he suggested, "see if Burnet and Diantha got Poly up and running. If he has his phone on him—"
"Man's ditched half his clothes, you think he got his phone?" Guzma snorted. "Alright. Fine. go. I'll take another run around." He began to walk. Kukui didn't move.
"Guzma," he called after him, "maybe you should—"
"Go on ahead!" Guzma repeated more forcefully, "I'll text you if I find anything, okay?"
With one final look, Kukui and Dusty were gone. Guzma remained at the edge of the cliff, staring through the drizzle to the dark and churning ocean below. The pokemon were all hiding below the surface, he imagined, waiting for the clouds to finally part and thesun to shine again. From the look of the sky, the storm was just about to break. It shouldn't have. It should have kept storming. If Gus was gone, the heavens ought to weep. He was a good guy. Kind. It was hard to find people like that; they were few and far inbetween. Guzma closed his eyes.
He could remember like it was yesterday, running around the islands with Kukui and Molayne. They were good guys, too. They'd made him feel like part of a family, and he'd missed that when they drifted apart. He yearned for those days, when everything was simple and all he'd had to worry about was the suffocating puppy crushes getting the best of him. Those memories always brought a smile to his face, drew the cutiefly out like—
Guzma turned on his heel, facing towards the middle of the island. It was true, they'd circled the island twice already. But only circled it. And the look on Gus's face when he'd seen the cutiefly... Maybe, if they were lucky, and it was one of those very good days... He swallowed hard, and holding his breath, he crossed the route and dipped into the trees, following the paths of pokemon around underbrush and over twigs and rocks. Further and further, he pressed on, scooting between ferns and palm bushes.
When he finally pushed through the final barrier of flora into the clearing, the first thing he saw was the swarm of cutiefly. They danced through the air, glowing specks of dust that lit the dark and shadows with the faintest of pink glows. The second thing he saw was Gus, and the breath washed out of Guzma in a flood of relief. He looked awful: his eyes were red and distant, his face splotchy, he looked like he direly needed a shave, and he was half-naked and bare-foot, sitting at the roots of the old and gnarled willow tree with his knees drawn to his chest and his chin tucked into his crossed arms.
Neither of them spoke as Guzma approached. He seated himself next to Gus with a plop and leaned back against the willow's trunk. The cutiefly danced around them, undisturbed by the new presence. A few even landed on Guzma's arms and hair, only to take off again when he shifted. Gus sniffled.
"You know," Guzma said, "most people think it's the cutiefly that make 'em feel good. And I mean, I guess that's part right. They're cute, ain't they? Hard to feel down when you see somethin' that cute." Next to him, Gus shifted. He was shivering horribly, sitting there wet and cold. It was only good manners for Guzma to scoot close and offer his arm out. Gus hesitated, then responded by curling against him. His head rested gently on Guzma's shoulder, his thick and curly hair tickling at his cheek. He certainly smelled like booze.
"I know it's not them," he confirmed. His voice was small and hoarse. "Fairy types are drawn to emotion, but they do not forge it. I was, um—I was thinking about my father." He paused. "Well, he's not—not really my father, I suppose. But at this point, he's the only family I still have." He ruffled up his soggy, curly hair, then uncurled just slightly from his ball.
"Well, that ain't fair," Guzma told him, "you shoulda seen the way Kukui hustled tryin' to find your sorry ass. Man really thought you did it. He ain't family to you? Or Burnet? She seems real sweet. They're both good people."
"They are my friends," Gus answered, "and I love them dearly. I have hurt them more just by being here.
"You hurt them more makin' them think they lost you."
"Either way, I've hurt them."
It was hard to break out of a cycle like that—getting your thoughts out of that rut was an up-hill battle, except you were chained to a boulder five times your size and all you had was a tiny chisel to work at it. With time and effort, maybe it could be done. Doing it by yourself was nearly impossible. Guzma folded his hands over his stomach and let his head thunk back against the tree trunk, peering up into its long and supple branches. Sometimes someone else could help, but really what Gus needed was a bigger chisel. A jackhammer, even. All Guzma had to offer was, well, another little chisel.
"That can't be all you've done with your life," he pointed out, "otherwise you wouldn't have this many cutiefly. C'mon, man. Tell me somethin' else you've done."
"I don't know," Gus mumbled.
"C'mon, even the smallest thing."
Gus blinked blearily, but he pulled himself a little bit further out of his ball. The gears were turning. He was getting there pretty quickly, all things considered.
"W-well," he said slowly, "I...I've read... a lot of books?" Finally, he tilted his head up to meet Guzma's eyes. "Have you ever heard the tales of Barberry?" He wasn't exactly happy, or really in entirely better spirits, but the question was just as eager as it was tentative.
"Nah," Guzma answered. He rubbed Gus's shoulder soothingly. "Tell me one."
"Which one?"
"I dunno. Your favorite."
He really must have been tired. The longer he spent leaning against Guzma, the longer Guzma soothed him, the heavier his head felt against his shoulder. The more his eyelids began to droop.
"Well," Gus murmured, "once upon a time... thousands of years ago, in the kingdom that would become Kalos, there was a young farmer who lived in a field near the mountains. In those times, the times when pokemon and people were one, a great and terrible war grew between that kingdom and its neighbor, and..."
He talked and he talked, his words growing more languid and more slurred until he could hardly speak without forgetting what he'd already said. Before much time had passed at all, Augustine had finally crashed, his breaths light as his full weight leaned into Guzma. That was when the second breath, the one he hadn't even realized he had been preparing to hold at all, passed out of him. It worked. He would be alright for now. Maybe once he woke up they would be able to get him proper help.
For the moment, his friends needed to know.
"C'mon, numskull," Guzma sighed. He slipped one arm under Gus's armpit, then carefully slid the other under his knees. He was lighter than he looked, and Guzma lifted him easily. He wondered if that was something to be worried about—he'd already been looking a little thin to begin with. Another thing to add to the list for intervention. "Let's get you home."
He had barely stepped foot back out onto the route when he caught sight of Burnet, Diantha, and Kukui. The rain had finally stopped, and the former's porygon floated steadily on ahead of them as they marched.
"Mon dieu!" Diantha cried as she spotted him, and she ran ahead of the other two, stopping in front of Guzma to fuss over Gus. "You—you found him, oh, by Xerneas! It he—he's not—?"
"He's fine," Guzma reassured her, "he passed out. I think. I mean—I dunno how much he drank, but—"
"Stupid man! Stupid, stupid, stupid!" Diantha huffed, but all the same, she stroked Gus's hair with such affection that Guzma had to stop just for a moment. He didn't really know who she was, but... Well, she had the same accent. And she didn't look related. He shifted uncomfortably. "He always drinks too much. Did he get sick? Did he—"
"No," Guzma said again, "he's fine."
"Thank you. Please, can you carry him a little farther? He—he needs his rest."
Gus was still sleeping like a rock when they got him back to Burnet and Kukui's house. Together, they got him out of his wet clothes and wrapped up in a few blankets like a burrito, leaving him on the couch to sleep everything off. Guzma wanted to say nearby, keep an eye on him, but Diantha hovered over him like a talonflame. Definitely more than friends, he found himself thinking. After taking just enough time to make sure Gus was settled in, Guzma headed for the door.
"I guess I'll get out of y'all's hair," he said to Kukui as he went, "gimme a holler when he wakes up, yeah?" He didn't notice the way Burnet nudged Kukui as he let himself out. He heard them whispering to each other, but figured it was about Gus and that woman. He was pretty surprised, then, when he had made it down the steps and into the sand, only to hear the front door open and shut again behind him.
"Hey." Kukui's hand landed on his shoulder, and frowning, Guzma stopped in his tracks and turned to him.
"What?" Guzma replied. Kukui struggled with something for a moment, a deep frown overtaking his face. It wasn't fair how good he looked even with that frown. Story of Guzma's life, wasn't it? Any time he fell for someone, it turned out someone else was involved, and he would get left behind. He was batting three for three.
"You forgot your umbrella," Kukui said after a moment. Guzma shrugged.
"Keep it," he dismissed, "I got more'n I know what to do with." He began to turn away. Kukui grabbed his shoulder again, and Guzma rolled his eyes.
"Do you wanna walk with me?" Kukui offered lamely, "like... have a chat? About everything?"
You had to talk to someone, in the end. How the hell else would you even find the goddamn jackhammer to begin with? And in the meantime, you could just borrow their chisel, too.
"Yeah," Guzma sighed, "yeah, I guess maybe we should. You wanna get some cocoa, or somethin'?"
Kukui motioned off towards Hau'oli, and side by side, off they went.
