Amendment ║ Guzma & Kukui
skullboi:
In the middle of an Alolan afternoon, right when their conversation reached its zenith, Guzma’s mind shut down. He was gone now, transported to another time when he was young and small and scared of the big, bad father who beat him down and beat him down and never let up. Sniveling pathetically with big, heavy gasps, Guzma wiped his streaming nose on the back of his arm. He cocooned himself further into his sleeping bag. In the middle of the night, in his tent surrounded by his two closest friends, he was alone. No one would hear him cry.
Stupid, stupid! How could he let a stupid f-fucking phone call turn him into such a baby? Guzma pounded his fists against his head. Pulled a handful of his shaggy black hair until his scalp screamed. And tried, tried, tried not to cry anymore. He kept it together in front of Cukes, but as soon as his friend left to talk with his folks behind the bushes, Guzma’s grin faltered.
The phone calls between Kukui and his parents seemed like a rite of passage, of a boy becoming a man, of independence asserted and childhood left long behind. Though he joked his frustrations out of these check-ups, the boy reveled in it. Looked forward to them. Guzma knew because he saw, and he watched, and was envious of it. He’d heard the laughter and the subtle “I love yous” from his friend, and saw the humor in his eyes when he returned, rejuvenated in ways their special bond never did. Guzma always hid behind the fire. The darkness hid the truth from his eyes.
He no longer wished for his own calls. Those days were long since passed. He wasn’t smart but he wasn’t an idiot; his mother’s lies fooled no one. She knew what was happening and did nothing about it. He loved his mother but it made him so angry that she just—just sat there! And his eyes would fill with traitorous tears and he’d head back to his tent. When he dreamed, his father loomed over him, an inescapable force, the heart of hatred and loathing entertwined. The lessons that man taught were nothing less than cruel, but Guzma wouldn’t be privy to this knowledge as a boy. It launched upon him, a predator he killed without mercy and without shedding a single tear.
Guzma became a man in a shower of blood.
He opened his eyes before Kukui now, his heart a writhing hornet’s nest. Emotions coiled and tightened its embrace, venom pulsing toxic life into his veins. He unclenched his fists. His friend—if that’s what they were in the past, they certainly weren’t now, or if they were, Guzma didn’t know, his crew in Skull were his subordinates; there were no friendships in gangs—tried to explain. Comfort him, with words that sounded like a scolding mother’s and blamed him for his emotions.
“It’s easy to give in and say awful things and lash out and make everyone around you feel as small and shitty as you do. But…”
A muscle in his jaw twitched. A rush of poison surged through his heart. Kukui had gone on for long enough. Let the guy talk, Guzma thought. Let the guy finish and find out just how unimportant his lessons were. None of this was going to make any difference. Nanu didn’t lecture him with this shit. Neither did Hala—but that old man knew better. His moldy old traditions could rot for all Guzma cared.
“ You’re right. I… don’t know.”
Despite it all, there was a small part of him that did care. Nihilego had forced that part out of him, made him relive his past and broken bones, made him see just how much Kukui played an integral of his life and made him part of the man he was today. He’d seen it all—and more. Guzma had never admitted to being afraid of anything. But he feared it then. And now…
Kukui was trying very hard to help him. Make things right, or whatever. Guzma didn’t know. He didn’t know anything, not anymore, and that seemed fine. For a while. Kukui turned his back away from him, his shoulders sagging. Felt as if he’d given up. Back in Malie Garden, where they’d met for the first time in years, hearing Kukui admit to not knowing everything would have thrilled him. Guzma would’ve laughed and rubbed metaphorical dog shit all over his face, force him to his knees, where he’d be down off his fucking pedestal.
That was then. Now hearing those words sent dread trickling down his spine. “Fuckin’…” Guzma started, words jumbling in his throat, getting caught in his Adam’s apple before being swallowed. “Shit.” Guzma took a step forward, his scars burning at the betrayal. He was a pace behind Kukui, could have reached out and touched him if he tried, but he kept his distance. They guy had always been more emotional than he, but seeing him now, like this, wasn’t right.
When did he get so soft? He must be more fucked up in the head than he thought. Kukui was—… but the thought turned into nothing. Nanu would have grinned, then. Smug old man. Thought he knew everything. Guzma frowned. Cursed under his breath.
“Cut the crap, Cukes.” He glared at the back of Kukui’s head stonily, his jaw set. To preserve his dignity or some shit, or whatever the hell remained of it. “We both know I ain’t cut out fer this touchy-feely bullshit.”
Guzma’s string of curses behind him made Kukui feel a tiny spark of hope. He sounded upset—not angry, but maybe like some of what Kukui said had gotten through to him. Kukui turned just as Guzma spoke again, and as their eyes met Guzma’s harsh words and empty eyes caused the spark to dim. They were standing so close, as close as they’d been back in town when Kukui thought Guzma might actually take a swing at him.
He felt numb as the rest of Guzma’s statement washed over him. It hurt to think about their past, about the trust and friendship they’d shared. He thought he’d laid all that pain to rest ages ago, with help from Burnet and Molayne and the Kahunas. But clearly some part of him still held onto the hope that Guzma would let him back into his life where he’d once belonged.
He was glad, in a way. Maybe Guzma was too proud to ever let his guard down. He’d always been the most guarded of Kukui’s friends, a trait that had apparently only become more pronounced as Guzma got older. Kukui wasn’t a stranger to that kind of insecurity. When he was young he always worried what other people thought and wanted to look strong. He hated the thought of looking weak when everyone had such high expectations for him.
But he’d had people who believed in him. What kind of hypocrite would he be now if he condemned Guzma for that very same trait? If there was one thing Kukui learned as he grew up, it was that the weakest thing you could be was someone who let other people’s thoughts define you. Kukui didn’t shape himself around those external influences anymore. He was his own person, free to live without worrying about perceived strength or weakness.
Maybe right now Guzma couldn’t admit that he’d done wrong, that he was his own worst enemy. Whatever moment of emotion he’d had while Kukui’s back was turned, it was obvious that he’d shoved it deep down somewhere where he didn’t have to deal with it. But that didn’t mean he was a lost cause.
“You’re wrong,” Kukui said, as confidently as he could. “It isn’t bullshit. Feelings are a part of being human.” He drew in a deep breath. Kukui didn’t think Guzma was going to be any more receptive to this round of discussion than the last, but he couldn’t let a statement like that go, not when it went against everything he believed in.
“You can’t expect kindness and respect if you don’t show them yourself. Everyone gets what they give. So unless you’re content with your life as it is, addressing your feelings is the only way to change things.” Guzma had it in him, if only he would accept that part of himself. Kukui had to believe that was true.
