It was hard to watch as Guzma struggled to process his response. Kukui didnât want to cause him any more conflict than he was already dealing with, but heâd thought it would be reaffirming to hear. Apparently it hadnât made things any easier. It was just further proof that he didnât really know Guzma anymoreâif he ever had. The thought was almost physically painful. What else about his friend hadnât he noticed? Heâd always thought they could tell each other anything. What had he done that made Guzma feel like he couldnât say anything?
Kukui didnât know what else to say as Guzma paced and glared at him, getting more aggressive and avoidant with each step. This wasnât going in a good direction; Kukui wanted to say more, but he didnât know what would help and what would hurt.
It didnât take long for the tension to burst again. Kukui didnât cringe at the outburst, but only out of concentrated effort. He understood why Guzma didnât want to talk about his feelings. Vulnerability of any kind wasnât his thing, and nothing opened you up to being hurt like baring your emotions. It wasnât easy for anyone, and with a situation this complicated Kukui knew that Guzma probably hadnât untangled all those feelings even inside his own heart. But Kukui did believe that talking would help.
âYou donât know nothinâ. Ya think ya got all thâ answers, donât you, professor? But ya donât. Look at me. LOOK AT ME!â
Guzma wasnât holding back, and each word cut straight to Kukuiâs heart. He did look at him. He stared Guzma hard in the eye and tried to keep himself from falling into anger even as he slipped down the slope of it. How⌠how resentful could you be? What a bitter, self-centeredass. He clenched his fists. Harsh words wouldnât make this situation any better and he didnât really want to hurt Guzma, even if what he was saying hurt him. Still, a traitorous part of him felt a rush of antagonism. Throwing âprofessorâ in his face like it was something dirty and contemptibleâas if he hadnât worked his ass off for it! Or maybe that was the problem. Tryingwasnât cool. Better to be like Guzma, bullying everyone around you to make yourself look tougher, hiding behind some facade of toughness because without itâwithout itâŚ
Kukui watched Guzma pull his hair again, that wild look back in his eyes. It was the most on-edge heâd been so far, but even that quickly dissipated in a defeated slump.
âI ainât hurt, see?â
Could it be more obvious that he was very, very deeply hurt? Kukui wanted to keep being mad, but as Guzma hung his head and all the fight went out of him once more, he just felt sad. Just a kid. Yeah⌠A kid whoâd been pushing away all the pain in his life for so long that he had no idea how to deal with it now, and no one around to help.
Kukui stood up, pushing himself upright in a slow, deliberate motion. He hadnât had any idea what he was getting into earlier, but as awful as this was, it was a necessary conversation. If it hadnât meant anything to Guzma, this wouldnât be happening. Guzma was all those things Kukui had thought of him. But he was also hurting, and that hurt⌠it turned people ugly. Kukui didnât have to like that person, but he could help him get better.
âYeah,â he said, nodding. âJust a kid. A kid who shoulda had people lookinâ out for him.â He sighed. He didnât want to highlight everything that had gone wrong in Guzmaâs life. There was nothing anyone could do about it now, and if he thought about it any more right now the guilt was going to make him useless. âI know I donât have all the answers. Iââ Kukui breathed deeply, trying not to think about too much of what Guzma had said about him lest he get angry over it again. âYou donât have to talk about your feelings.â Would that really be the worst thing in the world, though? It wasnât weak to feel things, anyone who tried to reinforce that line of thinking deservedâ Ugh. Kukui took another long breath.
âYou can act like you donât have them. You can do whatever you want. Thatâs a choice. If you feel tricked and lied to and hurt by everyone else, no oneâs gonna blame you.â If they knew what Kukui knew now, they might even be sympathetic. âWhat they do blame you for is how youâre choosing to act. If youâre angryâbe angry! Be mad! Itâs not wrong to be upset about things. Sometimes we canât control how we feel. But you can always control what you say and do. Itâs easy to give in and say awful things and lash out and make everyone around you feel as small and shitty as you do. ButâŚâ Kukui shook his head, turning away until his back was to Guzma.
You think you have all the answers. What was he doing but proving Guzmaâs point? There were no magic words that would make it all better. Talking at Guzma wasnât going to make him suddenly change for the better. But if that was true, Kukui was useless here. Guzma was so closed off and defensive, Kukui didnât know how to help and Guzma thought heâd look weak if he admitted to needing it.
âI donât know,â he said. âYouâre right. I⌠donât know.â
   In the middle of an Alolan afternoon, right when their conversation reached its zenith, Guzmaâs 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, Guzmaâs 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. Heâd heard the laughter and the subtle âI love yousâ 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 wasnât smart but he wasnât an idiot; his motherâs 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 justâjust sat there!  And his eyes would fill with traitorous tears and heâd 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 wouldnât 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 hornetâs nest.  Emotions coiled and tightened its embrace, venom pulsing toxic life into his veins. He unclenched his fists.  His friendâif thatâs what they were in the past, they certainly werenât now, or if they were, Guzma didnât know, his crew in Skull were his subordinates; there were no friendships in gangsâtried to explain. Comfort him, with words that sounded like a scolding motherâs and blamed him for his emotions.
   âItâs easy to give in and say awful things and lash out and make everyone around you feel as small and shitty as you do.  ButâŚâ
   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 didnât lecture him with this shit.  Neither did Halaâbut that old man knew better.  His moldy old traditions could rot for all Guzma cared.
â    Youâre right.  I⌠donât know.â
   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.  Heâd seen it allâand more.  Guzma had never admitted to being afraid of anything.  But he feared it then.  And nowâŚ
   Kukui was trying very hard to help him.  Make things right, or whatever.  Guzma didnât know.  He didnât know anything, not anymore, and that seemed fine.  For a while.  Kukui turned his back away from him, his shoulders sagging.  Felt as if heâd given up.  Back in Malie Garden, where theyâd met for the first time in years, hearing Kukui admit to not knowing everything would have thrilled him. Guzma wouldâve laughed and rubbed metaphorical dog shit all over his face, force him to his knees, where heâd be down off his fucking pedestal.
   That was then.  Now hearing those words sent dread trickling down his spine.  âFuckinââŚâ Guzma started, words jumbling in his throat, getting caught in his Adamâs apple before being swallowed.  âShit.â  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, wasnât right.
   When did he get so soft?  He must be more fucked up in the head than he thought.  Kukui wasâ⌠but the thought turned into nothing.  Nanu would have grinned, then.  Smug old man.  Thought he knew everything.  Guzma frowned.  Cursed under his breath.
   âCut the crap, Cukes.â He glared at the back of Kukuiâs head stonily, his jaw set. To preserve his dignity or some shit, or whatever the hell remained of it. âWe both know I ainât cut out fer this touchy-feely bullshit.â
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