yeah, yeah, i fucked up. // maxskulline.
Thereâs a bench next to her. Good, she needs to sit the fuck down and find anything - anything at all to keep herself grounded right now. Leveling the guitar between her legs, she tries not to break the handle when she adjusts almost a little too much of her weight on it. Itâs hard to feel connected to anything right now. The breeze, the smell of seasalt she can taste in the air, the screeches of Wingulls on the hunt for food, everything has lost its meaning, and she canât even take much notice of the muttering voices of the bypassing youths who would otherwise remind her a lot of all the times she - they had roamed these streets at night before. Back then, not even a full three years ago, when they had found solace in the night together. When their lives were fun, carefree, easier. Before it all went to shit.Â
Guzmaâs saying all the things she expects him to say. Says âem because theyâre rotting him from the inside, because heâs probably had too much time on his hands to think about everything he made himself lose. God knows what heâs been up to for the last couple years. Something cynical in Max feels surprised he has had made it out in one piece and briefly remembers watching him, alongside the president, fall from that wormhole on national television. It was the night sheâs asked Rosie to cut her hair, vanish from his radar in case he goes lookinâ.Â
Amidst his heartfeltness, Max almost wants to laugh. Any douchebag could come to his conclusion, then shed some fat crocodile tears as a nice, clean wrap up of the bullshit heâs been feeding her - but thereâs something about the way heâs holding himself that keeps her lips pressed together tightly. To keep listening. Max has had so much time to learn his body language, and to this day hasnât forgotten to read. Like picking up a previously loved instrument, you donât forget how to play it.Â
And so she watches how his hands keep picking at any texture they can find. How they tear at his shirt when he tries to resist pulling his hair out instead, and how he gravitates forward like a beaten mutt waiting for another whiplash at the hand of his master. Itâs not the regret in his voice she listens out for, although it sounds compelling enough and would tear at her heartstrings if she had any left. Something âbout the way he acts almost lets her believe his self-reflection is genuine. Almost. But Max would be foolish to fall for it so easily.Â
         âYou the best I ever had, baby girl,â
There it is. There it fucking is, the slip-up that makes this girl flinch like someoneâs smacked a hand across her face. She feels her insides coil like a pit of worms, cold sweat trickle from the back of her neck, legs urging to stand up and run out of his sight because itâs the one thing she cannot bear to hear. Not yet, not ever. Max hears herself whimper before she can even try to swallow the sound back. Gripping into the guitar until the wires cut into the flesh of her fingers, she hides her face away from his sight and urges her legs to finally move. Just fucking move, dammit.Â
Fuck. They wonât budge, and Guzma - he ainât done yet, either. Max doesnât know if she can take any more tonight, though she wantsâŚ. really wants to say something now. Heâs dropped his pitch, left her with the shards of his conscience, and she hates to admit that all of this really didnât look easy on him. Itâs new to hear him admit to fault. But, for all thatâs worth it could be a motherfucking good act.Â
The click of a lighter. Followed by a hiss, a shaky exhale. Max fumbles for a second cigarette, twirls it in her fingers, stares at the stick until sheâs found her composure. In a fit of self-awareness, Guzmaâs corrected his slip-up and, somehow, manages to look more miserable than before. Offers Max to leave because he got nothing left to say. âGotta say, I donât think Iâve ever seen you so small before.â Guzmaâs got his back turned to her, but sheâs finally regained control over her extremities and surprises herself by silently offering him that cig after a couple moments of a silent side-by-side. Thereâs no contact between them - Max makes sure he doesnât touch her even when he takes the cig. She chucks the lighter at him before leaning against the railing, wishing she could appreciate the seaview. But sheâs scrambling for words. Thereâs so much to say, but where can she even start?Â
âYou still in touch with the Prez?â, she never refers to the Prez by her name anymore. To be honest - in her opinion, sheâs never been worthy of Maxâs respect. Using her name has always felt like choking on toxic, volcanic ash. How she hates to admit sheâs been wondering if he - if thereâs stillâŚ.. a relationship, or whatever the fuck it was, between âem. âIâm guessinâ she finally showed you that you meant absolutely fuck all to her.â Spite laces her voice, because for so long, her voice had fallen on deaf ears. All of âem had told him. Plumeria did. He never wanted to hear it. âIs that why you chasinâ me these days? Because itâs over with her anâ you miss my devotion?â Max doesnât sugarcoat the admittedly petty truth of her own poison. Never afraid to lay it all out for him, no matter how much itâll hurt his feelings. Let him hurt, a dark part of her claims. Itâs the part who hurts up to this day. The part writing all these songs and finding a cynical satisfaction knowing heâs heard every. single. lyric.
She squeezes her eyes shut when the familiar burning reappears. Thereâs a knot in her throat while she reflects on everything Guzma has fed her tonight. She canât doubt that he was being sincere, butâŚ. isnât it all a little too late? Even if he does realize what he has lost when she left, when he abandoned her for a different life, breaking Maxâs dignity and taking the only thing that had mattered to her - from Rosie, too - how will she march through this desolation of losing all of her friends and family and the one fucking thing she wishes she had never loved? A night of talking will not fix the shards of bleeding hearts his damage has left behind. But, he made it clear he ainât expecting that. A long, tense breath sheâs been holding finally steals its way out.Â
âTo this day, I wasnât able to tell anyone whatâŚ.. what this shit did to me, yâknow. I canât tell anyone. The only way for me to process everythingâs through my songs.â A cluster of Wingulls circle a fishermanâs boat in the distant sea. âAnd thatâs just me. You donât understand the shit Rosieâs gone through. They messed her up, Guzma. They messed her up big time, and thatâs all I can say tonight. â At last, Max turns around and puts the small of her back against the cold steel of the railing. âI swore to myself Iâd make you feel like shit if I ever saw you again. To let go of all the pain Iâve been broodinâ on anâ make you feel just a piece of it. I wanted to hurt you back so bad, and nowâŚ. canât do it. Canât even feel happy to hear youâve been struggling all the while.â Though, she must admit itâs hard to feel anything at all right now. Sheâs a fucking pro at suppressing her feelings when shit gets too painful.Â
âI jusââŚ. all along, even back then, I couldnât understand. And I still canât. I donât think I ever will. How fast you had changed, like, a switchâs been turned, yâknow? You were cruel, all for the sake of appeasing her. Made me really wonder if you been playing nice to me and showed your true colours only âround her. Didnât wanna believe it of course, until thatâŚ. that night. Oh yeah, I believed it then.âÂ
Fuck. The very thought of that battle will undoubtedly trigger nightmares tonight. She canât bring herself to think of the horrors of watching her PokĂŠmon being tortured at the hand of his madness, no matter how vivid the memory. The reason she keeps avoiding his eyes all the time is because yeah, sheâs still afraid to catch a glimpse of it. But thatâs where Max only knows the half truth of what had happened to him.Â
âI donât know. I donât even know if I want to hear what the fuck happened at Aether Paradise. This donât feel like closure to me still and I dunno if⌠if thatâs what you meant to find. Right now itâs too damned hard for me to trust the Guzma I saw back then, the Guzma who fucked me up so effortlessly, ainât still hidden under all the regret.â
  He hears the click of a lighter and is surprised to peek back and find Max has read his mind with her offer. Is it really a surprise, though? She always seemed to know what he needed, when he needed, how he needed. Truthfully, her small charity ainât the reason heâs thrown off. Guzma accepts it hesitantly, and looks upon the brand name etched in cursive along the paper. Heh. Magmaro. She always had a pretty shitty taste in cigs, just like him. Guzma snorts soundlessly as he pops it into his mouth, allowing his reflexes to catch the lighter she throws. He doesnât thank her nor does he utter his surprise, because every word here counts. He knows she ainât interested in niceties, the fake shit. Especially now that they can be considered equals. He cocks his head, sparking the cherry up beneath the cover of his palm. That first deep pull breathes euphoria into him. A stupid, nostalgic little kind.Â
  He offers her lighter back, but then remembers how Max avoided his touch, and simply pitches it back on the bench before returning his weary eyes to the sea. Thereâs a ferry sailing away, and his brows pinch with envy. Now it is Guzmaâs turn to listen, and Max's words cause him to reflect on the song sheâd closed the night with. A certain line burns a hole in his chest just like this fucking cigarette.
        Youâre not half the man you think that you are.
  Thatâs what she means âbout him being so small, huh? Though his backâs to her, his shoulders visibly stiffen up and he sinks into himself a bit when she mentions the President, bringing another of her lyrics to his reflection. She is the only thing you ever see. Once upon a time, as much as the both of âem hate to admit it, thatâd been true. But now? Donât be stupid, is what he wants to say. For whatever reason he canât even mutter out his denial and simply shakes his head with it, mouthing a ânoâ that sheâd easily miss if she wasnât looking hard enough. Guzma hates this already. He wants to get angry. Break something. The cigaretteâs filter will do for now. He pinches the end and rips it off, continuing to burn at it without.
  Blowing smoke rings is one of the many strange ways Guzma calms himself, and his idle hand traces them with a finger after he sends them out. The widening circle frames the Wingulls at sea. His features are surprisingly stoic for the things Max is telling him, because it feels like heâs heard some of this before. In voices and insanity, that is, but heâs heard them all the same. Would it comfort her to know he had suffered a millennium of punishments, or would it just hurt her more? Would she snap and tell him to fuck off for trying to make her feel bad for him? Maybe sheâd think it wasnât enough for the shit he put her, Rosie; everybody through? Thatâs fine, too---heâd do anything she asked him to right now. Point is, Max is still a tough gal to read. What Guzma once saw as fun in herâs become something that unsettles him.
  Until to hear youâve been struggling all the while, it triggers something in him, and he grimaces as he fights an inner reflex. She doesnât know. She doesnât know about the toxins. She doesnât know about the regret as he collapsed over his throne seemingly for the last time, wishing he could take it all back and start over. She doesnât know about the year ân a half heâd spent locked up. About Toruga. Just like he doesnât know --- whereâs she been all this time, huh? Did she find something new, something better? Is coming back to Alola merely just a nostalgic farewell before she turns her back and sails away upon whatever new wave sheâs found? It always drove Guzma crazy, all the ways in which Plumeria would protect her from him whenever he caught glimpses of these letters, return addressed to Galar. Even just to fucking hear how sheâs been wouldâve eased some of .  .  . whatever this is. Now, Guzma understands why Plumeria---and everybody else---did the things they did.
  Maybe itâs because of their actions that Max is---sheâs still here. Talking to him. He wants to be thankful for it if it didnât leave such a bitter aftertaste. So he tokes it all away âtil his lungs are burning for a release.
  âMaybe you right, yâknow.â He lets his tracer hand fall back at his side and exhales a regular plume of smoke. Downstream it sways, taken with a gentle rush of sea breeze. Shifting from the harbour, Guzmaâs eyes set into a daydream at the ground before his feet. âWish I could tell you why I acted the way I did, but I donât think youâd believe it. I still donât believe it sometimes, ah? Itâs . . . â Rare it is that he wears long sleeves like he does now. The marks on his arms are only a fraction of the explanations he owes to her. âTruth is, I donât even know myself anymore either, Max. Big bad Guzma? Heâs a nobody. Always was.â Taking one last puff, he drops the roach on that same patch of ground and snuffs it out with his heel. âBut there is somethinâ I do know.â He waits until she does the same before making his move.
  âA way.â Guzma drops onto a knee before her, putting her on the spot. No more looking up, no more looking down. Their eyes are equal now---his just a little lower---and heâs mindful of her guitar as he shifts closer. The Guzma she saw back then, huh?
  âLook. Fucking look at me. In the face. Iâma be real witâ you if you gonna be real with me.â If she wonât, then heâs got no qualms taking her face in his hands and forcing her to despite how much sheâll act as though she hates it. He refuses to back down; has a feeling thatâs exactly what she doesnât want but needs. His eyes back then, they were white with apathy, blackened with corruption. Sunken, animal, lifeless. These that he looks at her with now---well, theyâre no less hollow, but theyâre clutching to life while sheâs in it. The grey she knew, tinged with lavender when one looks close enough. Itâs the subtle shade that'd taken Max almost an entire damn year to notice. Heâd laughed at her when she finally asked him about it. Guzma remembers one thing, and thatâs how much he enjoyed that there was still so much to learn about each other after all that time---even the littlest, stupidest fucking things. The monster he was couldn't cherish all the memories and ache to make new ones like he does now.Â
  âIâm not gonna be the one tellinâ you that it ainât. I canât be the one, Iâve realised that. Instead, I want you to tell me. Fucking look into me and tell me what the fuck you see, huh? Is it big bad Guzma, orâs it---is it just Guzma?â