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Alola might be home to Guzma, but Hoenn is home . And boy, had he missed it more than he realized. The weather. The space. The Pokemon.
But most of all, he’d missed his dads.
Even if they are a little clingy. Day One of being home, Maxie had scarcely let Guzma leave his side, and Archie wasn’t trailing too far behind. Dinner had been all of Guzma’s favorites, from a rather grim attempt at malsada and the much better option of a meat-lovers pizza from a local joint. Day Two found Guzma trailing after his dads like a lost Psyduck as they puttered around the house and garden. He’d even gone so far as to help Maxie organize the numerous filing cabinets in the garage/office. Of course, he’d claimed he’d only been searching for baby Spinaraks. He’d even found a couple, too.
So, yeah, his visit to Hoenn is pretty banging. At least, it was. On Day Three, he wakes up with a scratchy throat, chills out the wazoo, and lungs that felt like they were being squeezed by all of a Machamp’s hands. Already he can feel the cough brewing in his chest.
Great. Just great. They’d had plans for the day, so Guzma sucks it up and drags his aching body out of bed and towards the kitchen. One step into the hallway and he can already hear Archie and Maxie bickering good-naturedly. In spite of whatever bug has him down, Guzma grins and leans against the kitchen doorway. While Archie is the better cook of the two–although not by much–it’s Maxie that’s bustling between the stove and counter. The burned plate of toast next to Archie’s mug is a testament to his efforts. By the sounds of it, they’re arguing over whose job it is to clean up the mess.
Maxie, ever the observant one, spots him first. “Ah, there you are. Good morning.”
Archie, in the middle of a dramatic gesture that slops coffee all over the table, spins his chair with an ungodly screech on the linoleum. “That’s my boy! Up and at ‘em at last!”
“Sure,” Guzma agrees, even though he feels much more down than he does up. “Mornin’.” He scratches at his stomach and yawns. A scratch in the back of his throat catches him off-guard, though, leaving him to cough into the crook of his arm.
Maxie pauses. Then he frowns. It makes him look older than he really is. "Guzma, are you alright?"
Archie tilts his head. "The landlubber's right, lad. You look a little peaked."
"Uh." Guzma shrinks underneath the not entirely unwelcome attention from his parents. "Feel a little under the weather, I guess."
"Then what are you doing, boy?" Archie shoos him back towards the hallway with a wave of his hands. "Back to bed with ye."
"But…"
"No buts," Maxie says sternly. "We'll bring breakfast in a minute."
Knowing there's no way he could pick–and win–an argument with both of them, Guzma quietly turns and trudges back to his room. No use for it, then. Flopping onto his bed, he buries his face in his pillow. Day Three? More like Day Ass. Although even in his drowsy haze even he can admit that spending the morning in bed sounds pretty damn good. Even from his room he can hear the quiet clatter of the kitchen. It reminds him of when he was little. Busy mornings getting ready for school. Evenings swiping snacks when the ‘rents’ backs were turned as they prepared dinner. Sick days on the couch with warm soup. Baking brownies and getting more batter on his face than in the pan. If Guzma had to pick a favorite room in the house, it’d probably be the kitchen. It’s where all the action is. As he lets his mind wander through foggy memories, he lets his eyes slip shut.
"What are you doing in here, scamp?" Archie’s voice washes over him, tumbling him under yet hooking him to the surface. When had he dozed off?
Guzma sluggishly lifts his head. "Told me to go back to bed."
"Hm." Archie rubs his chin. "That I did, didn't I? But I got a better idea." Without further preamble, Archie steps forward and scoops Guzma against his chest. Guzma, in spite of himself, squeaks. It had been years since he'd last been held like this, and it certainly can't be easy on Archie, considering Guzma's a grown man. And he has the height. But Archie makes it seem like nothing. He only chuckles, the grumble vibrating through his chest, and all Guzma can do is accept his fate. His head slumps against Archie's shoulder as he sweeps them out of the room and down the hall to the master bedroom.
There, Maxie is already waiting with a tray filled to capacity with three plates and cups. He raises a thin eyebrow. "There you are."
Guzma fights back a cough as Archie lowers him to the bed. "Was doing as told ."
"That is true." Maxie presses a hand against Guzma's forehead and tuts. When he pulls back, Guzma fights back a whine. "Archie, go get the thermometer, would you?" As Archie whisks out of the room like a whirlwind, Maxie returns his full attention to Guzma. His eyes are unbelievably fond. "You can't tell me you don't like the thought of being pampered all day." There's an unspoken like when you were younger , because that's exactly what happened. Another memory bubbles to the surface before bursting and fizzling out. Another time, another sickness, another day tucked up in between Archie and Maxie as they fed him snacks and let him pick the movies and held him as he cried.
He doesn't need that now. He doesn't . But…it wouldn't kill him to humor his old man. Old men. So he offers a half-shrug. Maxie sighs and shakes his head, but the upturn of his lips tells Guzma it's not directed at him. Something loosens.
While Maxie fussily straightens the quilt over Guzma’s lap, Guzma eyes the plates. “Whatcha make me?”
“Oh, you have eyes, don’t you?” Maxie sighs once more, but there’s a laugh on the cusp of bursting. Guzma can see it in the way his own eyes crinkle. “Scrambled eggs with a dash of hot sauce, just the way you like it, since I’d already been cooking when you came in.” He nods at the singular bowl. “And some oatmeal mixed with almond butter, honey, and blueberries.”
Guzma wrinkles his nose. He’d never been one much for oatmeal, but since it’s already there… “Don’t s’pose I get some of Dad’s coffee,” he says, waggling his eyebrows at the steaming mug on the tray.
“You get orange juice,” Maxie answers, voice stern. Then he softens, raising his hand to push Guzma’s bangs away from his face. “Don’t need you getting scurvy on top of a cold.”
“Do people still get scurvy?”
“Do people–yes, of course they do.” Maxie combs Guzma’s hair back from his face. “Archie, tell him.”
Archie, having just returned and clearly having not heard the question, simply says, “Whatever your pa says is probably right, unless he’s trying to tell ya shark skin is rough.” Maxie opens his mouth only to shut it a moment later. Not worth the effort of arguing, apparently. Grinning, Archie sits on Guzma’s other side. “Gonna take your temp, lad.”
Guzma wishes he’d hurry up, only because he is kind of hungry. Luckily for him, the thermometer is one of the fancy ones, just roll it across your forehead and boom, there you have it. The second Archie pulls back, Guzma’s reaching for the tray.
“Easy there.” Maxie steadies the tray before it can topple, helping Guzma settle it closer. “What is it, Archie?”
“101.2. He ain’t dyin’.”
“Well, I would hope not.” Maxie huffs derisively and takes his own plate from the tray. If he settles a little closer to Guzma, well, Guzma isn’t complaining. He’s got a breakfast to dig into.
It isn’t until the plates are cleared and the tray taken away that the icky side of illness really starts to dig its claws into Guzma. And really, it shouldn’t–he has Pops on one side, Dad on the other, and he’s home, safe and sound. At some point, he’d slouched back into the pillows, letting his dads’ voices wash over him. The gentle cadences are like warm waves, soothing the dull ache in Guzma’s head and the neverending current of anxiety in his heart. He’s drifting along on it when a sudden spike of anxiety pierces through. Why is everything so fuzzy? Why do his dads sound so far away? They’re barely two inches away from him.
Guzma sorta thinks he’s dying. Can’t they see that?
"Guzma? What's wrong?" Maxie's voice is clear, steady as always, but it hardly pierces through the fog clouding Guzma's mind. He hears a whine as he lifts a hand to the side of his head. Before he can hit himself, or scratch, or pull his hair, Archie's large hand wraps around his. Safe. Dad's safe. Papa's safe. But it can't stop him from grinding out, "What's wrong with me?" A familiar enough sentiment that in spite of the grogginess, Guzma knows that his dads are sharing a look over his head. Arceus knows he's seen it enough times.
"What do you mean, lad?" Archie kneads his thumb into the center of Guzma's palm. "You're sick, that's all."
"It feels wrong ." He tries to pull his hand free, but Archie's got a firm grip, and while he wasn't paying attention, Maxie's wound his fingers around the other. While it'd be easy to pull free from Maxie, Guzma really doesn't want to. He just wants his dads, and he wants his dads to help . "I-I dunno what's wrong with me, everything just feels weird and normally eatin' fixes it and it's not goin' away and everythin' feels drifty an'-"
"Guzma," Maxie interjects. "Breathe."
He does as told. It's shaky, and he has to fight back a cough, but the world rights itself just a teensy bit.
But the world still seems a little too big right now. His eyes well up. "Dad," he cries out. "Pops. Make it stop." And he begins to cry in earnest.
To their credit, Maxie and Archie don’t hesitate to press in on either side of him. Warm arms wrap around his shoulders from one side, while a hand cups his cheek from the other. The world wobbles again, but instead of lurching over the edge like he’d just done, he leans into his dads. That’s right. Dads mean less scary. Dads mean safety.
It still takes too damn long to stop crying, and by the end of it, Guzma is feeling more than a little embarrassed. At the same time, he doesn’t want the Guzma-sandwich hug to end, making it known by grabbing at both his dads’ shirts. Archie chuckles. “There we are, lad. We’re not going anywhere.”
“Of course we’re not.” Maxie twists and grabs tissues from the side table, then makes short work of dabbing Guzma’s face clean. He always had been a messy crier. “There we are,” Maxie repeats, leaning back. Suddenly Guzma doesn’t like the look on his face; his eyes are analytical, searching, and Guzma’s not entirely sure he wants to be known. Not that Maxie’s going to let this slide, even if Guzma is sick. Why would he? Answers. That’s all he ever looks for, in all the scrapes and bruises and hurts, even if none are to be found. “Now, lovebug, can you talk us through what you mean before? About being, ah, ‘drifty’?” When Guzma hedges, he prompts with a gentle, “Please?”
It’s not quite a question, so Guzma talks, as much as he doesn’t want to. He tries, anyway. Somewhere in the middle of his crying fit, his tongue had started feeling heavy, leaving words to clog up somewhere near his Adam’s apple. He talks about how he can’t quite grasp the threads of their conversation. He talks about how everything seems hyperreal even as his awareness seems stretched thin. He talks about how he sorta feels like he did when he was just a tyke, scared and confused, and won’t they please do something about it?
Both dads share a knowing look over his head. Guzma’s chest hollows out in relief; they know what’s wrong with him. They’ll fix it. The reprieve is short-lived once Maxie launches into what he dubs a “theory.”
Luckily for Guzma, Archie reigns Maxie in before Guzma explodes, but it does leave Guzma with a lot to think about. Regressed? Something about the way Maxie explains it feels right, but Guzma doesn’t have the brain power nor the energy to really sift through the words and their meanings. “‘S not bad?”
“‘Course not, scamp,” Archie says, punctuating his point with a kiss to Guzma’s temple. “Now, don’t you worry. We got you.” He tweaks Guzma’s nose. “And you’ve always been our swell little lad, now haven’t you?”
Impossibly, Guzma’s brain grows even foggier. Has he been? Vague memories of detention slips and scoldings tell him otherwise. “Nu-uh.”
Archie gasps. “Maxie, you tell him. He always did listen to you.”
With a sigh, Maxie cards his fingers through Guzma’s hair, pulling his bangs up and away from his forehead. His cool fingers feel nice against the overheated skin; Guzma can’t help but lean into the touch. “For once, Archie is right, you know,” Maxie tells him. “You’re a rascal, of course–look at who your father is.” Ignoring Archie’s outburst of indignation except to smile, Maxie’s gaze softens. “But you’re ours, and we love you very much.”
The beast in Guzma’s chest begins to slink away. “Love you, too.”
As is Maxie’s wont, he returns to business. “We’ll need to get you some supplies, I suppose, to help ease you through this. But that might be a bit much since this is new…and we certainly can’t take you out to look…hm…”
Guzma doesn’t have the heart or the words to tell him that this isn’t the first time he’s felt like this. It’s only the first time it’s felt this intense . But Maxie is right about leaving the bed. Just the thought has Guzma wriggling further under the blankets.
But Archie has a plan. “Maxie boy, have yer phone handy?”
“Yes, why?”
“I’ll go to the store and video call. The bean sprout can pick out anything that strikes his fancy.”
“That…might work,” Maxie muses. He looks down to Guzma. “Would that be okay, hon?”
“Pick out what, ‘xactly?” Guzma mumbles. “Supplies?” He thinks he knows what they’re talking about, but…
“Things for young ones,” Maxie confirms. At the twist of Guzma’s face, he’s quick to add, “Of course, you don’t have to use anything if you don’t want to. It’s entirely your choice.”
Guzma mulls it over. “It’ll help?” he asks timidly. “‘N’ I don’t gotta pick anythin’?”
“Yes, and yes.” Maxie presses a kiss to his forehead. “This is simply to take a look.”
“...okay.” Guzma isn’t sure what his dads are getting him into, but they haven’t led him astray yet. Mostly. It’ll be fine. Right?
* * * * *
Guzma's eyes stray over the array of brightly colored products only to catch on something. "Dad, wait," he mumbles before he can stop himself. The camera pauses on the shelves almost as soon as the words come.
"See something you like, lad?"
"Um." The thing is, he does. He just doesn't know if it's okay, if it's too babyish, if it's too much . His voice is quieter than he means it to be. "Maybe?"
Archie moves the camera closer to the shelf racks in question. "Well, have yerself a looksie."
Now Guzma's face burns. Because what else could have caught his eye other than a bunch of pacifiers of all colors and patterns? They even have a Wurmple one!
Before he can find the courage to ask, Maxie pipes up. "The baby-sized pacifiers won't be good for his teeth, Archie."
"Oh…" Guzma's stomach sinks in disappointment that catches him off-guard. Does he really want one that bad? Then Maxie's words catch up to him. That, and his tone. He'd used his reminder voice, not the one he uses to scold. He looks up at him. "Papa, how'd you know that?"
"I…er." It's Maxie's turn to transform into a tamato berry. Then his voice does turn scolding as a clatter comes from the phone. "Archie!"
Curious, Guzma peeks at the screen again. Then his mouth drops open in a small o. The camera's angled towards the cart, and right on top of the pile are two pacifiers. And one of them is the Wurmple! Guzma can't help but make a content little sound.
"Archie, what did I just tell you?" Maxie says irritably, even as Guzma's happy wiggling is making his expression soften.
"What's that?" The camera raises again, showing Archie turning the cart down the next aisle. "The–kzchht–cutting out. Sorry, go–kascht–tunnel–"
And the call cuts out.
Maxie stares dumbfoundedly at the phone. "He hung up on me."
Guzma, though, thinks this is the funniest thing in the world, and laughs. They aren't left alone too much longer before Archie calls back, his chortle rumbling through the speaker to settle snugly in Guzma's chest. He's still giggling himself while Maxie gripes about manners.
"None of that," Archie chides with a grin. "Now, where were we?"
The second call doesn't last quite as long as the first, partly because they run out of aisles and partly because nothing else quite nets Guzma's attention like the pacifiers. Archie ends the call with a promise to be home as soon as he can. Comforted by the thought, Guzma nuzzles closer to Maxie. There's still a trickle of unease snaking around his throat, though…
"Papa?"
"Yes, hon?" Maxie sweeps his fingers through Guzma's hair. "What is it?"
"Not mad at Dad?"
"Of course not." Pressing a kiss to his temple, Maxie smiles faintly. "He's just very silly today."
"Mm." Guzma chews his lip.
"What, don't believe me?" Maxie gently frees his lip. "I meant what I said about the pacifier, but I believe he's right to grab some anyway. That being said…" Maxie pulls up the browser on his phone and types something hurriedly into the address bar. When the site loads, he turns the phone so Guzma can see. "Why don't we pick out a properly-sized one while we wait for Dad, hm?"
While Guzma definitely still has his misgivings about the whole thing–what if he’s just sick? What if it’s just one of his Bad Days and he doesn’t realize?--he finds himself slumping closer to Maxie and lazily grasps for the phone. “‘Kay.”
And maybe it is.