#parallel brain went brrrr

[rcbertsugden]

(with you, forever) (i can still see him, so it could be worse)

[ethereousdelirious]

Publishing a casual request from @fangusfungs ! I am a month late teehee

Okay so, I kind of went insane when I was researching for this oneshot. I TOTALLY FORGOT that Hala takes Guzma under his wing after SuMo/USUM and that made my brain go BRRRR, but it's also entirely NOT what you asked for sooo what I did was write TWO oneshots that are meant to sort of thematically parallel each other

1) Post-canon, Guzma gets sick after babysitting some kids with norovirus, Hala looks after him. This one is more fluffy, which is not at all what you asked for, which is why I put it first, so it's more easily skimmed

2) The actual request! (For my other readers: Nanu "detains" Guzma to keep him from passing on norovirus to the rest of Shady House)

Basically uhhh yeah I thought it would be fun to use Hala and Nanu as narrative tools to explore Guzma's character development pre- and post-canon. And also make Guzma puke a lot 💕

Thank you for the request! I've been a big fan of yours since like 2015 😁 I hope you like the fill(s)!

I

Plumeria had that look in her eye. That squinty, hard look that usually meant she was about to tell Guzma it was his turn to take out the trash, even though everyone in Shady House knew that he was above all that stuff.

But the Shady House days were behind them, and besides, what was there to argue about?

Guzma's stomach lurched, as it had been all morning, and Plumeria's look grew more suspicious.

“Jeeze, Plumes, what?” Guzma looked away from her, to the retreating form of the island challenger they'd just seen off. “You're lookin’ at me like I just stole your wallet.”

She looked at him a moment longer, then shook her head. “Forget it.” She started back to the mansion that had once been Shady House. The hostel thing had been Plumes’ idea, once Hala had explained how squatters’ rights worked. The whole place was barely recognizable now, bright with the fresh coat of paint Hala and Guzma had applied.

Guzma's stomach turned again as he turned to follow her, his heels dragging on the flagstone. “Plumes, what? Don't you hold out on me.”

She stopped suddenly, her hair whipping around her. “Are you feeling okay? I noticed you're looking pale.”

Okay, well, that was pointed— Another cold wave of nausea crashed over Guzma. Oh, she'd just been giving him shit about not washing his hands. He couldn't stop the shudder that ran over him, couldn't stop the nasty pressure through his guts. “Don't worry about— Ulk!” He gagged, knocking shoulders with her as he doubled over. “Fuck—” Another gag, stronger. He turned to the side and just barely missed painting Plumeria's tennis shoes with a long stream of bile. “Hrk—”

With a sigh, Plumeria took him by the arm and moved him down a few steps, pushing down on his shoulders to make him sit.

Guzma folded like a lawn chair, curling his elbows around the backsides of his knees. Pain rippled through his stomach, and the Alolan breeze cooled the sweat on his brow.

“I told you to wash your hands more.” Plumeria smacked the back of his head, though not very hard. “You don't take care of six vomiting kids and not wash your hands before you eat.”

“Man, lay off.” Guzma sighed and pressed his head to his hands. He probably wasn't sick, anyway. Probably just ate a bad malasada or something.

“Don't you go sneaking off anywhere,” Plumeria said sharply. She brought her hand down as if to smack Guzma again, then let it rest on top of his head, fingers pushing through his hair. “And don't you argue with me. I'm calling Hala to pick you up.”

“Plume— Nnk—” Another gag, and a wave of tears to Guzma's eyes. He wiped them away and shut his mouth.

—

Hala came by Charizard, and called another for Guzma, having seen firsthand what the ferry did to him, even on relatively calm waters. Even still, Guzma was swallowing back thick mouthfuls of salt-tinged saliva by the time they touched down in front of Hala's house.

He dismounted roughly, and the painful shock of his feet slamming into the ground had him staggering for the bushes. He dry-gagged into the dirt, fingers curling into the bark of some tree casting a shadow over Hala's house. “Unnngh…” A long stream of saliva dripped onto the roots, and cramps jerked outward through his stomach and deep down into his guts.

“My boy.” Hala's voice came close, though not too close. “Come inside with me.”

“One, uh… Hk— One second, old man.” Guzma stared at the ground, his free arm wrapped tight around his middle. The waistband of his sweatpants, usually loose around his hips, dug into the soft flesh of his belly. He shoved it down, tugging ineffectually at the knotted drawstring when the taut fabric stubbornly stayed put.

Hala made one of his old man noises, a breathy grunt through his nose. “Are you alright?” His feet shuffled in the dirt, getting closer.

With a groan, Guzma forced himself to straighten, though he couldn't quite get his weight off the tree. “I'm not some punk kid, alright? I'm fine.”

Still, he let Hala lead him into the house and sit him down on the couch. The old man lived alone, and split his time between this house and Hau's parents’ place. Kahuna duties must have been slow this week, because he had a bunch of fishing equipment and magazines all over the living room.

Guzma fell onto the couch and leaned forward to hold his stomach, which was starting to cramp like he'd taken a hard kick dead center, right in the softest part of his belly. A glossy fisherman leered up at him from one of Hala's magazines.

“Stay put,” Hala rumbled, after beaming Guzma for a long moment.

Guzma just grunted. A particularly sharp pain shot out from behind his waistband, and he scrabbled at the knot until the ends came loose in his hands. He shoved the waistband down below the irritated bloat of his guts and kept his hand there. Fuck this. Hala obviously had some ideas about babying him, keeping him from crawling off under the porch and dying like a dog…

Hala's heavy tread preceded him by a few songs, his footfalls rattling the pictures on the walls. Usually, he was good about not getting up in Guzma's business. Today, he came up next to him, towering over him on the couch, and held out a thermometer. “Take this.”

Guzma looked around. Before him, Hala's impenetrable bulk. Everywhere else, the rest of the couch and the coffee table boxed him in. Nowhere to go. Golisopod might be able to— “Mmph!” Hala had shoved the thermometer under his tongue.

“It wasn't a request,” Hala said.

Guzma's hand twitched, but he managed to suppress the rude gesture against his belly. Fuck it. If Hala wanted to spend a few days cuddling him, what did he care? Maybe Team Skull had disbanded. Maybe Plumeria had gone her own way. But Guzma was always gonna be Guzma, no matter what. He'd never go soft.

The thermometer beeped. Hala looked at it, then squinted at Guzma. “You have a slight fever. You'd better lie down.”

“Or what?” Guzma managed. He almost wished for the thermometer again, anything to mask the sour taste in his mouth.

Hala raised an eyebrow. “Or you'll be miserable. You could make yourself worse.”

“Whatever. Just show me where, old man.”

A long silence stretched out. Hala seemed to grow larger, somehow, his presence spilling across the living room, his bulk compressing Guzma's chest.

“...Please,” Guzma added sourly.

Hala nodded. “Come. I'll put you in my guest bedroom.”

—

There wasn't much to do in Hala's quiet old house. He brought Guzma a stack of fishing magazines, hauled in an old CRT TV along with a stack of DVR'ed martial arts tournaments on tape. He kept checking in every half hour or so, bringing Guzma water and crackers to try.

Guzma slept a bit, watched shirtless dudes try to kill each other until the grainy TV screen gave him a headache, made an obnoxious number of trips to the bathroom, tried to ignore the mounting pain in his gut.

It got worse and worse, until at last, he curled up on his side, gasping. He'd been sick before and it had never hurt like this, but now the cramps might as well have been claws. He shuddered, fingers digging into the loose fabric of his T-shirt.

After a long, long moment, Hala's booming footfalls grew louder and then stopped, followed by the shuffle of bare feet sliding across hardwood.

“Lift your head,” Hala said, his booming voice softened to a rumble.

Guzma blinked his eyes open. Hala got closer slowly, giving him time to protest. Guzma didn't. The mere notion of doing anything that might jar his stomach was absolutely unthinkable. He wasn't moving.

“Hold still.” Gently, Hala slid a cool hand under Guzma's head and lifted it, then pressed a pill to Guzma's tongue. His hand withdrew, then returned with a water glass.

Guzma swallowed. The pill stuck in his dry throat, and he had to keep swallowing and swallowing, draining the glass though his stomach made constant groans of protest at the intrusion. “What was that?” he mumbled.

“Something for the pain.” Hala stepped back and crossed his arms. “You're pale as a sheet, my boy. Why didn't you ask for help?”

Guzma scoffed.

Hala's expression hardened. “Asking for help is not a sign of weakness. True weakness is refusing to be weak.”

“That… Unh…” Nausea. Deep and urgent. “That doesn't mean anything… old man…” Guzma pressed a hand to his mouth. He had to keep that pill down. His stomach lurched and he drew his knees in tighter, swallowing down a gag with effort. “You can g— Hk! Go.”

“I don't think so.” Hala leaned forward again and sat him up as easily as he might move a child. “There. Put your head between your legs.”

As if he had much choice. Guzma couldn't straighten up if his life depended on it. He closed his eyes and panted, choking on the weak gags forcing their way up his throat. No… no.

Something pressed into his chest. He cracked his eyes open. A trash can. “Just go,” Guzma demanded, his voice shaky.

A warm hand on his back. “I'll be nearby. Call for me if you need something. Do not go without.”

Hala, bafflingly, stroked Guzma's back before shuffling out. Guzma pressed his lips together, to no avail. His stomach gave an almighty lurch, and a hot wave of vomit spilled over his tongue, past his lips, made an awful sound against the bottom of the trash can. His ribs burned with the force of another contraction. He vomited again, this time with a pathetic little cry: “Unh—!”

Head spinning, stomach aching, he fell back against the pillows. The room whirled around him, his sore stomach the only point of stillness.

Steadiness came back to Guzma by degrees, and on its heels, a sensation of total exhaustion. He turned his head toward the door and the room rocked again, warning him against getting up.

“H-Hala?” His voice was nothing but a croaked, his throat burning with the effort to speak. “Hala?”

Booming footsteps again.

Hala came in with hands full, made Guzma rinse his mouth and spit. He pressed a hot water bottle to Guzma's stomach, took the trash can away, mopped the sweat off Guzma's face.

He had a soft white cloth folded in his hand, dampened with warm water. He ran it gently over Guzma's eyebrows and temples and cheeks, soothing away the awkward, sticky feeling of dried sweat on his skin.

Guzma should have killed him for it. He wanted to. Call Masquerain, sneak attack… He was just so tired. “I don't—” Guzma caught Hala's wrist when he tried to pull back, the cloth hanging loose in his hand. “I don't need any of this.”

“No,” Hala agreed. “You don't.”

“M'still big, bad Guzma.”

Astonishingly, Hala smiled and rested a warm hand on Guzma's shoulder. “I know you could tough this out. You probably have before, haven't you?”

“‘Course.”

Hala looked at him for a long moment. “There's no pride in unnecessary suffering, not even your own.”

“Sure, but—”

Hala shook his head. “Rest now. If you need something, call me. If not for your own sake, then for mine.”

“Yours?”

“Because if you vomit in my hallway, I'm the one who has to clean it up.” Hala chuckled and dragged the cloth along Guzma's brow, unsticking some of the hair which had matted there. “I'll come back to check on you.”

He got up slowly, with the stiffness of an old fighter. Guzma opened his mouth, moved by something he didn't even know how to name. “Old man.”

Hala paused in the doorway. “Yes?”

“I— You— You won't make me soft, okay?”

“Of course not.” Hala turned away. “Rest well, Guzma.”

II

Shady House had a rule.

Well, Shady House had a lot of rules, because sometimes Guzma got an idea for a good one, and sometimes he forgot some, and sometimes a little runt was smacking his gum way too loud and he had to instate a “spit that fucking gum out when Guzma tells you to or he'll put you in a headlock and take it” rule.

The rule Plumeria had just brought up was one that came around like clockwork every rainy season: “Any member of Team Skull who pukes must quarantine until Guzma or Plumeria says so.”

All she'd said was, “Quarantine rule,” but that was enough.

Guzma glared at her, fingers clenching around the mop pen he'd been examining. He let go of it and let it clatter into the pile on Plumeria's bed. “I didn't throw up.”

“I'm not stupid, G.” She sat up in her chair and rolled her eyes. “I heard that noise your stomach just made.”

“Maybe I'm hungry.” He'd always had a noisy stomach, loudly declaring hunger or digestion or sickness. Today, it was a queasy churning, but Plumeria didn't have to know that.

She cocked her head at him like a Salazzle on the offensive, like she already did know “Are you hungry? You barely touched your breakfast.”

Aw, shit. And that, she would know; they'd gone down to the corner store together and she'd watched him chuck his musubi at a Raticate not 10 minutes after stealing it. “Look—” Guzma began, but his stomach cut him off with a long, low growl of irritation.

“It's either lunch,” Plumeria said, “or it's quarantine. Pick your poison.”

—

The smell of the malasada shop hit Guzma like a physical attack. He stopped short, not quite able to jerk his arm out of Plumeria's grip. His stomach had been noisy and, okay, queasy, on the walk over. Like it fucking mattered. There was no rule about quarantining for an upset stomach.

Plumeria nearly stumbled when he stopped short. “What?”

“I just remembered, Plumes— You're not the boss here. I'm the fucking boss.” Big, bad Guzma didn't get dragged around by the arm.

“Oh, please, G.” She tightened her grip on his arm, nails digging in. “I'm buying you lunch, not making you clean my shower drain.”

“I don't want it!” Guzma clenched his teeth and swallowed hard, his stomach turning over as the breeze wafted over the smell of frying dough.

“I can afford it.” Her voice had gone sweet and light, just like plumeria flowers. “I just shook down a Grunt for trying to steal my nail polish.”

“Who the hell tried to steal from you?”

“Not the point, G.” Plumeria tugged on his arm. “C'mon. You said you weren't sick, so prove it.”

“I don't have to prove shit!” Again, Guzma tried to shake his arm free, but Plumeria's grip refused to break. “Damn, Plumes.”

She ignored this. “G, you're white as a ghost. If you're not feeling well, just say so.”

“Yeah, right.” Guzma's stomach gave a loud growl, churning up more nausea. He raised his voice to speak over it. “And let all the Grunts think they can walk all over me? Forget it. I'm not sick. I'm not quarantining. I'm not eating lunch.”

The door of the malasada shop opened and shut. The smell of frying dough hit him again, and the heavier scent of cooking meat. It stuck in the back of his throat no matter how much he tried to swallow. He pressed his nose into his sleeve, but it didn't help. His mouth flooded with saliva. “Plumes, let go of me.”

“What, so you can—”

“Let go.”

She relaxed her grip, and he shook his arm free, turning away from the malasada shop.

Too late.

Cold sweat stuck his shirt to his back. He shuddered. A violent gag bent him double. He pushed his hands to his knees and vomited coffee and stomach acid into the grass. “Unnnhhh…”

His vision grayed out for a moment, and his ears roared. When it cleared, he was standing upright, his gaze falling blankly on Plumeria. She had found a payphone half-hidden in the tall grass. She was giving an address.

Guzma spat in the grass and blinked hard. Plumeria… on the phone… Quarantine… What was she— The only word he could get out was “Narc?”

She flipped him off and turned away, clinging to the phone with both hands like he might try to wrestle it from her. Not fuckin’ likely. He was shaking so badly he could barely stand.

When Plumeria was done, she came back over to him and pushed him onto a fallen branch, felt his forehead, checked him over. Her hand felt cool against his skin, which was probably a bad sign. But she was silent, and looked pissy.

Guzma tried his luck. “Plumes?”

“If you ever call me a narc again, I'll have Salazzle scratch your eyes out.

“Damn, it was just a question. What were you doing, anyway?”

She looked at something over his shoulder, then smiled at him, poison-sweet. “Narcing.”

Nanu must have been close by, because the old man was never fast. Even now, he strolled up the path like he was just out for a walk. Cigarette between his lips, Meowth at his heels.

Guzma tried to get up to run, but a sharp jolt of pain through his stomach kept his ass glued to the branch. He glared at Plumeria. “What the fuck did you call him for, huh?”

Nanu must have been close enough to hear, because he took out his handcuffs and let them dangle from his fingers. “To show you what happens to naughty boys who break the rules.”

“Oh, please. You can't cuff me. I haven't done anything wrong.”

“For once,” Nanu said. “Get up.”

Guzma got up. Whatever. His stomach hurt. He'd let Nanu give his stupid old man lecture and then be on his way.

Nanu closed the distance between them and cuffed Guzma before he even realized what was happening. One moment, he was standing with his hands in his pockets, and the next, they were handcuffed together behind his back. “Hey, what the fuck?”

Unhurried, Nanu went over and stubbed out his cigarette in the payphone's change catcher. Whistling, he came back and planted a hand on Guzma's back. “Come on, let's go.”

“Plumes.” Struggling against the force, Guzma turned back to look at her. “When I get back, you're dead.”

She saluted him and turned away.

Nanu gave him a shove, forcing him to walk forward or risk falling on his belly in the damp grass.

“Where do you think you're taking me, huh?” Guzma demanded, trying and failing to jerk away from the pressure of Nanu's hand on his back.

“Well…” Nanu drew in a long breath and let it out slowly. “Plumeria asked me to take you to the urgent care, but I don't much feel like waiting around for eight hours.”

They weren't going all that fast, but Guzma's stomach protested the exertion all the same. He leaned back against Nanu's hand. “Hey, slow down.” Nothing. “I said slow down!”

Nanu slowed down. “What is it?”

“Nothing, damn.” Guzma pulled against the handcuffs. Fuck, he just wanted to cross his arms, apply a little pressure to his stomach. It was really starting to hurt, and his insides were still churning like he needed to throw up. “You know, you can't cuff me unless you're arresting me.”

“You're a flight risk.”

“Get fuckin’ real.”

Nanu smacked the back of Guzma's head. “I'm detaining you.”

“The hell you are! For what?”

“For asking too many stupid questions.”

The walk was quiet after that.

—

Nanu marched Guzma to his house at a speed that Guzma's stomach really did not agree with. The walk had soaked him in cold sweat, and he shivered despite the heavy weight of his hoodie and the hot, humid air.

Worse still, his stomach had really started to churn again the moment Nanu's yard had come into sight. Guzma swallowed hard, with difficulty, and once again leaned back into Nanu's hand.

Nanu staggered back, his sandals sliding in the dirt. “Now what?”

“I, uh—” Guzma swallowed again, then again. He couldn't get another word out before his stomach contracted and forced him over double. Without his hands to brace himself, he staggered forward and would have fallen if Nanu hadn't caught him with an arm to the stomach. His other hand cupped Guzma's forehead, but Guzma barely noticed.

Nanu moved his hand up to Guzma's chest, but the damage had already been done. Guzma gagged violently, hands straining against the cuffs. A thin rush of bile streamed over his lip, making a dark pool in the dirt. He couldn't help but sag against Nanu's arms, though the part of his brain dedicated to self-preservation was screaming at him.

He was being a little bitch. “Get, unh… Get the hell off me.” Nanu backed off and Guzma fell into a squat, balancing on the balls of his feet with his chin to his chest. Fuck, his stomach really hurt.

“And you were just going to walk around like this,” Nanu said, rattling something. He got in close again and started working at the handcuffs. “Imagine if you were in the middle of a battle right now. Plumeria did you a favor.”

The right cuff loosened, then the left. Guzma fell back on his ass, pushing his palms into the dirt once Nanu got out of the way. “And your genius plan was to bring me to your house?”

Nanu lowered down at him, his head framed by gray rain clouds. “Look, every urgent care on the island is already backed up with norovirus cases. Kids on their island challenge, you know.”

Guzma rolled his eyes and spat.

Nanu continued, “So anything I can do to keep your butt out of the hospital is a win. Now get up, you can crash on my couch.”

Easier said than done. Guzma's stomach was aching fiercely. It took him several tries to stand, and even then, it wasn't quite straight. He followed Nanu inside and made for the kitchen.

“What do you think you're doing?” Nanu asked.

“I need water.”

“Then sit the hell down. I'll get it for you.”

Guzma pivoted and went to the living room instead, dropping onto Nanu's couch, which squeaked under his weight. “Get me a beer while you're at it.”

Nanu didn't answer. A cabinet opened and shut, the tap ran. After a moment, Nanu appeared and set a glass of water on the coffee table.

Guzma took it without thanking him, sipping it and swishing to clear the awful taste of vomit from his mouth.

After a moment, Nanu said, “The bathroom's there” and pointed toward a closed door. “I don't have anything worth stealing, so don't bother looking. My stuff’s marked, anyway. Everyone knows better than to fence it.”

Guzma would have rolled his eyes, but another mouthful of water hit the back of his throat and he gagged instead, vomiting everything he'd just drunk all over Nanu's coffee table in a surprisingly violent spray. The force of it made his eyes water, and he couldn't even pretend he'd done it on purpose.

He folded forward and put his head in his hands, breathing shallowly. Fuck, that hurt. Everything hurt, his ribs, his abs, his guts. And now Nanu was probably going to smack him and make him clean up.

“After I just told you where the bathroom is.” Nanu sighed. “Get in there.”

Guzma didn't raise his head. “Huh?”

“Get in the bathroom in case you need to vomit again.”

“You're a real hardass,” Guzma mumbled. After a moment, he hauled himself to his feet and staggered to the bathroom, where he dropped to the floor and curled up with his back pressed to the wall. He closed his eyes and listened to the sound of Nanu's muttering to himself while he cleaned up.

Guzma must have nodded off, because the next thing he knew, his neck ached and Nanu was kicking him lightly in the side of the leg. “What.”

Nanu dropped a pillow into his lap, followed shortly by a folded blanket. “I have to go to work.”

Guzma adjusted himself against the wall and rubbed his eyes. His stomach was still twinging, albeit not with the urgent nausea of imminent vomiting. “You're not staying to make sure I don't rob ya?”

“I already told you, there's nothing to steal.” Nanu stepped back and leaned against the doorway. “I put a bucket by the couch if you want to lie down again.”

“Hm.”

“Don't die while I'm out, alright?”

“Whatever.”

Guzma sat back and waited, shivering under the weight of the blanket. He waited for Nanu to slam the door shut, then forced himself up and down the hall. He shouldered his way into Nanu's bedroom, flopped down on the bed, and closed his eyes.

If he was gonna be a hostage, he was doing it his way.

[sunlightswallowed]

BOTH OF THEM are dutiful daughters. Marrying whom their fathers bid them, enduring marriages in which they felt no love. Isolated away from the world in high towers. And in the vipers' pit of court politics, everyone wished to curry favor with THE NEW QUEEN, but very few seemed concerned with the well-being of Alicent, the girl.

Well, Arianna, for one, was determined to ensure Alicent had at least one true friend, in herself.

❝ How odd it is that so many seem to think you're no longer the same person you once were, just because of who decided to wrap his marriage cloak around you. ❞ From any other lady, the words would be scandalous, but from Queen Alicent's cousin-by-marriage, who was rumored to be addled in the head by loss, it can written off as the babbling of a woman not quite there.

❝ It's not as though one's mind is erased simply because one acquires a husband. ❞

♔ ∵ * ∴  @hightowering