Bus Ride

“This is taking too long.  I’m going home.”

“No, you’re not.  Plume’ll kill me if I let you skip.”

“Let me?  I’m not in Skull anymore, Guzma,” Gladion snorted.

Guzma inhaled as his irritation rose.

“Listen, ya little--”

“Guys, c’mon,” she piped up cheerfully. “This’ll be fun!  You can’t leave, okay, Gladion?”

She beamed at them, in that befuddingly mesmerising way she had, and even in the dark, over-saturated shadows of a brilliant Alola sunset, her smile dazzled them.  Some things just didn’t change.

Gladion coughed. “Alright, I guess it’d be rude since you just got back and all.”

The kid stubbed up after that, turning away from her and Guzma.

They were killing time at the foot of Mt. Hokulani, waiting for the bus with a bunch of other people.  Molayne and Sophocles were setting off fireworks, the awesome and really big kind, since it was summer and that’s the sorta thing that made summer fun.  A lot of people from the other islands had come, and it was lucky that Alola’s champion had come back from her several-year-long journey in time to see them, too.  All her friends were already up the mountain with food and shit, ready to throw a kinda welcome home party.  Plume, too.  When Gladion didn’t appear, Guzma and the prodigal champion had gone to drag him up the mountain.

She smiled and craned her head to try and peek over the crowd.  Guzma sniggered to himself as her nose crinkled in concentration while she stretched on tippy toes.  That smile hadn’t changed, even with her coming back all grown-up and stronger than ever, and neither had her pipsqueak stature.

“Havin’ some trouble there, shortstuff?” Guzma asked, smoothing out his pisspoor posture for once to emphasize his towering height over her.

She frowned a little frown up at him for a second before settling back on her heels and crossing her arms.

“Nope,” she said. “I’m good.  I can be patient.”

What a fuckin’ liar.  Guzma kept his shit-eating grin on and stared over the heads around them.  He squinted up the sloping and rocky road toward the mountain peak, feigning mock fascination all the while.

“Ya sure?” he said.  “Good stuff happenin’ up here-- ooh!”

She jumped at his sudden exclamation, leaping to her tippy toes again.  She strained to look above the crowd.

“What?  What is it?” she asked.

Guzma bent back over, snorting out an obnoxious laugh.  She stared at him, cheeks unintentionally puffing up.  Gladion rolled his eyes and took another step away from them, his lips pinched in annoyance.  Whatever, kid.  Yeah, Guzma was too damn old for this shit, but he was also old enough to know it didn’t do any good to act like you were too cool to tease a cute girl.  Can’t get nowhere like that.  ‘Sides, it was fun.

Guzma snickered and ruffled her hair. “Aw man, you’re just the same, ya little diglett.”

“So are you, you--you exeggutor!”

“Joltik.”

“Wailord!”

“Cutiefly--” Guzma stopped.

Why the shit did he say that?  His awkward pause made her tilt her head at him.  Aw, shit.  He was too old for this shit.  Calling her a cutiefly.  Cute.  He felt his face heat up.  Gladion narrowed his eyes at him over his shoulder.

Thankfully, the bus rolled in then, clanking and shuddering to a stop before the waiting crowd.  They trooped on, and the driver cheerfully apologized -- he’d blown a tire out on the way down.  That boded well for the rest of the ride.  Even packing the bus out to the brim, there were still people left behind to wait for the next bus.  Guzma and the others clambered on with the last passengers, but Gladion somehow managed to grab a seat while the other two were left standing in the aisle.  There was no room to squeeze a steadying hand onto a pole.

She stared up at the hanging handholds while Guzma easily grasped one.  She got this real determined look on her face, and her knees bent to take a jump -- before Guzma placed a firm palm on the top of her head and glared at Gladion.

“C’mon, ya punk,” he said.

Gladion crossed his legs comfortably in his seat.

“C’mon, what?” the snide little shit asked casually.

“You move, or--”

The bus flared to life, stuttering forward suddenly and squealing around a nervy u-turn.

“This road is somethin,’ folks!” the driver exclaimed.

Guzma didn’t finish his thought from before -- she had fallen forward with the bus’s jerk and now braced herself against his side, hands clutching at his shirt.  She tried to push away, but the continued violent sputtering of the accelerating vehicle threatened to pitch her face-first onto the floor.  Guzma swallowed, tightened his grip on his handhold, and steadied her with his other hand on her shoulder.  Guzma’s gaze shoulda cut Gladion to ribbons, but the kid just yawned.  He wasn’t really a kid anymore -- far from the scared, prickly little shit he’d been in Team Skull and certainly tall enough to reach the hand straps -- but sometimes he could still be a real brat.

“Gladion--” Guzma warned.

“I’m not moving,” Gladion said stubbornly.  He glared at her. “What?  You going to pull the Champion card?”

She stared back at him for a moment before reclaiming her customary beatific smile.

“Of course not!” she said. “The Alola Champion is a champion of the people, and always checks her privilege.”

She continued smiling brightly.

Gladion glanced away.  Sometimes she could be like this, with a disconcerting edge to her cheer.  Well, she didn’t get to be champion by grinning her way there.

She shifted until she had a firmer grip on Guzma’s waist, her little chicken arms snaking around his back.  She turned her dimpled, determined expression up toward him.

“We can do this,” she said fiercely, bracing against a pothole by leaning into his leg. “We’re not to be underestimated, right, Guzma?”

Cripes, what the hell was he supposed to say to that face?  The cheeks and cheekbones and eyes that had gotten more refined at some point over the years, but still wore a dogged, confident expression just as easily as before.  How the hell was he expected to think anything at all with her clinging to him like this?  He mentally cursed the swelling warmth in his face and tried to ignore the softness of her, the grip she had on his waist.  He internally shouted at himself to not sweat it, play it cool, Guzma.  Godammit.

“Y-yeah!” he finally answered her, his voice cracking. “Th-this bus ain’t got nothin’ on Guzma n’ you, girly!”

“Yeah!” she said as a steep curve threw her weight fully onto him.

“We’re gonna crush this hellride!” he said, glaring at his general surroundings with that dusty ol’ Boss glare.

“Yeah!”

“Potholes will be warning each other with our legend.”

“Yeah!”

“Roads will whip straight before our fury!”

“Yeah!”

Their voices rose to a stupidly excited volume.  At this point, Gladion had shrunk so far back into his seat, it seemed like he was attempting to meld with it.  His face was frozen, blank and narrow-eyed, and it would probably be a long time before he forgave Guzma or her.  But nobody was paying them any mind, yammering about the scenery or some junk.  Over the driver’s shoulder, Guzma spotted a particularly gruesome pit in the road ahead.  He was into it now, and didn’t even think about it as he flexed his grip on the handhold with steely resolve and wrapped the other arm around her until she was tucked flush against his chest.

“This is it, kid,” he intoned in a dramatic baritone. “The final countdown.  The big boss fight!  Ya ready?”

“I was born ready!”

Underneath them, the bus rumbled low and fast.  Behind them, dark and mottled exhaust streamed out into the wind like a trail daring the great predators of the wilderness to come n’ get some.  The sky reflected its vivid golds and vermillions onto the earth, painting it all into an abstract tempest.  The indefatigable tires of the bus devoured the concrete road with jolting voraciousness that shook them to the marrow.   The great hole gaped before them, growing with every milisecond.  What was wrong with this driver?  Could he not see that monstrosity?  He must be a goddam nutcase, playing chicken with a black hole.  A sociopath bent upon the mass slaughter of his innocent passengers.

The iron guardrail was flying past, the great jagged pit in the road unfurling menacingly as they leapt forward--

And then the pit fluttered away on a gentle breeze.

It was a tarp, probably slipped off the back of some truck.

It occurred to Guzma then that he was clutching her to himself desperately, as if they were in mortal danger.  Her body and warmth were pressed against him.  Her hands gripped around him, pulling on the back of his shirt.  It amazed him that anyone could ever be so flimsy and small.  She smelled of coconut and lemon cleaner and pokemon fur.  She stared at him with a soft glitter in her eyes.  The immensity of her, enfolded so neatly into his arms, sparked a tremor in his fingers and a thunder in his chest.

In the end, when they reached the peak Gladion stayed glued to his seat (despite her cajoling), and the bus puttered away back down the road with him still on.  Guzma had to apologize to Plumeria and endure her scolding.  And as the deep night chilled the mountain air, he tried not to think about it too much when the champion borrowed his jacket.  Everyone was there, having a good time and eating well.  And as the fireworks began, he tried not to think about it too much when she leaned against him to ogle the blooming, booming, galvanized and fluorescent fractals in the sky.