It's not that Jecht is actively avoiding Tidus. It's Tidus who's doing that. Jecht... Well, he's keeping a distance (There's a difference). He's still not entirely sure how to handle Tidus's presence with everything the boy doesn't know. The best option is to give him the space he needs to settle in. Verens has no shortage of helpful and nice people. Tidus will be fine.
Probably.
So here he is doing his usual thing of swimming in the lake even though it's starting to become too cold for it. The world will have to ice over the entire lake to keep him away from it. It's a solace being able to dive and just stay underwater however long he wants.
It's not like anyone else will bother him so far down. And the lake's big enough there's no way he'll run into Tidus if he happens to think the same.
He can go for walks, he can spend time with people; he can check out the odd jobs going for anything interesting, or he can whittle away the money he has on pointless shopping ventures. Well, somewhat pointless: it's called living in a society, having to actually be settled in one place for the most part, not living on the road where you'd make do with what you have until you hit the next assortment of people. It's called essentials, and small comforts.
But none of those comforts are the same as drifting in water. The chilling state of the lake had deterred Tidus only for a short time after his arrival on the floating island, and that was partly for the necessity of supplies, needing to prepare than just jumping in without warming up first, having towels and good clothes to come back up to.
Once that was all out of the way? It was the best distraction he had from the world. See how long he could last. See how much deeper he could get.
It's all feeling: the way the water presses into the body, knows he shouldn't be there, and it's invigorating to disagree. The colours slur from turquoise to teal, and the fish dance in and out of his vision. Sometimes there’s fiends—or monsters, as they’re called here—that haunt the deeper depths, but they don’t come out this way often. Good.
There’s something up ahead though this time out, this deeper in, and Tidus blinks. Wood from a wreckage? Which is all he can guess, the colours blurring as dark, black.
He swims towards it with some caution, but more intrigue.
Jecht has his back to Tidus. He's venturing in deeper and farther out. There's a nook he noticed a few days ago and he kicks towards it, rounding a corner behind tall and thick floating weeds before seemingly disappearing from sight.
There's a curious hole that's only big enough for his arm and, of course, something shiny within. He raises his eyebrows and reaches in, brushing past something wiggly and slimy before grasping onto a solid item. He pulls.
Stuck.
He pulls harder.
Braces a hand against the outside and pulls again.
He braces his feet next. He's come too far to quit now.
More effort is applied until finally whatever is lodged inside pops free... and sends Jecht flying backwards a few feet now that he has nothing to hold him in place.
And if he could have reacted by simply turning and swimming away, that would have been great. Just given his legs and arms a good kick in some other direction, not caring if he was noticed in his leave. Heck, he'd have taken a monster attack. A fish attack. A giant fish coming and swallowing him whole and him leaving this mortal realm of existence. Anything else.
But no. He does the most amateurish mistake that no trained blitzballer worth anything would ever do:
Tidus chokes. Opens his mouth and lets out an air bubble, a gurgle, and regrets hit him about the same time he slams a hand hard across his mouth. Every fibre of him screams in a chorus of panic that could be translated to oh shit! with his throat clawing at itself to cough, to swallow, to do everything he can't—
And he's turning one handed, scrambling, knowing the awful distance between the surface and where he was and the burning of his lungs and trying to ignore it and oh fuck this is not how he wanted to go out—
Jecht, meanwhile, is easing his backwards motion while examining the item he found - what looks like a broken piece of statue covered in moss. Boring.
He tosses it aside and looks up just in time to see Tidus clap his hand over his mouth... and that tell tale bubble. Seriously?
He expected better, son.
No time for judgment though. Not unless he wants to judge a corpse. He rocks forward, drawing his knees up and pushing down to propel himself towards Tidus. An urgent and annoyed expression in the way he grits his teeth as he grabs his son with an arm over his chest. Even with his speed it would take too long to go back to the surface while dragging another person. It only takes one more look at Tidus to figure out the kid isn't going to last that long.
New plan: he stops and shifts his grip, turning Tidus to face the same direction he is, one hand under his chest while bracing an extended arm against the back of his knees with a bit of a push, more of an indication that he wants Tidus to push off from that arm while he throws him.
Whether or not Tidus catches on, he's getting launched. The combined power of a pro blitz player and a fighter (and some aeon) hopefully enough to torpedo Tidus out of the lake. Don't go dying on him.
The very instant they make contact, there's a repelling force that comes from it, born from emotions: sharp, refusing and panicked, and that's not including the actual thrash that Tidus gives from being taken hold of by his old man. He probably got an accidental jab at dad with a foot there. Good. If Jecht was looking for cooperation from his own flesh and blood, he must have mistaken him for another bleach-blond dyed young guy with a tan. There has to be another one of those around.
So, it's not the most graceful launch. And those emotions pushing against Jecht like a protective barrier begin erring towards a sense of fear—and shame—before one son finally gets thrown out of the lake. Or to the top of the lake, where Tidus's lungs will be happy once he actually stops coughing long enough to breath. He lets himself get something of his breath back, and then he's headed for land, for beach—whichever his legs can find first.
Unfortunately, he's nowhere near where he left his stuff. But he'll start walking, searching for where he put his towels, trembling from more than just the cold.
Jecht grimaces at the fight Tidus puts up. Some bubbles escaping the corner of his own lips as he grumbles. Damn kid's still rejecting him. He fights past that rejection anyway. Doesn't have any other choice. The launch and push back sending him floating backwards for the second time in so many minutes.
Fucking hell, is this what life is going to be like from now on? Worrying over what kind of trouble Tidus is going to get into and how hard he's going to reject him? (for good reason but still.)
He sighs (how does he even do that underwater without drowning?) and decides to stay underwater for a while, ignoring the inky black red seeping into the water.
He doesn't leave it alone for long. A few minutes later, Tidus will hear a call and get a towel thrown in his face. Not his own and a little damp.
"You tryin' to get yourself killed out there, kid? Thought you're the Abes' new ace." And there he is, gruff voice and all. Dripping wet and still looking smug and overbearing with his arms crossed.
The towel hits the side of his face, dropping onto his shoulder, catching into hands that raise on instinct to take it. But then it's thrown to the ground when the chastising reaches his ears, burning them, causing a shadow to coat him like a passing cloud.
It's stupid, he knows—whatever he feels about his old man, his body's getting colder, and he needs to dry off. But pride refuses him to bend to pick it up again, and instead Tidus twists his head in Jecht's direction, spits out without looking at him proper, "Who asked you!"
But of course he's wearing the uniform today. Why wouldn't he? And it's never felt so ill-fitting, to remember the logo across the pant leg. The same as his father arrogantly got tattooed across his chest, as if it was really his team. And it always was. Always, whenever it anyone had anything to say about him.
They're not that far from his things, he realises, head somehow a little clearer, yet the water trying to turn into thin sheets along his skin. So he stalks over, hoping Jecht will just get the idea and—go. Leave.
There's a bubbling buzz of annoyance in him as he watches his son stalk away. Jecht could do the same, give Tidus more time but he has a feeling Tidus will take it to the extreme. Neither of them are ever going to talk if no one pushes.
And Jecht is absolutely the worst person to push.
"You can't walk away from me forever, kid. I'm here, I'm real, and I ain't going anywhere."
It's ridiculous. How much easier it was to talk to Tidus at Dream's End when everything was coming to an end.
He stops on the rock of a foot, tastes the fight on his tongue that comes so easy from a wounded ego. So what—his dad wants to talk now?
"That'll be a change."
So Tidus bites, hard, loud and clear, before resuming to his things, hidden as a mound in the sand. He brushes it away to get to the bag underneath, his fingers slipping to undo the strings, but finally pulling out his own towel.
Jecht clicks his tongue. It stings. Every one of those raw emotions and the rejection and... this stings. He deserves it but he doesn't like it. They've been through this already. Once was enough.
He follows, stopping to watch as Tidus picks out the hidden bag. Smart. Cautious. A thought he doesn't linger on.
"You think I wanted to stay gone for ten years?" It comes out more bitter than he wanted, laced with a hint of anger that's really not directed at Tidus but is centered around him anyway.
It's strange not to listen to Jecht find ways to sing himself praises through his excuses. Satisfying as well, in some sardonic way. Tidus doesn't want to hear them; he wants to hear that anger, letting the towel sit in his hands than dry off what's already dripping onto it. Isn't this what he's always wanted? This chance to get back at his old man.
"I don't know, who tells me anything?" meets that bitterness in return, young and sharp and talking over the trembling from the cold creeping into his body. "I know mom's dead. I know she waited for you. Were you gonna ask? Or is everything about you?"
There's something hollow in bringing her up, but it doesn't feel completely wrong. The cotton's darkening with the wet patch building on the towel, and Tidus takes it finally to his face, rubbing away before moving it over his hair, his hands hard to control with the chill in his arms. He bundles it against his legs, but as he unbuckles the straps of his uniform to remove his jacket his face is already wet, his hair soaking again.
Tidus doesn't bother with it then. Just wraps the towel around his shoulders, and tries to use an end to wipe at his forehead.
Jecht flinches and hisses through his teeth. Thin reddish-black web-like lines spreading near his feet. Dammit, kid. The light dims around him but he steps forward, resting a heavy hand on Tidus's shoulder.
A heavy drawn out sigh follows. Then a gentle current of calm. It's not the strongest burst he can afford right now and there's a tinge of sadness to it but he keeps that mostly to himself. Mostly.
"I know she's dead."
His voice comes out thick. He still misses her. Of course he does. Auron's told him he has to let go but he hasn't yet. Can't. He's moving on, building a new life in Verens but he can't just wipe Spira or Zanarkand away. He pulls his hand back because he can't maintain that calm.
"I recorded everything to show you and mom but I knew I wasn't going home by the time we got to Macalania Woods."
The weight meets his shoulder and Tidus knows what it means, flinching immediately at its touch. Emotionally, the reason is the same as when Jecht had taken a hold of him in the water: something scared and panicked and confused, though the repelling force not as strong as it had been then.
But it doesn't have to be when Tidus pushes him off himself, turning if he has to, one arm keeping the towel across him and the other keeping propped up. Whatever effects of the calm may have begun to achieve recede to words that could never allow them.
'I know she's dead.'
A sound escapes him—a shiver and a gasp, sucked in on a breath. It hurts to hear it said back at him. Said back, and not even...to hurt him, or to scold. The shadows come to slip around his skin like a curse, a thin layer of shade over the colour of his skin and hair.
He shouldn't have used her like that. Now it sits in his stomach like concrete, the same as hearing his dad talk to him like this, and he's never been this cold, but he doesn't care anymore. His teeth begin to chatter behind his mouth as the towel drags now in its weight across his shoulders, water turning to ice, and he stares at the section of sand between them, refusing to look up.
But he asks, pushing through the shaking of his body, his voice:
He expected that rejection but he doesn't pull back until he's pushed off. It doesn't make it better to feel and see all these emotions get brought into the light... and very clearly tormenting his son enough to affect him physically as well.
Why are you Sin?
His expression hardens and a thin sheet of ice spreads under his feet. He smothers that emotion with Dunamis for now. Instead he reaches for his weapon in Regis's Armiger. First his own, then Tidus's. The latter he holds out to the blond.
"If you don't already know then you're not ready to."
It's not said unkindly but it's a little cold all the same. With his own sword in his other hand, he conjures up flames around the blade and jabs it into the ground between them. The fire red hot and exuding heat.
"You need to get warm or Auron's gonna have my head if I bring you home unconscious."
The familiar blue of the blade catches Tidus's eye, so course he looks; startled for a moment out of the emotions swirling in him for why the blade's there, or how. He doesn't reach to take it at first, maybe just confused about it being there. How supposedly Jecht had nothing, and now he has this.
Then Jecht speaks, and whatever initial intentions or distractions had been inside Tidus are gone, the red hot heat that comes licking off the blade stinging at his eyes. He doesn't blink, not until he stands; the towel knocked off him, the blade yanked from his father's hand to be speared into the ground to help him on his feet. Tidus stalks around the space of both blades and looks at Jecht straight-on for the first time, a hard anger pressed into his face and clenched in readied fists.
"No! You don't get to keep this from me! Tell me!"
Winds blow like sharp blades, and he's on Jecht before his feet should carry him, the fist punch to Jecht's chest harder than the shivering in him before should allow. Tidus doesn't care what's going on around him or because of him; the rage boils but doesn't burn as heat but translates into speed and strength, and with the first move, he's feral: looking to swing at Jecht more, to push at him, then go for him again, his actual successes not dismissing the shouting that goes on through it:
"Tell me why you're Sin! Tell me! You bastard! You don't get to keep lying to me! You don't have the right! You don't!"
But anger and a stubborn will can only help him so much, when still the shiver of the cold shudders through his movements, blind and wild.
Jecht sees the attack coming but he lets the first punch hit, and the second, lets the shove sway him back. It's the wind that actually leaves a physical mark though the cut along his cheek and arm barely registers.
His expression is carefully schooled blank and he lets his Dunamis suppress that complicated mix of emotions that manifest as tiny sharpened ice crystals on the ground. It doesn't matter whether he has the right or not. It was their fate... A stupid, crazy fate formed out of desperation. One he would change if he could.
He sees that anger and pain in the set of eyes that had refused to look straight at him since his arrival and something wrenches. An inky blackness spreads in the sand. A deep sorrow in his eyes as he reaches out to grab Tidus's wrist on his next punch... and then the other.
He grips them tight and doesn't let go.
His mouth feels like it's made of lead, so he waits till his son's anger eases, however little.
"You're not ready. There's something called Dunamis in this world. Learn it and we can talk."
Tidus writhes as he loses the control in his arms. Finding a cooling point to his anger is like waiting for the oceans to empty: the closest to it is when Tidus's vision hazes, the amalgamation of thick emotions in him and around himself, the ailing state of his body nearly making him crumble.
But he stays standing, straightening his knees and shifting forward.His chest heaving, the activity at least doing something to rattle heat in there, but—
More important is the steel-capped boot Tidus swings right at one of Jecht's fucking shins.
Fucking-- The kick drags a genuine wince out of him. That's... Yeah, that left some damage. He doesn't know why he didn't dodge that. But that's not important.
This ends now.
He releases Tidus's wrists and steps forward, draws an arm around the back of Tidus's shoulder. This close it's almost a hug. Probably would have been, if not for the sharp and solid punch straight to Tidus's gut to drag the air out of him and knock him out.
Tidus grabs at Jecht with a hand once freed, meaning it for support, his focus on another swing at his dad before anything else despite his failing concentration. It gets crushed when the arm wraps around him, but it wasn't going to stop Tidus from trying for another punch at his father; more of a slam, more of a knock. There was no time or sense or anything better than knuckles whitened by the grip of his fingers curled.
It doesn't get though, before the sharp pain at his abdomen, the choked sound that leaves his mouth. He can't see this close to Jecht, but still his vision blurs behind the dark; the fingers of his fist unfurling, brushing over skin before it drops.
The winds die, the tense air dying with Tidus's consciousness. His face is wet—but then, so is the rest of him.
Jecht silently completes the hug as Tidus slumps over, holding him with one arm, eyes cenched shut. There's no one there to see so he lets that wet streak slip down his cheek. The void-like darkness spreading in a haphazard shape like a blotch in the ground around him.
It'll work out. He'll find a way. They just need time.
For now he lets it hurt.
Once he collects himself, he throws Tidus over his shoulder, returns their swords to the Armiger and picks up the hidden bag in the sand, slinging that over his shoulder.
He tracks blackness in his path as he heads for home. He doesn't know where Tidus is staying. Auron may have mentioned the inn but he doesn't want to go there. Not like this.
And speaking of whom. his brother receives a ping through the amulet and a text - something Jecht never uses. The muted message only says: I'm leaving Tidus in the living room. His emotions got out of control and I knocked him out. I'm sorry to ask this again. Take care of him.
I'll sort my own mess this time. I... We need time.
He closes the connection and heads straight for home, to dry Tidus off, give him a change of clothes, cover him in blankets. Keep him safe and then leave.
Auron, who'd been working on ledgers for the Hearth and winding things up for the evening, kind of jerks at the mental message.
Then he swears out loud and proceeds to gather his things and run for home. Out of control emotions? That could be a lot of things with Tidus. Anger and resentment at Jecht. Perhaps destructive.
He doesn't find Jecht, but he does find Tidus, unconscious on the couch. He clenches his jaw.
Regis. Hey, you there? I've got a passed out Tidus on the couch. Think you can use your kingly powers to help him out?
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
blitzcheer) wrote2019-10-26 12:26 am
action; MID-LATE NOV I GUESS
Probably.
So here he is doing his usual thing of swimming in the lake even though it's starting to become too cold for it. The world will have to ice over the entire lake to keep him away from it. It's a solace being able to dive and just stay underwater however long he wants.
It's not like anyone else will bother him so far down. And the lake's big enough there's no way he'll run into Tidus if he happens to think the same.
No way at all.
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But none of those comforts are the same as drifting in water. The chilling state of the lake had deterred Tidus only for a short time after his arrival on the floating island, and that was partly for the necessity of supplies, needing to prepare than just jumping in without warming up first, having towels and good clothes to come back up to.
Once that was all out of the way? It was the best distraction he had from the world. See how long he could last. See how much deeper he could get.
It's all feeling: the way the water presses into the body, knows he shouldn't be there, and it's invigorating to disagree. The colours slur from turquoise to teal, and the fish dance in and out of his vision. Sometimes there’s fiends—or monsters, as they’re called here—that haunt the deeper depths, but they don’t come out this way often. Good.
There’s something up ahead though this time out, this deeper in, and Tidus blinks. Wood from a wreckage? Which is all he can guess, the colours blurring as dark, black.
He swims towards it with some caution, but more intrigue.
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There's a curious hole that's only big enough for his arm and, of course, something shiny within. He raises his eyebrows and reaches in, brushing past something wiggly and slimy before grasping onto a solid item. He pulls.
Stuck.
He pulls harder.
Braces a hand against the outside and pulls again.
He braces his feet next. He's come too far to quit now.
More effort is applied until finally whatever is lodged inside pops free... and sends Jecht flying backwards a few feet now that he has nothing to hold him in place.
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But no. He does the most amateurish mistake that no trained blitzballer worth anything would ever do:
Tidus chokes. Opens his mouth and lets out an air bubble, a gurgle, and regrets hit him about the same time he slams a hand hard across his mouth. Every fibre of him screams in a chorus of panic that could be translated to oh shit! with his throat clawing at itself to cough, to swallow, to do everything he can't—
And he's turning one handed, scrambling, knowing the awful distance between the surface and where he was and the burning of his lungs and trying to ignore it and oh fuck this is not how he wanted to go out—
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He tosses it aside and looks up just in time to see Tidus clap his hand over his mouth... and that tell tale bubble. Seriously?
He expected better, son.
No time for judgment though. Not unless he wants to judge a corpse. He rocks forward, drawing his knees up and pushing down to propel himself towards Tidus. An urgent and annoyed expression in the way he grits his teeth as he grabs his son with an arm over his chest. Even with his speed it would take too long to go back to the surface while dragging another person. It only takes one more look at Tidus to figure out the kid isn't going to last that long.
New plan: he stops and shifts his grip, turning Tidus to face the same direction he is, one hand under his chest while bracing an extended arm against the back of his knees with a bit of a push, more of an indication that he wants Tidus to push off from that arm while he throws him.
Whether or not Tidus catches on, he's getting launched. The combined power of a pro blitz player and a fighter (and some aeon) hopefully enough to torpedo Tidus out of the lake. Don't go dying on him.
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So, it's not the most graceful launch. And those emotions pushing against Jecht like a protective barrier begin erring towards a sense of fear—and shame—before one son finally gets thrown out of the lake. Or to the top of the lake, where Tidus's lungs will be happy once he actually stops coughing long enough to breath. He lets himself get something of his breath back, and then he's headed for land, for beach—whichever his legs can find first.
Unfortunately, he's nowhere near where he left his stuff. But he'll start walking, searching for where he put his towels, trembling from more than just the cold.
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Fucking hell, is this what life is going to be like from now on? Worrying over what kind of trouble Tidus is going to get into and how hard he's going to reject him? (for good reason but still.)
He sighs (how does he even do that underwater without drowning?) and decides to stay underwater for a while, ignoring the inky black red seeping into the water.
He doesn't leave it alone for long. A few minutes later, Tidus will hear a call and get a towel thrown in his face. Not his own and a little damp.
"You tryin' to get yourself killed out there, kid? Thought you're the Abes' new ace." And there he is, gruff voice and all. Dripping wet and still looking smug and overbearing with his arms crossed.
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It's stupid, he knows—whatever he feels about his old man, his body's getting colder, and he needs to dry off. But pride refuses him to bend to pick it up again, and instead Tidus twists his head in Jecht's direction, spits out without looking at him proper, "Who asked you!"
But of course he's wearing the uniform today. Why wouldn't he? And it's never felt so ill-fitting, to remember the logo across the pant leg. The same as his father arrogantly got tattooed across his chest, as if it was really his team. And it always was. Always, whenever it anyone had anything to say about him.
They're not that far from his things, he realises, head somehow a little clearer, yet the water trying to turn into thin sheets along his skin. So he stalks over, hoping Jecht will just get the idea and—go. Leave.
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And Jecht is absolutely the worst person to push.
"You can't walk away from me forever, kid. I'm here, I'm real, and I ain't going anywhere."
It's ridiculous. How much easier it was to talk to Tidus at Dream's End when everything was coming to an end.
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"That'll be a change."
So Tidus bites, hard, loud and clear, before resuming to his things, hidden as a mound in the sand. He brushes it away to get to the bag underneath, his fingers slipping to undo the strings, but finally pulling out his own towel.
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He follows, stopping to watch as Tidus picks out the hidden bag. Smart. Cautious. A thought he doesn't linger on.
"You think I wanted to stay gone for ten years?" It comes out more bitter than he wanted, laced with a hint of anger that's really not directed at Tidus but is centered around him anyway.
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"I don't know, who tells me anything?" meets that bitterness in return, young and sharp and talking over the trembling from the cold creeping into his body. "I know mom's dead. I know she waited for you. Were you gonna ask? Or is everything about you?"
There's something hollow in bringing her up, but it doesn't feel completely wrong. The cotton's darkening with the wet patch building on the towel, and Tidus takes it finally to his face, rubbing away before moving it over his hair, his hands hard to control with the chill in his arms. He bundles it against his legs, but as he unbuckles the straps of his uniform to remove his jacket his face is already wet, his hair soaking again.
Tidus doesn't bother with it then. Just wraps the towel around his shoulders, and tries to use an end to wipe at his forehead.
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A heavy drawn out sigh follows. Then a gentle current of calm. It's not the strongest burst he can afford right now and there's a tinge of sadness to it but he keeps that mostly to himself. Mostly.
"I know she's dead."
His voice comes out thick. He still misses her. Of course he does. Auron's told him he has to let go but he hasn't yet. Can't. He's moving on, building a new life in Verens but he can't just wipe Spira or Zanarkand away. He pulls his hand back because he can't maintain that calm.
"I recorded everything to show you and mom but I knew I wasn't going home by the time we got to Macalania Woods."
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But it doesn't have to be when Tidus pushes him off himself, turning if he has to, one arm keeping the towel across him and the other keeping propped up. Whatever effects of the calm may have begun to achieve recede to words that could never allow them.
'I know she's dead.'
A sound escapes him—a shiver and a gasp, sucked in on a breath. It hurts to hear it said back at him. Said back, and not even...to hurt him, or to scold. The shadows come to slip around his skin like a curse, a thin layer of shade over the colour of his skin and hair.He shouldn't have used her like that. Now it sits in his stomach like concrete, the same as hearing his dad talk to him like this, and he's never been this cold, but he doesn't care anymore. His teeth begin to chatter behind his mouth as the towel drags now in its weight across his shoulders, water turning to ice, and he stares at the section of sand between them, refusing to look up.
But he asks, pushing through the shaking of his body, his voice:
"Why are you Sin?"
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Why are you Sin?
His expression hardens and a thin sheet of ice spreads under his feet. He smothers that emotion with Dunamis for now. Instead he reaches for his weapon in Regis's Armiger. First his own, then Tidus's. The latter he holds out to the blond.
"If you don't already know then you're not ready to."
It's not said unkindly but it's a little cold all the same. With his own sword in his other hand, he conjures up flames around the blade and jabs it into the ground between them. The fire red hot and exuding heat.
"You need to get warm or Auron's gonna have my head if I bring you home unconscious."
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Then Jecht speaks, and whatever initial intentions or distractions had been inside Tidus are gone, the red hot heat that comes licking off the blade stinging at his eyes. He doesn't blink, not until he stands; the towel knocked off him, the blade yanked from his father's hand to be speared into the ground to help him on his feet. Tidus stalks around the space of both blades and looks at Jecht straight-on for the first time, a hard anger pressed into his face and clenched in readied fists.
"No! You don't get to keep this from me! Tell me!"
Winds blow like sharp blades, and he's on Jecht before his feet should carry him, the fist punch to Jecht's chest harder than the shivering in him before should allow. Tidus doesn't care what's going on around him or because of him; the rage boils but doesn't burn as heat but translates into speed and strength, and with the first move, he's feral: looking to swing at Jecht more, to push at him, then go for him again, his actual successes not dismissing the shouting that goes on through it:
"Tell me why you're Sin! Tell me! You bastard! You don't get to keep lying to me! You don't have the right! You don't!"
But anger and a stubborn will can only help him so much, when still the shiver of the cold shudders through his movements, blind and wild.
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His expression is carefully schooled blank and he lets his Dunamis suppress that complicated mix of emotions that manifest as tiny sharpened ice crystals on the ground. It doesn't matter whether he has the right or not. It was their fate... A stupid, crazy fate formed out of desperation. One he would change if he could.
He sees that anger and pain in the set of eyes that had refused to look straight at him since his arrival and something wrenches. An inky blackness spreads in the sand. A deep sorrow in his eyes as he reaches out to grab Tidus's wrist on his next punch... and then the other.
He grips them tight and doesn't let go.
His mouth feels like it's made of lead, so he waits till his son's anger eases, however little.
"You're not ready. There's something called Dunamis in this world. Learn it and we can talk."
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But he stays standing, straightening his knees and shifting forward.His chest heaving, the activity at least doing something to rattle heat in there, but—
More important is the steel-capped boot Tidus swings right at one of Jecht's fucking shins.
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This ends now.
He releases Tidus's wrists and steps forward, draws an arm around the back of Tidus's shoulder. This close it's almost a hug. Probably would have been, if not for the sharp and solid punch straight to Tidus's gut to drag the air out of him and knock him out.
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It doesn't get though, before the sharp pain at his abdomen, the choked sound that leaves his mouth. He can't see this close to Jecht, but still his vision blurs behind the dark; the fingers of his fist unfurling, brushing over skin before it drops.
The winds die, the tense air dying with Tidus's consciousness. His face is wet—but then, so is the rest of him.
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It'll work out. He'll find a way. They just need time.
For now he lets it hurt.
Once he collects himself, he throws Tidus over his shoulder, returns their swords to the Armiger and picks up the hidden bag in the sand, slinging that over his shoulder.
He tracks blackness in his path as he heads for home. He doesn't know where Tidus is staying. Auron may have mentioned the inn but he doesn't want to go there. Not like this.
And speaking of whom. his brother receives a ping through the amulet and a text - something Jecht never uses. The muted message only says:
I'm leaving Tidus in the living room. His emotions got out of control and I knocked him out. I'm sorry to ask this again. Take care of him.
I'll sort my own mess this time. I... We need time.
He closes the connection and heads straight for home, to dry Tidus off, give him a change of clothes, cover him in blankets. Keep him safe and then leave.
LIke he always does.
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Then he swears out loud and proceeds to gather his things and run for home. Out of control emotions? That could be a lot of things with Tidus. Anger and resentment at Jecht. Perhaps destructive.
He doesn't find Jecht, but he does find Tidus, unconscious on the couch. He clenches his jaw.
Regis. Hey, you there? I've got a passed out Tidus on the couch. Think you can use your kingly powers to help him out?
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