[ Tidus stuffs a piece of the muffin into his mouth, refusing to make eye contact. Refusing to raise his head so as not to make it obvious, as if he's more interested in his food, that this isn't prodding at a raw nerve. Or a reservoir of emotions new and old that don't know what quite to be. ]

I wasn't trying to be him or anythin'. [ Like the defensive that slips out, an implication or remark (an accusation to his ears once upon a time) that he'd learnt better to respond to in the public. But this wasn't Zanarkand; this wasn't the fans or reporters asking him, saying, telling, You're Jecht's son--but can you be Jecht? in every word asked. He could speak as he felt.

But it's sharper than Tidus means it to be, or he knows that to be sharp at all isn't fair, and he sounds embarrassed as he says- ] You get big teams in each side of the city and section. The Zanarkand Abes are in the A-East, you got the Duggles in C-South. No reason to join any other team if that's where I grew up.

[ So he says, and he says it well with that dismissively youthful tone, a cover, an easier way to approach this conversation with what's already fluttered up from his stomach and left a twisted mess for him to deal with deeper. His father, the last time he saw his face; his old man, the ghost of his alcoholism and his refusal to ever be wrong and anything other than a bully; Jecht, the Blitzball star that would be remembered passionately, always.

It's unfair, to be so dodgy about him--to refuse the idea of a comparison, like it's offensive, and have that be the impression he leaves with someone. When he got better. When he deserves better. Tidus fiddles with a piece of the muffin between his fingers, sighing a little as he goes on- ]

He was a good Blitzball player--one of the best. And he was a good guy. He wasn't the best dad, but. He did his best at the end.

[ He searches for something else to say, but pops the broken muffin into his mouth and chews instead. ]