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year 5, quarter 3
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Just a thread opening. You can have someone approach him in the storm or establish someone else taking shelter and I'll send Kuja to you.
Why should the world exist without me?
“Hm. For twenty pendants at four thousand gil each, I’ll need eighty thousand gil up front, I think.”
“Four thousand gil each? Last time they were half that!”
“And we both know they’re worth far more. I could always find another buyer, and with a few more demonstrations they’d swarm at the chance. But that sounds like quite the hassle, wouldn’t you say?”
The weathered merchant muttered something unintelligible, but vaguely displeased. Kuja touched at his bottom lip and smiled.
Idiots were so easy to persuade.
He’d come to this small desert town for the same reason he always did – to stock up on supplies for his oasis lair and to sell the various magical trinkets he’d charmed in return. As always, he’d been greeted with astonished gasps as his dragon had landed at the desert’s end and he had carefully slid off her shoulders and into the sand. They knew now that his dragon was tame. They’d come to accept that Kuja wasn’t likely to bring them harm, but whether it was due to his clothes, his mannerisms, or his magic, their eyes still followed him cautiously as he passed. He was unknowable. Dangerous. An enigmatic sorcerer clad in suede, silks, and the lingering touch of dragon’s feathers.
“Well?” Kuja cast the merchant a side-long, almost apathetic look. Behind him, the streets had nearly emptied from the abrupt winds that caught at his hair. He pushed it back irritably and cast the sky a distasteful look. The man before him was quiet for a moment before taking in a breath and sighing.
“Three thousand.”
“Are you so uncertain of yourself?” Kuja turned back to him, crossing his arms. “The magic in those pendants deflects both spells and weaponry alike. I’ve demonstrated them for you, and there’s no better time to sell protection.” His eyes drifted to the sky, a ghost of a smirk at his lips. “Dragon attacks? Mysterious strangers with odd swords and magic? I’d say most common people have good reason to be terrified.”
The merchant gave him a wary look. “Not like you,” he said, and Kuja glanced at him in question.
“Hm?”
“You said ‘common people.’ You mean anyone who was born here. Not like you.”
The accusation was so blatant that Kuja couldn’t contain his silent laughter and managed only to hide it behind the back of his hand. “I haven’t the slightest idea what you mean.” It was so strange to hear it upfront – a claim he would have killed to silence before. You weren’t born here. Not in this country. Not on this planet. It had become so commonplace as of late that he had no need to hide it yet still the words made his nails dig sharp into the flesh of his palms.
“Four thousand,” he said again. “If that’s unfair, I’ll find someone else.”
It must have been fair enough because the merchant relented. Kuja left the negotiation twenty amulets lighter and with a full eighty thousand gil to spare. Even so, Kuja’s smile soured the moment he’d turned away. It had been a long time since he’d been reduced to selling magical trinkets to sustain himself.
Not long enough.
He’d once been proud of the charms he’d created – simple amulets he’d buy as cheap jewelry then lace with Protects and Shells. Back then, he would have felt victorious at the purse of gil in his hands. Now it only reminded him of rented rooms with oglop-ridden floors. He’d already reverse-engineered the secrets of life using nothing but Mist engines. He’d already worked his way into nobility and ruled from the shadows with a silver tongue. He’d devastated the mightiest of kingdoms and wielded genocide like the spells at his fingertips.
And yet here he was. Back at square two, only one step above stealing. Back to the business that had kept a roof over his head at the age of fourteen. He scowled as he eyed the nearly empty streets, shielding his eyes form the harsh bite of wind. The traders had all fled indoors. He’d wasted his time.
Despite his plotting and his power, he still needed supplies – both for himself and the strange entourage he’d recently acquired. His dragon needed a reserve of meat for when her hunts failed. Nero needed – well, he wasn’t entirely certain what Nero needed, but at the very least that meant food for the both of them. Then there was the mysterious girl he kept unconscious in his desert lair. He hadn’t quite finished examining her, but it seemed she needed some manner of magical infusion, and for that he’d need various samples of catalysts and binding reagants if he hoped to find the proper dilution.
Yet now that he’d acquired the money for it, he was met only with wind whipping hot and dry against his cheeks. On the horizon, the sky had darkened with the approach of a black wall of sand. Kuja’s lips pursed at the sight of it. Another sandstorm. The last hadn’t ended for a week, and he couldn’t fly again until the weather had calmed. Could Nero survive for days on his own? Did it matter? Somehow, Kuja didn’t think he’d care either way.
When Cloud wakes, he has to open his eyes slowly; it even takes a few flutters until he can discern anything among the blasting sunshine. He sits up, head spinning, and sees nothing but sand for miles.
There is no one around.
There is no city in sight.
For a moment, it would appear that there is simply nothing else but the gritty dirt lying plentifully around him as far as the horizon, dunes and sheer piles dappling the desolate landscape, but then he catches a glint in his eyes.
He snaps to it, lunging his gloved hands into the hot sand and tugging free--
A sword.
He stares at it in awe and is quite surprised that, despite the massive size, it is seemingly weightless in his hands. He gives it a decisive swipe, watching the silver shine through the air for a second, singing with its speed. This is a handsome blade, one even better than anything they offered at SOLDIER. Which begs the question: how did he get it?
The sword appears to have locking mechanisms mottled along it, and as Cloud inspects it for a brief moment, he sees that it must be really many swords locked inside one.
But of course, it would be like Cloud to marvel at a sword stuck in the sand and not at the dire circumstances already beginning to play out: the sun is stuck high in the blue sky, fixed there and blazing the land with a heat that wafted from the ground and made the horizon wavy and bleary. Still it hasn’t dawned on him that he is in a desert with no water, no protection from the sun. He’s marveling at the weapon.
Then, a few minutes later as he sits and looks out at the reddish sand, he does start to worry. There only seems to be one thing to do, though: move. And so he does drift to his feet--sinking once and stumbling, then righting himself and sheathing the blade in a hilt strapped to his back--taking a step and then five, his boots and equipment making him more often sink then go forward.
He’s lost in the desert for three days.
And there is not only empty vastness either, he finds out--fiends prowl among the dunes, as thirsty and hungry as Cloud, eyes glowing in the freezing nights or their hisses whipping off the sand during the day. Cloud begins to recognize the species over time, such as the near giant lizard-looking beasts with horns that could harness all manner of elemental energies, or the half-man, half-bull that carries its own weapons that seem to range from battle axes to spears (thankfully, there were only so many of these he encountered). He fought them all with the blade he didn’t really recognize, but felt right in his hands. Each battle left him more drained, more bruised.
By the time he is stumbling into the desert town a sandstorm is frothing behind him. He knows if he doesn’t find cover soon, he’ll probably die here with sand stuffing his mouth. He slogs on, but by now he isn’t taking clear strides anymore--he is swaying to and fro, stumbling not from the sand any longer but from a weariness so powerful it threatens him even as he is so close to being safe. He hasn’t felt hungry since day one, his stomach clenching around nothing. The thirst, however, is beginning to drive him mad. More than once he heard his name, ringing clear through the dry air, but when he turned no one was there. He thought he even saw a girl with a pink ribbon peeking at him from behind a sand dune once, yet when he looked there she was gone. He began looking for her everywhere after that, as if they were playing a deadly game of hide and seek.
His sword is no longer in its hilt, but locked in a fierce grip as it drags along with him, its tip carving out the path behind him in the sand. He began to hold it because he feared he couldn’t pull it from the hilt for much longer, the effort being too great. He almost falls atop it as he hits the hard path leading into town. His boots thump with each heavy step.
Cloud sees a lone figure standing out in the streets, no doubt surveying the sandstorm looming over them.
He grits his teeth and pushes on, he’s so damn close! He tastes sand and grit in his mouth, and at this point he no doubt looks like a ghost drifting into the village, layered with dust and blood alike.
(He won’t admit, not even to himself, that the man’s hair struck him for a moment--the sheen of silver hair, how could that be so familiar?)
Finally, after what feels like lifetimes, he right there in front of the shorter man with his flamboyant shining hair and crisp make-up. Cloud strikes out his hand and clasps the stranger’s shoulder. It isn’t like him to ask for help, but when there’s no other option there’s a lot he’s willing to do. Cloud crumples then, falling to a knee, trickling out this one word softly, from a throat throbbing from disuse and thirst, voice cracking:
“Wa...ter…”
He’s not looking at the stranger (and even if he was strong enough to do so, it’s doubtful it’d be any different), instead his eyes, half-lidded, are staring at the ground. He’s even mumbling something, but it’s too soft to tell what it is, but he keeps repeating it, over and over, like a lullaby suddenly stuck in his head.
Hope you don't mind the mild god-modding. I figured he was half-conscious so I'd skip ahead
Why should the world exist without me?
Something touched him.
Kuja tensed. His fingers sparked with magic. It pulsed from his heart to palms -- ready to burn, to fry. He didn't feel anything more than a jostle of his armor, but something was there standing behind him while he was vulnerable. Kuja cast it a sharp look and caught a flash of messy blonde and vibrant blue eyes.
Blue like still water. Unnatural. Gleaming.
Kuja flinched and slapped the hand away. His nails raked across skin as he stumbled back, eyes wide. What was one of them doing here? Was it HIM? His eyes darted to the man's lower half, but saw nothing flicking there uncertainly, mingling with the sand. Kuja's shoulders loosened. The man had no tail. Of course he didn't.
The man crumpled to the ground, first on one knee and then the other. He was a wheezing mess of wasted flesh -- a wretch that wouldn't last much longer in the heat. He opened his mouth and gasped out a single, dying request. "Water."
Kuja's lips pursed. The scene before him would have been pitiable if Kuja had been capable of pity. Instead, he saw it for what it was -- a pathetic waste of his time. The man's breaths came low and shuddering. His head hung before him, too heavy to carry. Kuja eyed his heavily spiked hair. Familiar. His gaze trailed past his asymmetrical pauldron and to the sword hilt in his hand. There was a hunk of metal attached to it in the rough facsimile of a sword. His eyes cooled at the sight of it. Familiar. His stomach lurched the same way it had with that nameless paladin. He'd seen that sword before, or rather, he'd been on the receiving end of that sword before. His nails dug into the palm of his hand.
He knew this wretch the same way he'd known the story-book knight and that gaudy emperor. His memories belonged to the same infuriating fog. Whoever this man was, Kuja knew that they'd met before in that impossible land of gods and rebirth, and he knew that they'd been enemies.
His hand twitched with magic. Kill him. The man was defenseless. Weak. There were no witnesses. Nothing to stop him. Kill him. He raised his hand and brought it before him, crackling purple in the shadows. It would be quick. Easy. There was nothing stopping him. Not unless...
His eyes flicked again to that oversized and ridiculous sword. If the Warrior had spoken the truth, then anyone he remembered like this had to wield significant power. The Warrior himself had proven far more valuable alive than dead -- even if the choice had almost killed him. This man could barely stand. Kuja wouldn't have even needed to strike -- just to walk away and let the problem take care of itself. And yet...
And yet his feet wouldn't move. His hand had stilled. Looking over that ludicrous sword made his skin crawl and he wanted nothing more than to strike those placid blue eyes from his sight, but there was something more to the man before him. Something unknowable but not entirely unpleasant. Kuja lowered his hand. He could use him. Yes, that was why he'd let the man live. Nothing more and nothing less.
With a sigh, Kuja knelt before the stranger he'd once known and brought a hand before him. A few muttered words later, and magic slipped gently from his fingers into a cool sphere of water. He held it suspended above his palm before touching it to the man's lips. A mastery of the elements came with perks far removed from combat.
"Drink it, won't you?" He glanced to the shadows on the horizon. The wind whipped hot against his face and hands. "Or I fear you'll die." They needed to move if he wanted to save either of them. Kuja let the man finish before standing and glancing carelessly down the street. No one was watching, and he supposed it didn't matter if they were. Kuja snapped his fingers and entangled the man in magical bonds that lifted him almost like telekinesis. When he walked, the man's form followed -- bobbing up and down in the air like a cork but never touching the ground. Kuja kept his eyes ahead, sauntering through the town with an almost careless indifference. Let them talk. He glanced at unsheathed windows and unlocked doors. Let them make their wild accusations.
Why should I bother with a town as common as this?
The inn's door shuddered as he opened it. Conversation died. Kuja slipped inside with his macabre offering and endured the expected outcries. What was the meaning of this? What had he done to him? Why would he do something so sick and twisted? Kuja took it all with a cool eye and a placid smile. Then he flipped his hair over his shoulder and explained that he'd found the wretch at the desert's edge and could he please have a private room to help him recover? The air went silent then -- uneasy. They weren't taking private reservations with the coming storm, but they supposed they could make an exception if it was life or death. Kuja thanked them and tossed a thousand of his newly acquired gil their way. They wondered a little too loudly if he'd stolen it.
The room was bare but for a bed, an end table, and a single dresser. Kuja propped the sword against the wall and lowered the man carefully into the bed. He let out a breath as soon as the door had shut. The wind battered against glass window panes. The walls whirred with some distant machinery. Kuja ran a hand through his hair before striding to the washroom and wetting a hand towel with magic. He chilled it with a touch before laying it across the man's forehead. Still too hot. Still incoherent. Kuja filled a glass with further water and set it on the table beside him before approaching the window and gazing out it thoughtfully.
Why had he bothered with any of this? The answer was still as murky as the dust-ridden winds outside. Perhaps the man would awaken and offer him something valuable in return. Perhaps he'd die. The outcome hardly mattered to him when his thoughts were so muddled and his memory so clouded. Kuja crossed his arms and considered the storm.
Cloud is a dying man, but he keeps going, even as everything is flickering before his eyes. Somehow he is able to press his cracked lips to the floating orb of water before him and take tentative sips. (It tastes so good he could probably drink the entire thing, but he's so tired, so tired.) His head falls limp and then he's lifted, floating, everything feeling entirely weightless and it dawns on Cloud that he can finally let go, just stop. He fights still for a second anyway--his arms twitching, fingers drawn out as if reaching for the handle of a sword that is too far away, but still there, floating alongside him in the mage's deft spell. But then he stops, falls still and quiet, eyes shining, smoldering, closing.
(Dilly dally. Shilly shally!)
"----Cloud, you know you can always come home."
His mother is saying this. Her hair is in her face again, and she impatiently swipes it away so that he can clearly see the concern welling in her eyes. She knows, Cloud thinks. Of course she does.
His mother could see through anything. He remembered when he was eight and the other boys threw rocks at him, claiming later they were trying to scare away a boar from the village. Cloud had tried to tell his mom that he just fell down some stupid stairs, but she knew.
Just like she does now. He bites his bottom lip, like he always does when he's on the verge of telling a lie.
His mother holds up a hand, her gold bracelets jangling.
"You don't have to tell me," she says quietly. "You don't have to lie, at least. Just come home, Cloud."
He shakes his head in disbelief, "Why?"
And his mother, who so rarely got angry, who never raised her voice or slapped him, looked at him now with her lips thin, grasping the back of the kitchen table's chair with blotchy cheeks. Cloud ducks his head--he knows when he's pushed her too far.
"Look at you! Are you getting any sleep? Are you eating? I know you can't cook--"
He glances in the mirror, he's holding a dirty helmet large sword in his hand. He doesn't see what she sees.
"They push you too hard, don't they? I hear how ShinRa treats their SOLDIERs, but how are they treating you? Where do those below go, where do you l i v e--?"
"Mom, I'm fine. I'm getting stronger now," he insists.
"Stronger?" She repeats bitingly, shaking her head. "Do you really feel stronger now....?"
He steps back, defensive, "I got to go. We're going to the Reactor today."
Cloud pushes the helmet over his head, looking at his mother shaded through his visor. She's crying.
He clutches his sword tighter, spinning around to face the door.
"I'm fine. Bye," and he steps through the front door--
(Dilly dally, shilly shally!)
Kuja only has to wait three hours, then Cloud is struggling, gasping as if he had been underwater. He flies upright--everything spins dizzily in front of him--before dropping back against the bed's wooden headboard. Thunk. A splitting pain erupts in the back of his head and his stomach replies by twisting and lurching. He closes his eyes for a moment to keep from being sick.
Finally, once the spinning comes to a slow stop, he manages to glance around the room. A candle has been lit on a lone endtable, the wax dripping over the oak. It casts the white plastered walls in a rosy glow and Cloud thinks it makes everything look faintly as if it is on fire. The candle also casts dripping shadows in the corners, as black as night so that it takes a moment to spot Kuja among them.
His silver hair again gives him away (and Cloud feels that tug of remembrance suddenly, impatient), cat-eyes glinting. Cloud has a pulsing headache, but he manages to sit upright again, slinging his legs over the bedside. The moment his glowing eyes touch on the glass of water he scoops it up and drinks. He gulps it down and it's gone within seconds, Cloud panting, his stomach again twisting up at the sudden sustenance. He chokes back the vomit trying to force its way up.
Cloud is staring off at the wall that gutters with pinkish light. Shadows waver through it.
He spies his sword against the wall nearby, close enough that he could easily spring up and use it. He's too weak to walk, much less fight however. The sight is comforting nonetheless.
He lets the silence drape over them--Cloud only staring at the wall, breathing in the musky air and finally, after being awake for minutes now, he hears the shutters rattling. The sandstorm?
Cloud doesn't move from his spot, but he asks one question that gets to the heart of the matter: "Why didn't you let me die?"
Because, at that point when he was kneeling in front of Kuja, he was going to die. There was no question about that--if the silver-haired man hadn't intervened Cloud would be buried in the sandstorm outside instead.
He also has the feeling this isn't the first time they've met.
"...I don't think we were such great friends before," he mutters, old memories stirring, but leaving only the impression that if he wasn't so injured right now, they'd probably be fighting.
Kuja could hardly look at him as he paced, trapped in their prison chamber as the storm raged on outside. Beyond the door, there was base conversation and rumors he didn't care to deal with. Beyond the window, gale winds heavy with smothering sediment. Kuja wondered as to his chances in the storm. They were likely high with his magic, but his dragon would have taken shelter long ago, and he doubted he could call her until the skies had cleared. For now, he was trapped and alone with an unconscious stranger. Not a new predicament and one he'd certainly emerge from unscathed.
But why did he have to be blonde?
It caught in his peripheral vision every time he turned. Messy blonde dull in the yellow light. With every sweep of his hair or swivel on his heel, he was berated with another flash of the familiar. A feminine jawline pressed against the sheets. A slight frame with shoulders toned from use. This man was taller, at least. Broader. But it did little in the sickly light. He hated the consistency of that light -- so clouded and weak. As though the dust clouds had removed it from the sun. As though the planet itself were dying.
Kuja's heels clicked on the hardwood. A rhythmic tapping like the second hand of a clock. It wasn't until the light had faded that Kuja stopped. The room seemed empty without his footsteps. On one side, the howl of the wind. On the other, short and labored breaths. Downstairs, someone gave a shout followed by a clink of glasses. Kuja ran a hand through his hair, scowling. The room had faded to silhouettes and shadows. He grabbed a candle from the dresser and lit it with the tip of his finger. The fire danced in ominous shudderings like a child about to die.
Kuja glanced at the stranger.
Asleep. Still asleep, and nothing like Zidane. Not when the shadows caught at his slight eyes and the angle of his nose. A different face, a human face. His shoulders were too broad. His stature too masculine. This wasn't Zidane -- not anywhere close -- so why couldn't he get that idiot out of his mind?
Kuja swiped the cloth from the stranger's forehead and took it to the washroom again. The water ran cool over his fingers. Jarring. His nails curled into the cloth as he wetted it again. He'd done this before -- just once when Zidane had caught a fever. He'd had to bear with his whining all night, a test of his patience. Kuja wrung the cloth tightly before flinging it back on the stranger's forehead and wandering towards the window. It was stupid to think of that now. Pointless. Why did it even matter? When had it ever mattered?
The wind rattled irritably at the window. Kuja touched at the glass and scowled.
All of this was a waste of his time.
When the man finally woke, it was with a violence gasp and a flail like a seizure. Shock, he supposed, though Kuja was no less annoyed by it. After the flailing came a terrible thwack like bone on wood. Kuja raised an eyebrow and turned to face the man, but only found him splayed out on the bed sheet. Had he passed out again?
Apparently not because the man swung his way upright before long. Their eyes met briefly (those terrible blue eyes) before the stranger found the glass of water by his bed and took to it desperately. Kuja waited with his arms crossed, silent but for a soft click of his tongue. If they'd met before then he wasn't about to play his cards just yet. Not like with the Warrior. So he tilted his head and watched the familiar man impatiently -- waiting for something to work with and some lead to play off of.
Several minutes passed before it was given to him. "Why didn't you let me die?"
Kuja's lips pursed. How pointed of him. The man kept his eyes on the wall, breaths steadied and hands clasped. When he spoke, it was with the quiet reluctance of one unused to his own voice. "I don't think we were such great friends before."
Kuja's eyes narrowed. So he knew. But the question was what exactly did he know? The answers were foggy, even to him, and there were far too many unexplained variables. "Strange, isn't it?" His eyes glinted with a serpentine focus. "Do you have any inkling why that might be? A relic from the past, perhaps?" Kuja turned away from him at an angle, tossing his head to the side as he considered the ceiling. "Maybe I thought you'd prove yourself useful. Or could it be that I've finally formed a conscience?" Kuja laughed softly at that, a hand at the edge of his lips. The thought was ludicrous. Garland himself had declared him incapable of it.
Kuja lowered his hand and looked away, scowling. What was it he was missing? What crucial piece hadn't fallen into place? "Before? It's unlikely. Whatever came before was both impossible and undeniable. An anomaly shrouded in paradox like Mist beneath the twin moons." He tossed his hair over his shoulder, glancing coolly at the man before him. "I've heard ridiculous tales of that time. Fables of strife and warfare -- of gods and rebirth. Yet I know one thing for certain. I believe I hated everyone involved."
Kuja turned to face him fully, head tilted at an inquisitive angle. "Curious then, isn't it? That I'd feel the need to save you?" For once, there was no mockery behind his voice. No laughter. No plots. "Do you have any idea why that might be when by all accounts I should want you dead?"
As he sits there on the hard bed, he realizes how starving and sick he feels. His head is swimming, murky. A thousand fragments circle in his mind, making no sense at all.
He listens to Kuja patiently. He doesn't even turn his head at the other's silky voice. The questions jab him, as if the words were pinching his skin. The only answer in the room seems to be: I don't know.
"I've heard ridiculous tales of that time. Fables of strife and warfare -- of gods and rebirth. Yet I know one thing for certain. I believe I hated everyone involved."
Kuja winds down with batting the question back at him. Why?
"No. That's not right." Cloud says immediately, shaking his head at the man he still refuses to look at. "You didn't hate everyone..."
"Isn't there one here you once called an enemy--?"
(Cloud can almost see him too: similar messy blonde locks, equally blue eyes. A monkey tail swishing behind.
"Hmm? What am I?" The boy repeated with a dazzling laugh. "Actor, ladies man, hero--a jack of all trades! To sum it up: a noble thief."
Cloud had looked at him wearily.
"Isn't that a contradiction?" He'd asked.
The boy only laughed again, "Yeah. But life's full of those--it's what keeps it interesting.")
"Him? Oh, it no longer matters what happens to that one. All the encounters and memories in this world--none of it counts for a thing. If I'm to treasure any memories at all, I shall content myself with those I brought with me."
Cloud thought: he had a point. Maybe it all really was meaningless. He couldn't blame Kuja for being tired. They all were.
"Those memories you have, I hope you manage to keep them."
Finally, Cloud glances from the flickering wall and sets his blazing gaze upon--
"Kuja." And it seems to be, finally, an answer. But Cloud does not look relieved to suddenly remember the mage across the room. Not because they were particularly enemies, but what it implies overall.
This has happened before. Our memories... can they be trusted...?Cloud has a million questions he wants to spit out and fling across the room, yet he figures Kuja is as confused as he is. The funny thing is, Cloud never remembered this before, not once on Gaia--how many other lives has he lived? How is it even possible to exist across different timelines and be aware of it?
He looks absolutely terrified as his mind is flooded with yet more questions. There doesn't seem to be an end to them. He forgets about his lurching belly, the crust still coated on his face, the empty glass.
Cloud decides then that he and Kuja aren't friends. But they have something in common that he won't forget again.
It's then that Cloud stumbles to his feet and clunks into the bathroom. He ignores the dirty mirror above the sink, turning rusted knobs and washing his face quickly. By the time he is done the wash rag set on its ring is covered in red. He walks back into the room, hoping that Kuja had enough respite to collect his thoughts.
"Did you find him?" Cloud asks flatly. He moves to his sword and, with a wince, slides the blade back into the sheath that's still strapped to his back. There's only one person they both have in common, though Cloud only knew him fleetingly and, apparently, not enough to even recall a name.
He turns back to Kuja, eyes still lit and burning. "I'm Cloud," he says before looking away again. "In case... you didn't manage to keep them."
- - - -
ooc: um i actually don't remember if cloud/zidane meet, but they both fought for cosmos at some point so imma roll with it lol. *flings moar angst kuja's way*
The stranger kept his eyes forward, never wavering. Never looking at him. His hands were clasped, contemplative. But he responded almost immediately to his questions, not with an answer, but with an objection. ”No, that’s not right,” the man said, shaking his head. ”You didn’t hate everyone.”
”Pardon?” Kuja’s eyes sharpened on the man. Alert. Dangerous. The stranger’s gaze unfocused, oblivious to Kuja’s rapid heartbeat or the darkness that churned beneath it. It hadn’t been a question. You didn’t hate everyone. That was a statement as definite as fact. Something so self-confident that it couldn’t be mistaken for anything else. You didn’t hate everyone.
Lies. Kuja had felt nothing but hatred every time he’d had the slightest thought of that place. It burned hot at the sight of the stranger’s ludicrous sword or every time he’d met the eye of that self-righteous, story-book paladin. It had tinged within him upon greeting that gaudy, gold-clad emperor and it raged at the very sound of the word Chaos. Whatever had happened, Kuja had hated every second of it. Whatever had happened-
Kuja paused. His eyes darted to the man thoughtfully. Whatever had happened, this man remembered it.
”Kuja.” The word came like thunder. Two syllables that hit him in unbalanced waves. The stranger finally looked up and their eyes met – both sides nearly as alarmed as the other. Kuja stared at him without comprehension, half a step recoiled back and with a hand thrown in front of him as though to sling a protective spell.
This man knew him. How did he know him?
The stranger finally stood, stumbling a little as he fled to the washroom. The man’s footsteps stopped as the water turned on. Kuja stared after him. Whatever this man remembered, it wasn’t just vague feelings and a sense of familiarity. This man knew his name. He remembered events. Details. It was increasingly possible that this man – this stranger – knew more about Kuja’s actions than he did himself.
Kuja felt his nails dig deep into the flesh of his palm. If knowledge was power, then this man carried power over him. For the first time in a long time, Kuja was at a disadvantage.
Kuja cleared his expression as the water stopped and the man shuffled his way back into the room. He watched the stranger with his eyes cool and his lips pursed.
”Did you find him?” the man asked without explanation.
”Him?” Kuja echoed, but the man wasn’t looking at him. He made his way towards the sword and lifted the thing in one hand. It was like watching an ant carry a stone four times its own weight – unnatural. His eyes flicked between the sword and the man skeptically.
”I’m Cloud.” The man turned to look at him, and for the first time something more than exhaustion lit his eyes before he quickly diverted his gaze. ”In case you didn’t manage to keep them.”
”Cloud,” Kuja repeated. On any other day, he might have mocked that name (it was so easy, after all), but it felt too familiar now, almost sluggish on his tongue. But that odd feeling of nostalgia quickly melted away to frustration. ”Manage to keep what?” Kuja felt his eyebrows furrow as he took a step forward. Was this what ignorance felt like? He’d almost forgotten.
”You know something.” It wasn’t a question. Kuja shifted in front of the door and eyed the stranger – Cloud – almost accusingly. ”You remember something that I-…” The words trailed from his tongue. No, it wasn’t something that he’d forgotten, but something that blurred around the edges. Something impossible that defied explanation or logic. Kuja knew his own story, and this had little part in it. His lips pursed into a bitter smirk.
”Tell me.” It was an order, maybe even a threat. ”You should know as well as I that it’s all ludicrous, but such is the world we’re living in. If I’m to make any sense of it then I’ll need to know where it started. So what is it?” His eyes narrowed into serpentine slits. ”What exactly do you know?
Cloud was standing in the semi-dark, his blue eyes glowing, watching Kuja expectantly.
It was Kuja that had been so sure, the only one of them that clung to his memories with a ferocity that was elegant yet unnerving. It was Kuja that said nothing else mattered but what happened before.
Cloud waited. His stomach simmered with sour bile, reminding him that he hadn't eaten in three days. Three days and it only took him three hours to recover. Impossible.
But all of this was.
The shutters banged, clattering against the storm. And then Kuja stepped neatly in front of the door.
He remembered nothing.
Cloud looked at once disappointed, the corners of his mouth deepening with understanding. But it was the way Kuja flung his questions at him, the way he blocked the only exit, his words laced in fire and--
Fear?
Maybe not so much fear, but Cloud could see Kuja bristling, eyes cast with a frightening darkness. And it was finally, then, that Cloud realized exactly the sort of power he held.
Cloud remembered. Not everything, of course, but enough that Kuja was insulted by it. Cloud knew the answer Kuja wanted most of all: it was that nameless monkey boy with the cheery face and optimism that helped rally them all into a reckless war. What Cloud recalled most vividly about the blonde thief was that he was a leader--the sort of person that made you want to fight, damn the cause and all. Maybe it was his charmed laughter or his words of crude wisdom. Whatever it was, that kid was the only person Cloud thought could make it through absolutely anything, smiling and winking all the while.
But there was a key difference between Kuja and Cloud. Whereas Kuja would stash critical information away for later manipulation... Cloud couldn't wrap his head around such concepts. Manipulation? Bribery? These things took a touch of subtly Cloud altogether lacked. He was a bumbling soldier, he didn't know how to put together an evil scheme--he couldn't even piece together the memories in his head.
His stomach knotted again, grumbling lowly among the howling of the wind.
Cloud could feel the tension in the air, pulling his muscles tight and making it hard to breathe in the already stuffy, musky room. Outside, distantly, Cloud could hear others: glasses tinkling, laughter, the clatter of forks on plates with a piano jingling beyond. His hand rose slightly from his side to hover near his hip as if going to draw his sword. Yet his gloved hand remained there, both warriors locked in a standstill.
He drew in a breath and said tightly, "Buy me dinner. I'll tell you everything I know."
Suddenly, Cloud relaxed, drained from his slog through the desert and realizing a beat too late that he couldn't fight in the state he was in. He also knew Kuja wasn't to be taken lightly anyway. And there was his offer hovering between them: buy me dinner. It was all Cloud wanted, a simple request. It was all he would ever think to ask for.
Cloud didn't answer immediately, but tensed as though ready for a fight. Kuja's eyes cooled as he watched the man. Was he stupid enough to try anything in his condition? Had he forgotten the power that Kuja wielded, or had Kuja merely never shown it off in whatever impossible timeline they'd once inhabited? Perhaps he had because Cloud's hand never reached the hilt of his sword. Instead it merely hung there, cautious, uncertain, and defeated.
They both knew who had the true power in this conversation.
Silence spread between them, tense and hostile. After a second's thought, Cloud let out a breath and muttered his rebuttal. "Buy me dinner. I'll tell you everything I know."
For a moment, Kuja could only blink at him. Dinner? The proposal was absurd. Cloud wasn't in the position to be making demands, and of everything he could have asked, the request was completely insignificant -- almost friendly. Kuja's lips pursed at the thought. He didn't have the patience for his usual act today. Not for niceties or for well-practiced manners or even his usual brand of silent disdain. This man had broken that the moment he'd touched his shoulder, dying and having the audacity to remind him of Zidane. Kuja let out a short breath through his nose.
If this was what the man wanted, there were certainly worse alternatives. If the man's words had been anything more than lies, then this was a step towards the answers he'd been seeking since the beginning. Not one useless wanderer in this world had been able to give him even a hint towards the strange familiarity Kuja had felt since he'd met the Warrior of Light. Not one stranger had recognized him since. Not one striking face in the crowd had greeted him with anything other than confused innocence -- even when he knew they'd met before. But Cloud would give him answers if only Kuja played his part. And why else had he perfected his charming facade if not to use it for this?
So Kuja touched at his forehead, ran a hand through his hair, and smiled. "Is that all?" He laughed under his breath. "My, it sounds as though you merely want my company." It didn't feel right, not now with his dark thoughts and his soul on edge, but he'd acted through worse before. If this was what it took for information, he'd gladly give it.
"Well then, shall we go?" He gestured towards the door before opening it. "I'm afraid to say that the options are limited at best, what with the storm, but we'll have to make do." Kuja hated the wild, boisterous voices from downstairs. He hated the casual disregard for formalities or even human decency, and he hated the claustrophobic feel of it all. Far too crowded. Far too familiar with each other. Still, he had no other choice but to venture into the fray. The atmosphere quieted at his approach. Eyes turned to him as they so often did -- disapproving, judgmental, perhaps even a few in desire. He refused to look at any of them, but walked past with a haughty flip of his hair and the usual sway of his hips. He projected an aura of equal parts mystery and power, and he made it clear that he wasn't one to be trifled with.
His negotiations with the owner didn't last long. It took only a little persuasion, a dash of intimidation, and an insignificant bribe to secure them a space that was a little more private -- just a little quieter and removed from curious eyes. The food was far less to his liking, but he supposed he ought to offer the swordsman something, and so handed the owner a sizable sum of gold and told him to send them a sampling of whatever that would buy. Once alone, Kuja perched on the edge of his chair and tilted his head towards Cloud in interest. "I do believe I've fulfilled my end of the bargain," he said, eyes glancing towards the wall between their little room and the kitchen. From the sounds inside, whoever was unlucky enough to be on staff had thrown himself into a frenzy. "Now then. Would you mind?" He touched his cheek and smiled, but the warmth of it never met his eyes. "I'm afraid I've grown terribly impatient."
