Chapter Text
“I hate you.”
Not even minutes after the newborn with blonde fuzz was home and those were the first words the eight-year-old Kuja said to his brother. Not that he would know. Zidane - in all his infant ignorance - just stared at his brother with wide cerulean eyes and resumed kicking in his crib.
It was simple really: mother wanted something cute. Father had given her another baby in response and now all her attention would be on it. Kuja had only received so much anyway between the alcohol and general negligence, but that much would not be shared; it would all be given to Zidane.
He hated it.
Worse, he had to share his room and the few possessions he’d ever got. It wasn’t as though Zidane cried during the night - Zidane only slept quietly around him - but that didn’t matter. Any other time, his useless brother cried, but he was always smiling at him, mocking him.
---
Kuja hated Zidane.
When they got older, the little brat wouldn’t leave him alone.
Mother still took Zidane away and gave him all the affection, but when she was done, the toddler would come back and invade his space. Kuja wanted him to go away, but they still shared a room. Zidane touched all his old toys and pulled on old blankets Kuja wrapped himself in, and he still wanted more. Despite having more food, Kuja scowled every time Zidane looked his way at dinner.
He wasn’t going to let him take that.
---
A cold day was perfect; Kuja was twelve and Zidane was four.
Mother and father (when he bothered to be home these days) had been making him take his brother to the park in Lindblum. That day, he did and while Zidane played, he left, walking back home and leaving the door open to make it look like his stupid brother walked out on his own. He did his homework, wondering if someone had taken Zidane or if he was just sitting there and freezing as it turned to night.
Mother didn’t ask when she came home - father didn’t come home at all.
And someone did find Zidane eventually; they took him to the hospital.
When he came home, it was in the accompaniment of an imposing older man named Garland. He frightened mother and father into remembering Kuja was there, warning them he would be keeping an eye on their house, but that wasn’t what elated him the most.
It was how quickly their parents lost affection for Zidane after Garland had gone.
---
Kuja was thirteen.
Zidane was five.
Mother wanted something cute to love again and within months brought Mikoto home from the hospital.
Same fuzzy blonde hair, different emerald eyes, but she didn’t bother Kuja at all. No, he didn’t care; he understood by now, but his stupid brother didn’t. It amused him to see Zidane try to comprehend why mother didn’t pay attention to him anymore and why father wasn’t around. He lost his toys and blankets, and meals became small, and he didn’t look at anything but his own plate. At least Kuja never had to share his bed like Zidane with Mikoto because their parents couldn't bother getting him a bed. It left him in the crib with their sister who unfortunately didn't fuss and kick and disturb Zidane as much as Kuja would hope.
“G’night, Miko. I love you.”
…
Kuja hated Zidane.
---
He became very good at pretending - just like mother and father.
Garland checked on them two times a month, and every time, Kuja pretended. He smiled and told Garland about things that happened, but didn’t.
Mother was better, she was drinking less.
(She’d be gone all night before visitation.)
Father was home more and smiling often.
(He was only home for these meetings.)
Mikoto had her own room and a new bed.
The last was a half-truth; and so was telling Garland he had gotten a job to help out his parents. When it came time to talk about Zidane, Kuja said everything was well. He never knew if one day Zidane would tell the truth himself - about sleeping in the corner of the room with the old worn bed sheets or digging around the garbage for any food - but he hadn’t so far. Instead, he was pretending too - perhaps imitating him?
Kuja hated him truly.
Zidane didn’t talk about himself, but everyone else and played better on his excitement. Mikoto got her own room, it was bright pink; mother loved playing dress-up with her; father got a promotion; and, did you hear? Kuja got a job and bought himself new books the other day! Kuja scowled behind Garland; Zidane even managed to wag his tail. It was such a pathetic display, but honestly, whatever. His foolish brother could play up the fantasies enough that Garland was satisfied at least.
Mikoto didn’t talk meanwhile, but Kuja didn’t care.
She knew he didn’t.
---
He left the moment he could with no intentions of going back.
However, several weeks in his new home, Kuja had noticed he was missing his favorite book by Lord Avon.
Leering at the place where he’d been raised, he entered without knowing what to expect… and almost immediately recoiled.
It wasn’t for lack of cleanliness - no, the house was tidy enough - but for the smell, like something hadn’t been washed properly in ages. Melted candles stood at varying points throughout the house, several lower than others and a few burnt to nothing. Trying a light switch, the power didn’t come on. Glancing the way of the kitchen, he didn’t dare see what condition the refrigerator was in; besides, he was only here for one thing and it was probably with his silly brother’s meager collection of discarded junk. Strange how his brother performed so poorly in school, but he enjoyed reading.
Within the old room he used to share, it was as he expected. Zidane had his collection of sheets laid out to more imitate a bed that wasn’t there on one side with pillows he'd moved from the couch, and his little treasure trove sat opposite of it. Among it, Kuja made out some old coloring books, but nothing that matched the binding of his book. Rolling his eyes, he wondered what Zidane could’ve done with it, but stepping out of the room, he heard a creak. Whipping his head, he caught emerald eyes peering from a lone room down the hall.
Mikoto said nothing and just closed her door.
Sighing, he prepared to leave and dreaded the thought of coming another day - it would be his luck then to encounter his brother entering the house as he prepared to leave. Gods, and he put on that fake smile...!
“Kuja! I didn’t know you were comin’ over!”
“I’ve only come for my book, nothing more.”
“Book? Oh, I think I know what you’re talking about. Hold on…”
Kuja didn’t reply, but watched his small brother drop what could barely be called a bookbag before he hurried down the hall. Part of him wondered if Zidane should be bigger, but a better question, why would he care? He’d been nothing but a thorn, taking what little Kuja had been given and smiling all the while through. And who did he think he was putting on acts like he did? Was the idiot trying to impress him?
Lip curling, Kuja turned to the door; forget his book, he would try coming back for it later.
“Wait, Kuja! I have it, it was in Mikoto’s room--!”
He was a step out the door when his brother ran into his back. His silver tail, usually hanging limp, curled with its fur standing.
“Don’t touch me.”
“Huh? Kuja?”
“ Shut up . How have you not caught on in ten years?” he hissed, knowing he was losing control of his temper. One could only act so long, and around the source of all his problems, it wasn’t possible.
“But Kuja…”
Zidane touched his hand.
He remembered red, but he also recalled two piercing points of blue. Several crashes followed as a small light stand toppled, the lamp sitting on it falling seconds before Zidane hit the ground. Several candles of various heights fell with less grandeur, the tallest breaking, and nothing moved after. Kuja came back to audibly hearing heavy breathing - felt himself gasping and his throat was stinging. He kept leering down at his brother, feeling all his anger burning his skin. He looked so damn small and pathetic and he hated him.
The door down the hall opened again, but he ignored his little sister as he leaned over and picked up his book. And just like her, he’d ignore the red pooling under his brother’s head.
Ready to leave this place for good, he was startled to have his book ripped away. Temper flaring, he expected to meet Zidane’s eyes, but locked with Mikoto’s instead. She wasn’t glaring at him but staring while clutching the book to her chest. She doesn’t say anything - she’s never said anything to him, but when she knelt next to Zidane, she held the book out to him.
Mikoto doesn’t understand… and something about her not understanding was less amusing to Kuja. There’s more insisting, and she’s shaking; it looked like she wanted to talk, but she kept looking his way, moving closer to their brother.
He blinked, noting her quivering tail and hunched form.
Oh… she’s scared of him.
Zidane was never scared of him, not even as an infant.
(He stopped crying whenever they were together.)
Zidane always liked his company and listened to him.
(It was so easy leaving him at the park.)
And he was always smiling that stupid smile even as he mumbled good night from only blankets.
(He always managed to say that and ‘I love you’, but Kuja scoffed. How could he know what that means?)
Always smiling despite knowing their father wasn’t coming home or mother was doing god knows what somewhere in Lindblum. Always smiling as he watched Kuja cook even if he wasn’t getting anything. Always smiling in an empty room with a growling stomach and Mikoto could be trying to eat a few feet away.
Smiling and waving even as Kuja left their home permanently, yelling nonsense about coming by for a visit…
He only remembered seeing fear in his eyes once and that was just minutes ago.
Zidane loved him, didn’t he? Truly, truly loved.
“I hate you.” But a baby doesn’t understand that, does it?
… What had he done?