Chapter Text
The next few days passed in a similar haze of monotony. Kuja avoided the crew as much as they avoided him, taking short but sporadic walks around the ship before retiring to his room, sick to his stomach, although he was pleased to find that he felt he was beginning to be able to walk around for long periods of time.
Blank and Vivi remind his most consistent company. Kuja had not approached Vivi about the night on the ship, when he had pushed Vivi too far and the young man had left the room in a temper. He wondered often what Vivi had wanted to say, but he supposed it wasn’t really his place to push the subject. He believed that Vivi would come to him when he was ready to broach the subject again himself.
Blank, conversely, chatted to him in those times when Kuja meandered too close to the helm. Sometimes their conversation was stilted, sometimes, it wasn’t. Blank was beginning to intrigue Kuja. He was a man of enough words to be pleasant, but did not seem to take much in the way of disobedience on the ship. He was, after all, essentially the Captain, although he insisted he did not need the title. Then there was the matter of his general appearance. He gave the impression of a devil-may-care sort of fellow, but Kuja had observed him more than once fretting over maps and crew members. It wasn’t often that Blank was away from the Helm, but when he was, he was keeping busy in his Captain’s quarters, either with crew members or elsewhere in the ship, keeping busy with some thing or another.
Kuja would admit to knowing very little about sea vessels. All he knew was that they were his least favourite form of transport.
On this occasion, it was late enough that the stars were beginning to shine overhead when Kuja wandered out onto the deck, walking stick tapping on the floor with every step. Blank turned his head to watch as Kuja made his way over, steadying himself on the railings as he came to a stop, not far from Blank.
“Evening,” Blank said, striking a match and lighting a nearby lantern that hung overhead above the helm.
For a moment, Kuja didn’t respond, looking up at the stars. “You know,” he said slowly. “Although the mist was largely concentrated in the valleys and basins of the mist continent, it’s still quite difficult to get a clear vision of the stars.”
“I got an observatory in Treno that’ll say otherwise,” Blank said, shrugging as he turned and unfurled a map, turning toward the light of the lantern.
“Of course I mean without the aid of science,” Kuja said, tilting his head as he watched Blank scrutinise the map. “Haven’t you been out this way before?”
“Sure,” Blank said, “But that doesn’t mean I don’t need a map in the open ocean…” Blank looked at Kuja then, and tilted his head. “All that to say it’s a nice night?”
Kuja shrugged innocuously and turned his attention back out onto the ocean, watching the distant stars. He would have looked up, but previous experience had taught not to while on unsteady ground. “I suppose.”
“Do you ever just say what you mean?” Blank asked, his tone, while not exactly short, did give Kuja the impression that Blank was not the sort of fellow to beat around the bush. It smacked of irritation, resigned as it may have been.
“Not really,” Kuja said. “Where would be the fun in that?” Kuja asked, glancing back to look at Blank, watching the shorter man glancing toward the sky as though asking for help. It was Kuja’s turn to tilt his head, raising a curious finger to his lip, eyes narrowed his fascination. “Of course…you can’t tell me you always speak your mind, I’m sure.”
“So what if I don’t?” Blank asked, turned to look at Kuja with a frown.
“So what if I don’t?” Kuja retorted, the finger at his lips retracting into a gently curled fist.
“Well, for a start, I can promise you, it’s not a good time to be keeping secrets,” Blank warned. For a moment, Kuja struggled to think what Blank might mean, and then frowned. So, Zidane and his fellows feared a relapse. A return to his nefarious ways.
In fairness to them, Kuja wasn’t sure how genuine his repentance was. Kuja had been weak, dying. Now, Kuja was just weak. What would happen when he started to regain his strength? If he regained his strength. If Kuja was honest with himself, he could still feel the pit of rage that had swelled within him at the revelation laid upon him by Garland. Of course, Garland was dead. His vengeance had been wrought, and Kuja recalled feeling distinctly justified. Now, however, Kuja wondered if he had just been being petty.
“...uja…?”
It didn’t take a genius to know that his ultimate response to Garland’s truths had most certainly been petty. Perhaps, if he had been more like Zidane, the two of them might have been able to reason with Garland. That said, Kuja wasn’t sure how many parts blind faith, stupid, and bravery made up Zidane’s particular brand of optimism. If it could even be called optimism. Faith? In humanity? In ‘good’? Kuja did not know what kind of virtue led Zidane to make the choices he had made.
“Kuja…?”
What had he done? He had abandoned Zidane like unwanted furniture. What if he hadn’t? But he had. What was the point in asking ‘what if’?
“Kuja,” Blank’s voice came into sharp focus when Kuja felt his hand’s grip his arms. “You’re shaking,” he heard Blank said, and looking down at his hands, he realised it was true. Suddenly, irrationally, Kuja’s chest swelled with fury.
“Don’t touch me!” Kuja snapped, shoving Blank violently enough that they both stumbled back from one another, Kuja colliding with the bannister at the edge of the ship. He scrambled to steady himself before he fell into the water below. “I’m fine…!”
Blank was quick to regain his footing. “Damn,” Blank snapped. “I just wanted-”
“I don’t care what you want!”
“Great,” Blank spat. “The feeling’s mutual.”
The two of them eyed each other warily, neither quite sure why this eruption of emotion even happened. Well, Kuja, at least, didn’t want to think about it. Kuja curled his hands into a trembling fist, realising after a moment that he had dropped his staff. He cursed under his breath. He always found he got weak at the knees as of late when he bent them after a certain point. It usually resulted in him falling to his knees and struggling to stand.
Luckily, he was already braced against the bannister and used that to lower himself with some dignity enough to grab the walking stick. He stood slowly and with great effort. He was panting by the time he was finished.
Kuja glanced up to see Blank watching him, with a most peculiar twist to his lips. It wasn’t hostile, but that was all Kuja could see in the expression. Kuja said and did nothing while he allowed the wave of dizziness that had taken him when he’d righted himself to pass. Then, he sighed, pushed off the bannister and slowly made his way back below deck without sparing Blank another glance.
Hours later, Kuja sat in his room on his bed staring at his hands. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that Kuja clearly wasn’t ready for heavy duty introspection. He hadn’t felt such a swell of emotion since he had discovered he was dying. He felt ridiculous. One silly comment and Blank had managed to make him feel weak.
It was more than physical weakness. Kuja already felt that.
The prospect of a relapse. Blank’s implied lack of trust. It only substantiated Kuja’s lack of trust in himself. He hadn’t even entertained the idea. Not really. He had wondered what it would be like to feel strong again, as though he had the world at his fingertips. Perhaps even more than one.
It was…frightening, if Kuja was honest with himself.
The only thing presently keeping him from going back to what he had been was this strange, prolonged illness. What was to stop him if he did go back to his old ways. Would Zidane have to kill him? He still didn’t understand why Zidane had spared him. He hadn’t tried to make Zidane explain in great detail. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.
It might just make him feel more pathetic than he already did.
He closed his eyes, breathing sharply through his nose and out slowly through his mouth. Kuja was recovering, slowly but surely. He could feel it. He grew steadier on his feet, his nausea lessened by the day. Kuja could even feel his magical energies beginning to flow again. In fact, he had a theory that his magical recovery was taking just as much a toll on him as his physical one. He suspected that was why he was feeling so sick. Perhaps, when his stomach stopped roiling at every little thing, he might be able to begin to cast spells again. He didn’t trust himself to try prematurely.
He just wondered how much longer he had before he really had to start thinking about what he was going to do with this new lease of life he had.
And he wondered, if nobody trusted him (which would be completely fair), if he would be able to do it on his own. Be able to live on his own. Live with himself…on his own.
What was the point?