A/N: Hey everybody, I just wrote this on a whim to try and give myself a break from Light. Auron, in my opinion, is just about the coolest character in the game. I really like Rikku, too, but I'm not necessarily a fan of the two of them together. Anyway, enjoy.
Disclaimer: Anyone who's read my stuff knows that there's no way I could come up with a character as cool as Auron. So,all this belongs to Square.
Homesick
Now what do I do?
He's just standing there, at the same spot where we ended the scattering of his mother's ashes ten minutes ago. If he were a little older, I would be able to just let him alone, let him deal with it himself, and not feel so horrible. But he's so young . . .he's only a little boy. A little boy who's had both his father and mother taken from him in the space of a few months.
Two famous parents at that. I frowned at the cameramen who hadn't left us alone since we left the house for the funeral. The boy was clearly upset that they were there, but he didn't comment. Perhaps he felt they were an inevitable part of the proceedings.
Maybe that's why he was standing here so long. He was hoping that they would get bored and go away. After all, the child should have some private time to say farewell to his mother. The cameras kept flashing. I guess it was not to be.
"Come on."
He looked up at me as I walked closer behind him, trying to shield him from as many of the paparazzi as I could, "Let's get you home."
He started crying as soon as we got in the car, a hysterical sobbing that didn't seem to have any end, even when I pulled him over to my side of the car and held him. The driver had the sound wall rolled up, so he didn't hear me—me, Auron—shushing and rocking him back to sniffs and hiccups.
It was dark when the driver pulled in front of Tidus's house . . .our house, I guess, since he was to be in my keeping, now. I looked down at the little thing crying into my jacket.
Now what do I do?
He didn't like to talk about his father much. He liked to talk about his mother even less. I could understand; he was still shocked at their absence, I thought. Think again. Time passed, and he still didn't want to talk about Jecht at all. When he did, he would only say that he hated him, that he was glad that he hadn't come back, and then he'd fume for a while, and hit things, and then he'd cry. He'd always cry.
I didn't know how to even communicate with this child. I mean, there was supposed to be more to a parental figure than getting them to school on time and making them eat their vegetables, but the only connection that I had with this boy is that I had known his father. And, while Jecht could, at times, be a royal pain in the ass, I couldn't see any cause for his own son to hate him so much that the mere mention of his name made him angry, months after his death. So that left me with nothing.
There really wasn't much to do around the house. I kept thinking that I should get a job or something, but the complete foreignness of the place kept me in the little bubble that Jecht's fame created for us. Between his blitzball career, and his wife's short-lived time on stage, there was plenty of money set aside for Tidus, more than he could probably ever use, and it was very easy to get everything delivered in. So I did. The cameras weren't nearly as intrusive now that Lila's ashes had been scattered. After all, Tidus was now only famous as the son whose famous parents were now dead. No one cared enough for his picture to sell papers. It was a blessing, even if it was a cruel world that gave the blessing to us.
Blessings . . .the blessings of Yevon . . .I pounded my hand on the kitchen's granite counter. What the hell kind of blessings did Yevon ever give anyone? It had taken away this boy's father, and mother, by extension. It had taken away the two best friends I'd ever had. And, somewhere, there was a little girl with two different-colored eyes, who was growing up equally "blessed" by Yevon. I needed a drink.
I'd found the cabinet a while ago, looking for a bowl to put cereal in, and had, at the time, been shocked by the quantity and variety of liquor in there. But now, I was thankful for it. I was throwing back my third shot when Tidus walked through the door. He glared with all the malice that his eight-year-old eyes could muster, "I guess you must be a friend of my dad's. You even drink like him." He ran past me into his room, and I heard the door slam. Shit. Okay, rule number one: No grabbing yourself a drink with a kid in the house.
I put the bottle away. I washed out the shot glass and put it away. I knocked softly on his door. "Tidus?"
Muffled sobs broke their way through the door. If there is anything that makes you feel like crap, it's hearing a kid cry, and knowing it's your fault. Jecht, what were you thinking when you asked me to take care of this kid?
"Tidus? I'm sorry, okay? Will you let me in?"
The door cracked open an inch, "He never apologized."
Who? Jecht? I knew Jecht drank but I'd never made the connection . . . he must have been drunk at home as often as he'd been drunk in Spira. In any case, I was saying the right thing. "I'm sorry, Tidus."
The door opened the rest of the way and he walked back to sit on his bed, rubbing his eyes with a closed fist. He looked at me reproachfully, "You shouldn't have been drinking."
"You're right," I turned his chair backwards and straddled it, resting my chin on the back, "I shouldn't have been and I'm sorry. Do you forgive me?"
"Will you do it again tomorrow?"
"No."
Tears started leaking out the corners of his eyes again, "You say you won't, but you will!"
"Tidus, I promise I won't." But he just threw himself on his bed, and buried his face in his pillow and cried.
I could have just about screamed in frustration, if I hadn't felt so bad for creating this in the first place. Then it hit me, "You can make sure I don't."
"How?" He asked, between sniffles.
"Come with me," I pulled him off the bed and back into the kitchen. I opened the cabinet and started putting all the bottles out on the counter. When they were all down, Tidus just looked at me uncertainly. "Well," I bumped his shoulder, "What are you waiting for? Pour them out."
His eyebrows shot up, but he grabbed the first bottle. He must have looked at me over his shoulder four times between counter and sink, to make sure that I hadn't changed my mind, before he turned it upside-down and poured its contents down the sink. He threw the empty bottle in the trash triumphantly. I handed him the next bottle, "Now this one."
We emptied and tossed the rest of the bottles together. And when we sat on the couch watching cartoons that night, I thought for the first time what it must have been like to have Jecht as a father. Try as I might, I couldn't shake the picture I had of him, in Zanarkand, volunteering himself as the Final Aeon. But, clearly, that wasn't the picture his son had of him. It was sad. And I wish I could have taken Tidus to Spira, back in time to Spira, so he could have seen the other side of his father, the side he'd never see. I looked out the window into the night, never black because, even in the wee hours of the morning, the lights were still on. Maybe I was just homesick.
He's bleached his hair, now. He doesn't like people to know that, but if you looked closely, you could see the dark brown roots. He has dark hair, like his father. He hates it. Luckily for him, his other features are very like his mother's, so he doesn't need plastic surgery.
He's grown up a lot. Crazy, isn't it? To think of Sir Auron feeling nostalgic over a kid. But I watched him lose all his baby teeth, one by one, and I put the five gil under his pillow. And I watched him fall out of a tree and break his arm. And I watched him get better. And I watched him play his first game of blitzball. And I watched him climb to the top so fast. There are recruiters sniffing around now, wanting him on their teams. They all compare him to Jecht. He hates that.
But he still hums that song.
Only sometimes, when he thinks no one can hear him. He's a nice kid, but he doesn't have much of a singing voice. So he doesn't sing the words, he just hums the tune to himself.
Ieyui Nobumenou
Renmiri, Yojuyogo
Hastekanae Kutamae
It's the only memento of Jecht that he keeps. And it's the only piece of Spira that exists in this world.
Ieyui Nobumenou
Renmiri, Yojuyogo
Hastekanae Kutamae
Yeah, maybe I'm a little homesick.