Sorry, but the FFVIII zine is not going to happen... No job for me means I can't do a full zine this time. I didn't got my scholarship and I can't afford doing something that will not benefit me in any way. So yeah, the FFVIII zine is CANCELLED. Tomorrow I'll start deleting all social medias, so if anyone wants to take this project for yourself, the time is now to ask for the socials and the designs I already did.
My @clotifanbook contributor copy has arrived!!! Everything looks so stunning! I am so honored to have been a part of this project! Thank you so much for having me 💕💕
Fandom: Final Fantasy IX
Word count: 2000
Rating: Gen
Characters: Zidane & his party, Blank, Kuja
Summary: For as long as Zidane remembers, he never knows where he came from. His only clue is the blue light he sees in his dreams. Yet his heart continues to yearn for a place to belong... a place he can call home.
Notes: written for @ffgentszine ! Leftover sales are on open on July 24th!
Read on AO3.
~*~*~*~*~*~
A faint pitter-pattering of water dripped onto Zidane’s face.
His brows twitched. Pain—the first sense his hazy mind registered—pierced his body, lacing every muscle and limb. With a groan, Zidane peeled his blackened eye open.
The heavy-laden sky seemed to hurl little pebbles at him, hitting all the painful joints and bruises coloring his skin. He pushed himself off the ground, but his muscles screamed; he fell back with a heavy slosh, weighed down now by his drenched tunic and pants.
Zidane lay there for a while, quietly, unmoving, as the rain intensified. Had Blank found him in this state, he might have scowled. Zidane could almost hear the annoyed click of his friend’s tongue and exasperation in his voice:
There you are! The hell’re you doing, picking a fight in the middle of the day?
Zidane would have laughed despite the throbbing in his chest. He did so now—a feeble chuckle escaping his lips in wispy breaths, cut short by a sharp gasp as pain lanced through his left side. He moaned, fingering his ribs and finding a particularly tender spot that made him wince.
Boss’ll be angry if he finds out, he heard Phantom Blank say.
Boss would, Zidane agreed. He probably already was.
When Zidane made the decision to leave the Tantalus base unannounced, he’d known the sort of expression Baku would have. Not quite fury, but a silent resignation. He’d pestered the old man about his origins—where he came from, how they’d found him—but none of them, not Baku nor Cinna nor Marcus nor Blank, could give him any more than what Baku had claimed: that he’d once returned to base with a kid in his arms, shaking from cold and hunger.
The last time Zidane threw a tantrum, Baku’s face had twisted to such a terrifying degree that, for a split moment, Zidane had cowered. He knew he’d gone too far—had hollered hurtful things he’d never meant to say. But what did they know? None of them understood how it felt to be the odd one out. To look different; to act different; as though he were an abomination never meant to live. Perhaps that was why his parents had thrown him away… if he had parents.
Marcus and Cinna had gotten between them, trying to placate both him and the Boss. When Zidane had stomped out of the base, Blank had followed suit, calling his name, grabbing his hand. But Zidane had shaken him off. Liar! he’d screamed. His heart had cracked when the usually-composed Blank crumpled under his glare.
Beside him, Phantom Blank chuckled under his breath. Silly. Is that why you sought drunkards in Treno’s back alleys? To punish yourself? You know that’s not how it works.
If Zidane focused hard enough, he could just make out the small smile tugging Phantom Blank’s lips. Blank was like an older brother to him—always going along with all of his stunts and somehow managing to find a way to get them out of whatever trouble he landed them both in.
The first sign of tears leapt to Zidane’s eyes. He desperately shook them away, claimed them as rain, but his throat closed and a faint sob rocked his body.
Phantom Blank’s smile grew soft. He held out a hand. Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up.
Zidane wanted to take the hand that wasn’t there. His chest ached, but not from the physical wounds that peppered his body. He lifted his bruised arm and let it flop over his face as the first drop of ‘rain’ leaked from the corners of his eyes.
***
“Someone told me once that your home doesn’t have to equate to your birthplace,” Zidane spoke over a small fire. They were camping in the wilds. The girls were away to collect water and clean themselves, and Zidane found himself keeping watch over the campsite with Vivi.
“Who told you that?” the mage asked.
A wry smirk teased the corners of Zidane’s lips. “Blank. After he gave me one hell of a whacking.”
Vivi’s yellow eyes widened. “What did you do?”
“Left the troupe. Came back two years later. Boss beat me up when I returned. Blank made sure the pain lasted for a while. Not that I didn’t deserve it, mind you.”
Quiet fell for a short while before Vivi responded. “So… Have you found your home?”
Fire flickered, its light reflecting off the teal blue in Zidane’s eyes. Yes? Maybe? He didn’t know.
He thought to deflect it with a grin, to say, sure, my home is wherever you guys are, and he probably meant it, but a rustle from behind revealed Steiner appearing with a handful of dry wood and Amarant close behind. Zidane almost groaned and hoped they hadn’t heard—but they had, since the beginning. He could see a lecture forming behind Rusty’s eyes while Amarant only rolled his and drawled, “Are you daft?”
He probably was. It wasn’t the first time he’d been called that.
Daft… Mendicant… A show off…
They’d called him many things and he’d always borne them all with a nonchalant grin. Whether they’d been said in jest or with candor, none of them likely knew the truth of their words—of the fraud, the facade he’d built around himself, the depth of his treacherous heart, where the lying, worthless bastard hid with all the shutters closed.
A loud pounding on heavy metal seeped in through the fog in his mind, accompanied by shrill, urgent shouts. His name? He couldn’t hear it. He didn’t want to.
Zidane curled further into himself as a tremor ran the entire length of his body, but still the voices persisted.
I learned a lot by traveling with you, Zidane.
A small voice, all too familiar, rose from the clamor of his mind. He shook his head.
You teach me many things more important than—
Stop…
You were always there for me, Zidane…
Go away! He screamed. Just leave me alone. He was nothing but a doll—an empty… vessel—the perfect, little experimental soldier meant to destroy the entire planet. Why couldn’t they see that? Why couldn’t they understand that all of this had been a lie? His smiles were fake, his optimism false, all to hide that little boy deep in his heart still intent on finding his home. Now he’d found it—but the sprawling blue landscape seemed more foreign than it was familiar despite its inhabitants bearing the same features as him. Wasn’t that what he’d always wanted? To find the house where he was born…
You call that friendship?
A short, derisive scoff echoed in his ears and he blinked. He was back at the campfire. Zidane sat, dazed, head pounding from an indescribable source. A call of his name—Vivi, looking at him in concern.
“Are you all right?”
Zidane nodded groggily. He… Hadn’t he been somewhere else? A circular room… A dais… a lone chair…
Steiner stared at him from across the fire. “I will not claim to know your mind but you are a fool if you cannot recognize your own family.”
Zidane balked. “I never said—”
“Claiming that rogue band of thieves of yours is not your home implies a sense of disregard for them as your family. I imagine the old curmudgeon was wrecked with worry when you left without so much as a note.”
Zidane had nothing to say to that.
“‘Old curmudgeon,’” Amarant echoed quietly, “even though you’re old yourself, Knight.”
Steiner gasped. “I am Captain Adelbert Steiner of the Royal Knights of Pluto and I will have you know, I am still a hale and hearty thirty-three years—”
“Old, then.”
Steiner bristled while Amarant chuckled. Beside him, Vivi giggled quietly. The scene looked so bizarre. Zidane had done his best to bring their group together, yes, but he’d never thought their ragtag team would be comfortable enough to share jokes with each other, let alone coming from Rusty and Amarant.
Amarant noticed his stare and, for the first time ever, his mouth cracked into a rare, albeit exasperated, smile. “As I said before, you’re daft.” His gruff tone lacked its usual malice. “Your home is where your heart is. Where does yours lie?”
***
“Why are you here?”
Kuja didn’t so much as look his way when Zidane dropped onto the platform at the bottom of Iifa Tree. The man lay flat on his back, his breaths so shallow that for a moment, Zidane wondered if his supposed spiritual brother had died. But Kuja’s thin voice had indeed reached his ears. Zidane let out a sigh of relief.
“Don’t be such a sour puss. I came to pick you up,” he said.
A scoff, so soft, followed by a moan. Kuja’s once-porcelain face twisted in anguish and his breaths grew labored. Zidane’s smirk fell.
“Hey—”
“Save your breath,” Kuja muttered. “You should’ve left when I told you to.”
His concern turned to irritation, Zidane plopped himself beside Kuja and refused to move. He felt his brother’s incredulous stare, weak though it was. Silence stretched between them.
The chamber they were trapped in didn’t seem to have any way out. The hollows through which Zidane had fallen were too high to reach, and no other cracks were big enough for two grown men to slip through. Yet beyond the wall, the roots were making their steady progress in engulfing the entire structure. Zidane grimaced.
“Were your comrades able to escape?” Kuja’s voice was so quiet, he almost missed it.
He glanced at the man. “Yeah…”
“...I’m glad.”
Another bout of stillness, interrupted only by Kuja’s painful groans. Somewhere outside, the Hilda Garde III was ferrying his friends back to Lindblum…
His family.
His home.
I promise I’ll return, he’d told them.
“You know,” he began, “people always say that home is wherever your heart is. I knew that—or… my mind did, at least. I guess it took a while for my heart to truly catch up.” He scoffed, self-deprecatingly. “Had to take a beating that literally left me half-dead before I realized my heart has always belonged with them: a ragtag group of people with no blood to bind them, but who’re always there for each other.”
Silence.
“You’d love to see it—them. I know you can’t undo the things you’ve done, but you still helped us. You helped us escape—”
“What are you doing?”
Zidane stared at him. “I probably would’ve done the same things… had I been you.”
Kuja didn’t say anything for a while. A lifetime seemed to pass before he finally gave an imperceptible shake of his head. He croaked. “After all that I’ve done, I don’t deserve to live.”
“Everyone deserves to live.”
“Not me… “ Kuja coughed. His breathing grew shallower, his pale face now almost as pallid as a corpse. They were losing time.
Zidane was no mage. He knew of no healing spell. He had no potions on him. If he could just carry Kuja to ground level and find their way out from there… But Kuja was too frail. He might not survive the transport.
“Ironic, isn’t it?” his brother rasped. “It’s only after I lost everything that I know what it means to live.”
His eyelids closed.
A final breath; then a last murmur:
“I was a fool…”
He stopped moving.
“Kuja?”
No answer. Zidane leapt to his feet, frantic.
“Hey, Kuja! Don’t you go dying on me!” But Kuja didn’t stir. His chest didn’t rise. “Kuja, I swear if I have to carve our way out of this place and drag you out, I will do that! I’ll take you to my home! I’ll bring you to my family!”
Kuja gave no response, but a faint smile that seemed to part his lips—almost.
Zidane fisted his hands on his brother’s chest.
I’ll get you out of here—
A trail of thought echoed in his mind just as the roots broke through the walls, seeking to bury the chamber with them still in it. Zidane threw himself over Kuja’s motionless body.
Thank you @aesthetictek for this amazing amazing amazing art for the cover of the HotchReid Fanzine!
Pre-orders are going on until Jan.2nd, if you want a copy make sure you order now because we won’t be printing more. Proceeds go to SharedHope, a charity to combat sex trafficking! Yay HotchReid 😝❤️
