"what an imbecile"

[igiko]

"King."

Cloud lowered his phone to behold the majestic gate separating him from the King estate. When Zidane had entrusted him with a package bound for Alexandria, he hadn't expected to be delivering to a sprawling manor. For the umpteenth time, he wondered what was in the large barrel mounted on the back of his bike.

The gate opened with a push, and he walked through the cobblestone garden. Considering the chilly air of winter that relentlessly nipped at the exposed skin of his face, the plants and hedges were in decent condition. The fountain in the center was dry, though, and the knob on the manor entrance looked shiny from what he assumed was disuse.

Using the door knocker, Cloud knocked once, then twice. He waited. When the door didn't budge, he left with the barrel in tow and came back in the evening.

After the third knock, the door swung open to reveal an androgynous man. Cloud's eyes drifted to the man's exposed midriff. The air drifting out from inside wasn't especially warm, and he puzzled over how anyone could bear to wear a shirt just shy a few inches of cover in the middle of January.

The man raised his hand, drawing Cloud's attention to his face. "Can I help you?"

"I have a delivery," said Cloud, flipping his phone open and glancing at the screen, "for Kuja. From Zidane."

"Where?"

"By the gate."

The man hummed. "Very well. You may bring it inside." He turned on his heels and retreated into the manor, leaving Cloud by the doorstep.

Years of hardship had toughened him for physical labor, and Cloud had little difficulty hauling the barrel inside over his shoulder. The man motioned to the stairway that branched out to the left and said, "That goes in the recreational room. It'll be the last door, which I've left opened."

Cloud did as he was told. By the time he came back downstairs, the man was seated on a settee and scribbling on a checkbook, then tearing out the topmost check along its perforation with an elegant flair. The man stood and offered the check.

"Your payment," he said, "because I doubt Zidane gave you anything upfront."

"I got free admission to Tantalus' last show," said Cloud.

"Will that provide food and shelter for the next month? Honestly, we can't all be starving musicians around here."

The man had a point, so Cloud took the check. Once he was back on his bike with his goggles secured over his eyes, he looked down at the slip and saw that the man—Kuja King—had grossly overpaid him for the job. He wondered, again, what had been in the barrel the size of his torso.



A couple days later, his primary job was complete and he was bound for Midgard again. It would be a long drive; a warm breakfast was in order.

He'd taken a bite out of his croissant when he caught a glimpse of Kuja's sliding into the cafe and nursing a cup of something iced, with no more cover than two evenings prior. Their eyes locked as Kuja raised his drink to his lips.

Somehow, they wound up seated across each other. They didn't talk about themselves—Kuja had even forgone proper introductions—but about current matters in Alexandria. Kuja was an energetic conversationalist, motioning here and there with flippant turns of his wrist. Cloud was less animated, more focused on finishing his pastry.

"How did you meet Zidane?" asked Kuja, fingers curling around the length of his styrofoam cup.

"I was introduced," replied Cloud. "Barret and Baku are old friends."

"Ah, yes. His dearly beloved foster father."

"How about you?"

"One day, he was there and refused to leave me be." Kuja sighed, dramatically. "Rather par for the course with him, don't you think?"

Cloud nodded. That did sound like Zidane. But his croissant was finished, so he pushed out of his seat. "I've got to go. It was nice talking to you." Kuja stood.

"I'll walk you out."

They'd taken no more than a dozen steps out of the cafe when Cloud heard the chime of an incoming text message. He rummaged through his pocket for his phone, and the message on the screen froze him on his tracks: Hey, it's Zidane! Did my brother get his package? He likes to make weird dolls with our leftover costume fabric. Hope the barrel wasn't too heavy. Unfortunately, his weight was leaning awkwardly on the icy winter path, and he felt himself lurch forward as soon as he finished reading the message.

In his haste to regain his footing, he ended up slipping backward and narrowly missed banging the back of his head against the ground. Beside him, Kuja—Zidane's brother?—let out a dainty huff.

"What are you doing, falling down like that? You look like an imbecile."