"You mean to join the big games? Sure," Tidus confirms easily. "Everyone wants to be the next big blitzer. I'd always been into it though. Well, me and everyone else in Zanarkand, but..."

He pauses, a small look aside and his mouth pulling into a sort of wistful smile.

"My dad played. He was a big star back in his day, the kind of guy who knew how to get the crowds going." His tone dips into something mocking. "I used to hate it, to be honest. Me and him, we didn't get along, and his kinda bravado used to get to me. ...but he was good," Tidus admits. "I always used to watch him, even if some part of me hated it. Still--he was my dad."

And the other part of him was inspired, challenged; wanting to be something more than his old man, to have the skill as he did. Before the drink started to show. Before the bitterness grew too strong.

He wanted to show that man he was his son.

Eyes dipped, Tidus feels the small lump that's grown in his throat--small, and he breathes to push it down, shrugging with a scoff as he looks at Ignis briefly, then to the food he's cooking.

"I trained so I'd kick his ass one day," he confesses nonchalantly. "Be put down as a bigger star than him."

A huff of a laugh, and he smirks at Ignis.

"Would've done it too, you know!"