You guys sure are lucky. Not only am I actually writing something, but that something has multiple chapters!
My utmost thanks go to MeowMeowKy and Delightful Sin, for essentially forcing me to write this, and to Ky again for her lovely beta-ing.
This fanfic has a little bit of an odd set-up, because all though it's Kingdom Hearts-based, I'm obsessed with FFVIII right now, so there's a preponderance of FFVIII characters who aren't necessarily in any Kingdom Hearts game. If you haven't played VIII, I hope I've established them well enough that you can figure things out. If I haven't, Wikipedia is your friend!
Also, each chapter is titled after the song that helped me write it and begins with a line from that song. Think of it as that chapter's background music. I don't own any of it. (Well, except for the mp3s.)
Disclaimer: I don't own Kingdom Hearts or any Final Fantasy game. "The Blues" is by Switchfoot.
Lighthouse
Chapter 1:
The Blues
It'll be a day like this one when the world caves in…
It was late, a little past midnight. A solitary figure, one Squall Leonhart, was making his lonely way home, his worn messenger bag bumping against his leg with every stride. A dusting of snow was falling, and the previous night's accumulation crunched under his boots. Squall paused under a street light, hefting his bag higher on his shoulder. He brought gloved hands to his lips, blowing to warm the frozen digits. A look up, and his eyes reflected the glow of neon lights from the center of the city.
Squall tore his gaze away, scoffing. He continued walking. The lights of Radiant Garden – the Center of the World, the City Where Dreams Become Reality – could hypnotize anyone.
But he knew better.
Even in Radiant Garden, days were still long and Februarys were still cold.
Today had been a Friday like any other. He'd worked a few pointless jobs, made enough to pay last month's rent – his roommate, Irvine, never paid his share – and after waiting tables during the evening rush at the Lunatic Pandora, he thought to himself, calculating salaries and hours and utility bills, that he just might have earned enough tips to buy a few more tubes of paint. Then maybe he could do what he'd really come here for.
At the same time, he knew that wouldn't be how it happened. Irvine would mooch off him for beer money again, then someone would throw a party, and then he'd have to face Rinoa again. He never knew what to say to her.
Barring all of that, he knew he'd just go home to his and Irvine's tiny apartment and stare at a canvas until he fell asleep, and still nothing would come of it.
After college, he'd stayed in Radiant Garden, eyes bright and naïve, entranced by the stories and the dreams and the lights. He wanted to become an artist, taking in every detail of the world around him, and channeling passion through his brushstrokes, to show everyone around him how everything was.
And he'd hear them. Someday, they'd all see the world, hanging there in gallery frames, draped across walls, and he'd hear them say it.
"Wow. Squall Leonhart? I haven't heard of him, but this is amazing." And he'd see it in their eyes: moving emotion, recognition of the truth.
But reality was crueler. Success didn't come instantly. He had known it wouldn't, but he hadn't expected the thankless hours of thankless jobs, and the thankless monotony of it all. All to support his real work. His passion. His life.
Rinoa had always helped him before, giving his hand a gentle squeeze, or wrapping her arms around him in a hug when she knew he'd felt his lowest but would never admit it. But after that morning, he knew he was back to being on his own. They'd had their fights before, but somehow he knew this had been the last time. After eleven months, it was all over.
Squall sighed, the warm breath turning to mist in the cold air. Eleven months of wasted effort. He dug his hands into his pockets in an effort to warm them, and his fingers brushed against the ring he'd given Rinoa that Christmas. The ring she'd left him with after their fight that morning.
Swallowing the lump in his throat, Squall removed his hands from his pockets, instead adjusting the sleeves of his coat. He never cried. He wouldn't start now.
Squall increased his pace to a brisk walk, bracing himself against the bitter wind. There was a subway terminal just ahead. Even he knew that walking alone in the dark and the cold at night to the neighborhood where he was heading was near suicide. Normally, Squall would walk anyway – what did he have to lose? – but with a negative wind chill and a prediction of freezing rain towards midnight, even he questioned his sanity.
It was warmer when he descended underground, out of the wind, and he spent a few precious dollars on a ticket to Hollow Bastion. He knew the Hollow Bastion station was not far from the apartment complex he lived in.
The subway glowed eerily in the darkness of the tunnel as it pulled into the station, and he slipped onboard as the doors opened.
As he slumped into a grimy plastic seat, Squall was surprised to discover that the train had another occupant. Across from him slouched another young man. It was hard to tell because of his bulky coat and the scarf wrapped around his nose and mouth, but Squall guessed the man's age to be close to his own. The man wore a black overcoat and a hat pulled over his ears, with small wisps of blonde bangs peeking out from under it.
But it was the man's eyes that caught Squall's attention. They were a shocking bright blue, but turned towards the ground, drooping lids hanging over them. The man's gaze was focused on a spot on the floor, not far from Squall's foot, but Squall knew he wasn't seeing anything. It was the dull, clouded look in those eyes that Squall recognized. He saw it on himself in his reflection on the subway window.
They were the same, he and this man sitting across from him on the subway. They were both world-weary, despairing, and alone, disillusioned by Radiant Garden's lights. Their eyes betrayed it.
But the subway paid them no heed as it lurched into the Hollow Bastion station. A shiver ran down Squall's spine and he jumped to his feet as the doors opened, taking the stairs two at a time to the outside world.
Squall surfaced at the Hollow Bastion terminal, less than a block away from his apartment complex. He barely glanced at the dingy concrete monstrosity looming over him before he opened the door and headed for the grimy staircase inside. Reaching an equally shabby door, Squall turned his key in the lock and pried the door open.
Home sweet home.
All things considered, Squall realized he ought to consider himself lucky. At least their building had heat. He peeled off his gloves and kicked his boots off in the entryway, shucking off his trademark fur-collared leather jacked. He slung it over the kitchenette's counter, setting his key beside it. To his left, Squall caught the flashes of the television from the dark of the minimal living room. The floor creaked irritably as Squall padded over to investigate.
"Hey Squall," Irvine drawled from his resting place on the threadbare couch, without even shifting his gaze from the TV screen. The half-asleep cowboy basked in the limelight of the cheap television, his Stetson drooping over one sleepy eye. Squall grimaced at the irony.
Fame and fortune had always been Irvine's dream. A Radiant Garden alumnus just like Squall (Bachelor of Arts in musical composition) born on a ranch in the heart of the Galbadian prairie, Irvine had come to RGU to make it big. Only a few years out of college and he had already moved from a failed singer-songwriter to an out-of-work actor and musician. Irvine was taking a break from job-hunting, but he could be seen fiddling on the street for anyone who would listen. Amazingly, he could usually make a buck or two that way.
"Work sucked, before you ask," Squall said, leaning over the back of the couch to see what his roommate was so entranced by. "What're you watching?"
"Some lame action flick," Irvine replied with a dismissive wave of his hand, "called Olympus-something-or-other. You know: 'Oh! Drama!' 'Bang! Bang you're dead!' It's been on over and over all day. Some kind of network premier."
Squall shrugged. "As long as you're paying the cable bill."
Following the action on screen, Squall saw a middle-aged man with five-o-clock shadow and eyes shielded by sunglasses – despite his dim surroundings – rattling off the usually dramatic monologue ("This is my story: You're not in it!") as he pointed his gun at the younger male protagonist crouching before him. Said protagonist sported immaculately-spiked blonde hair, despite the trail of blood congealing at the corner of his mouth and an open wound under his eye. The camera panned to the blonde, zooming in as he swiped the blood from his lip and fixed his tormentor with a defiant glare.
Squall froze.
Those eyes. Brilliant blue, glowing with the adrenaline rush, but haunted by a ghost of hopelessness and desperation.
Impossible…
"Irvine! That guy!" Squall blurted before he could stop himself. His roommate whirled around, breaking his eye contact with the TV for the first time in what Squall knew must have been hours.
"What?! What?!"
"Him!" Squall jabbed a finger in the direction of the blonde on TV (who had whipped out his own weapon and was now battling the older man, presumably to the death). "Who's he?"
Irvine blinked, disgruntled, adjusting his hat so it rested properly on his head. "Uh, Cloud Strife. This was one of his first big roles. It's almost the end, though. You missed the best part: his scene with Tifa Lockheart..."
Squall rolled his eyes and coughed, "Lecher."
"What's it to you?" Irvine demanded, tossing his long auburn ponytail over his shoulder. "And what's with your sudden interest in Cloud Strife?" he continued, quirking an eyebrow.
Squall shook his head. "…Nothing. Never mind."
But he stayed to see the rest of the movie anyway.
That night, Squall dreamt of Rinoa. He woke the next morning missing her already. Thinking of her smile and gentle touch, he felt a new pit of aloneness digging its way into his heart.
Rinoa was so sweet and caring, always throwing her whole heart and soul into everything she did. He loved that about her. She'd been the first to bring out his impulsive side, to make him forget for a moment about how the world saw him. But she never seemed to understand how he felt. And he had never been able to get outside of himself enough to tell her.
His dream had brought back one particularly memorable date. She'd suggested they go see a movie. It was a horrible chick flick, really. Squall had agreed to go. He'd hated the movie, but it was time spent with Rinoa that mattered to him, not what they were doing. If she was happy, he could be happy, too. Besides, it wasn't like he'd had any better plans.
Walking downtown after the movie—in the nice part of Radiant Garden—holding hands under the city lights, she'd stopped him.
"Squall… You didn't want to go to that movie," she'd stated.
"Of course I did," he'd told her. But there was no changing Rinoa's mind once she had something she felt she needed to say.
"Don't lie!" she'd shouted. "…Squall… What do you want to do?"
Like a fool, he'd brought her hand – still held in his own – up to his lips. "This… This is fine with me," and tried to smile. He didn't understand what she was upset about. She'd pulled her hand away.
"No, Squall. It's not. Why don't we ever do what you want to do?"
He'd opened his mouth to reply – he didn't know what with – but Rinoa had cut him off.
"This is important to me, Squall. You're important to me. I wish you'd be a little more open with me."
"Rinoa... I said I was fine."
For some reason he couldn't comprehend, tears had welled up in her big brown eyes.
"I wish you wouldn't say that…" she'd sobbed weakly and turned to walk away.
Like a fool, he hadn't tried to follow her.
…Squall realized he'd really never deserved a girl like Rinoa. The previous morning was fresh in his mind. Rinoa's words still echoed in his ears.
"I thought we could make this work, Squall! But you're not trying. I feel like I'm wasting my time. I love you Squall. I really do. But I never know how you feel. And I don't know if I can take any more of this!
I used to believe you could do anything, Squall. You just had that look, like someone I could lean on who would always protect me. But you never let anyone get past those walls you've built up around yourself!
You're being a coward, Squall. And I hope someday someone can knock you out of it. But she's not going to be me."
She'd left him there, alone in his living room, the door slamming shut behind her.
Squall sat up in bed and popped his neck, effectively popping himself out of his trance. He didn't have to think about this right now. It was Saturday. He could paint today.
Squall got up, pulling on a pair of jeans over his boxer shorts and digging a shirt out of his closet. He frowned, nose twitching in the air. That smelled like… smoke…
Squall dropped the shirt in alarm, dashing out into the main room of the apartment.
He stared in shock at the kitchenette, which seemed to be rapidly filling up with smoke.
"IRVINE!" he shouted. "What are you DOING?!"
Said cowboy roommate coughed loudly, wafting away the smoke as he emerged from the kitchenette, holding a smoking skillet that looked like it might have contained bacon (in a past life).
"Oh. Good morning, Squall!" Irvine replied between coughs. "Look! I made you breakfast!" he exclaimed, gesturing at the skilled with his free hand. Squall glared at it in mild disgust. "...Hey, do we have a window I can open?"
Squall rolled his eyes, dashing back to his room, which contained their apartment's only window, and slammed it open. He began wafting the smoke in the direction of the window as he made his way back to the kitchenette.
"All right, Irvine, what's the big idea?" he demanded.
"Eh…" Irvine dumped the charred bacon into the trash can. "That didn't quite turn out like I planned. But hey!" He pulled two mugs of coffee out of the microwave. "We have coffee!" Irvine took a long swig out of his own mug before gagging spectacularly. "Ugh!" He spat out the mouthful of coffee into the sink. Squall couldn't help but laugh.
Irvine sighed. "Look, you just looked so depressed about Rinoa and everything. But ugh! This coffee is vile. Sorry. …Just don't get too down, okay? I know it was a pretty bad fight you got yourselves in, but she'll chill out and then you two'll be just like old times."
Squall leaned down against the kitchenette counter. "You know about that?"
"You two were shouting pretty loud. I think this whole floor probably knows about that…"
Squall pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration.
"Sorry," Irvine murmured sympathetically.
"I'm fine," Squall assured him. "I'll be painting. Let me know if you need anything." Irvine nodded, and Squall went back to shut himself in his room, leaving the door open a crack to allow the smoke to keep filtering out the window.
Throwing on an old sweatshirt to resist the winter chill from the open window, Squall fished his easel out of the closet and unfolded it. Then he picked up a blank canvas and set it on the easel before getting out some brushes and his acrylic paints. (Oils were expensive. He saved those for when he knew what he was doing.)
Then he flopped onto his bed in front of the easel and stared blankly at the white expanse of canvas before him. He knew Irvine was just trying to help, but his optimistic roommate couldn't possibly understand. Rinoa wouldn't be back.
After a couple of minutes of nothing, Squall grabbed the canvas and set it on the easel at a different angle. He squinted at it again, chewing on the end of his pencil restlessly. If he was ever going to leave this thankless place, get out of Hollow Bastion and its trashy apartments and live the life he'd always wanted for himself, if he was ever going to teach anyone anything about the world, he needed to paint. This one canvas, sitting blankly in front of him, scrutinizing him with its whitewashed gaze, could be his ticket out of here.
So why couldn't he think of anything?!
Frustrated, Squall threw his pencil aside. Grabbing the tube of black, he squeezed it directly onto the canvas, allowing the thick glob of acrylic paint to drip down, marring the center of the pure white canvas. He jabbed his largest brush into the paint blob, hard enough to make any artist cringe, spreading the black haphazardly across the pristine canvas.
Detachedly, he reached for a new tube of paint, not even caring which color he used, and did the same thing with that one, knowing in the back of his mind that this splattered mess was a waste. That it was all a waste. All his time, all his effort, all his dreams.
Squall Leonhart would never amount to something great.
