Hey! Next chapter! I hope you all enjoy.

Oh, just a note. Even though I'm calling the town Hollow Bastion, and I'll use other names from the game, this story is still taking place somewhere in the USA. This is my native country, so I know it best. There are gonna be a lot of pop culture references in this story, just by its nature, so that's why I decided to have it take place in a country I'm familiar with.

So if anyone doesn't get something, 'cause I make some weird American reference, just ask, and I'll answer. Though I can't really see that happening, as America mostly just steals and alters other countries' culture. Which could be seen as a good or bad thing, but let's get on with story before I get too political.

Chapter 3

Studio Space

Riku sat in the passenger seat, feet up on the dashboard, holding a cigarette between the tips of his thumb and forefinger, like you'd hold a joint. He'd offered one to me, and my weak constitution had been unable to resist. I couldn't smoke around Cloud—the doctor in him insisted upon rolling his eyes and lecturing me until I put the damn thing out.

My car was one of the last in the parking lot. People got the hell off campus fast, especially on Fridays. I took a drag as I turned the key, engine roaring to life. The smoke hit the back of my throat, and I spluttered.

"Riku, what the hell are you doing smoking reds? Marlboro's disgusting."

Riku looked faintly impressed. "Good call. Don't know many teachers who can identify a brand of cigarettes by taste alone."

I put the car in gear, waiting for a break in traffic before pulling out onto Campus Drive. Why was it that every road with a school on it had to be named something like that? What was next, Learning Lane?

"You'd be surprised how many teachers smoke, Riku."

"Probably not." He switched the radio on, settling on a folk-sounding song that could have been Joni Mitchell. "I'm not surprised by much anymore."

I snorted, before realizing he was being serious. His hair was glimmering in the slanted afternoon sun, making him looking vaguely unreal. "Turn right up here," he said, tapping his cigarette into the ash tray. He hummed along to the radio, every so often throwing in a couple of lines of lyrics, as if he only remembered sections of the song.

…I started analyzing,

And I brought on my old ways,

A thunderhead of judgment was

Gathering in my gaze.

I'd never been really spent much time in the section of the city he was directing me threw. It was the art district, more commonly known as East Side. Street performers and artists lined the sidewalks, strumming on guitars or calling out to any passerby that looked like they might appreciate surrealist painting or hand-beaded bags. The graffiti down here was angry and political, much more colorful and impressive than anywhere else in the city.

"It's a left at the end of the street," Riku said, pointing with his stub of a cigarette, tapping his foot in time with the music.

It made most people nervous,

They just didn't want to know

What I was seeing

In the refuge of the roads.

"You like Joni Mitchell," I observed, flicking on my turn signal and waiting for a group of beatnik looking teenagers to mosey across the street.

"Of course I do. Anyone who says they don't is either an idiot or lying."

I couldn't argue with that.

The kids finally cleared the road and I turned, surprised by what we found. I didn't know what I'd expected Riku's home to look like. I mean, I knew it wouldn't be a red brick residence behind a white picket fence, but the industrial, condemned-looking construction hadn't been likely either.

"You can park around the back," Riku told me.

It wasn't a parking lot so much as a closed-up loading dock. This was getting shadier and shadier. "If I didn't know better, Erickson," I said, "I'd think you were bringing me out here to kill me."

Riku laughed. "You've found me out. Wanna come inside for a little, see my humble abode?"

I shook my head. This was where I needed to draw the line. I'd already stepped way over the fine distinction between teacher and something more personal. "I can't, Riku, I'm sorry."

He frowned. "Why not?"

I opened my mouth to explain, but suddenly realized that I didn't know what to say. How was I supposed to answer without explaining to him that being anywhere private and alone with Riku would be a horrible blow to my already unimpressive self control? So I shrugged, took my key out of the ignition, and followed him around the dingy building, away from where I remember the door being.

There was nothing on the far side but a rusting fire escape and a row of dirty windows about a story up. Riku began to climb without breaking stride, the straining metal groaning ominously under his feet.

I hesitated at the bottom. "Uh…Riku?"

He glanced back over his shoulder, green eyes narrowed in amusement. "I'm on the second floor. This is the only way to get up there. Come on, it's perfectly safe."

"I seriously doubt that," I said, but followed him regardless. Despite my better judgment I was now hopelessly curious about this boy's life. Why he lived in a condemned building downtown, where all that cocksure, electric confidence came from. And, of course, it didn't have anything to do with the awesome view of his ass in those tight jeans as I followed him up the dilapidated fire escape.

"This is the only way in," Riku said (in a tone that could have been apologetic if it had been anyone else speaking) as he slung a leg over the sill of the only open window, disappearing into the gloom. I followed, struggling to get my much larger frame through the window, and chipping off a few flakes of white paint in the process.

"Welcome to my home." Riku's voice came from somewhere off to my left. Curtains were drawn back, letting in bands of dusty sunlight from the windows on either side of the one we'd used as an entrance. The wooden planks groaned beneath my feet as I walked to the center of the room, completely at a loss for words.

Absolutely every inch of the walls was covered in drawings. Animals, flowers, anime, spirals, things that looked nothing more than abstract squiggles. The space between two windows was just one face—a man with glasses and shoulder length hair, done in what looked like charcoal.

Riku was leaning against a closed door at the far side of the room, arms crossed, looking expectant. "Did you do all this?" I asked incredulously.

"Yeah." He shrugged. "My aunt kicked me out about four months ago. I've been living here."

I turned my attention back to the walls, following the branches of a flowering tree that spread out from one of the corners and continued onto the ceiling. "Sora doesn't know."

"Yeah, I'm aware. I never told him." There was something in his voice, something like disappointment, though whether it was disappointment in himself or in Sora, I couldn't tell. Riku brushed his hair out of his face, sighing. "We've been best friends since we were in second grade, but I don't think he'd understand, you know—."

"If he knew the kind of person you really were," I finished for him.

Those startling eyes narrowed. "What kind of person am I, Mr. Leonhart?" he asked, putting a mocking inflection into my name.

"Someone who doesn't care or acknowledge what's expected of him, or what other people think." I could tell it hadn't been the answer he'd been expecting. He was looking at me like he'd only just realized something. He wore an expression of contemplation that I'd never seen before on Riku Erickson's face.

"Come over here," he said after a few moments, turning to open the door behind him, stepping into the next room. I hesitated for a second, then followed. I was already too curious, too taken with this boy to walk away now.

Fuck.

The second room was brighter than the first one—there were more windows, looking out onto the street rather than the shadows of the building next door. The walls were clean of artistic endeavors, but there were several canvasses propped up against them, wild with color.

The first was a swirl of blues and purples, and as I stepped forward to look closer I felt a blow of melancholy. It was like I was feeling Riku's despair, and it was choking.

"That one's shit," Riku said, from somewhere behind me.

"It's not," I said, and left it at that. The second canvass was a close up of a boy's face, and even from the strange angle I could tell it was Sora. The spiky hair and gleaming blue eyes were unmistakable.

"Did he sit for you or did you paint this from memory?" I asked.

"Memory. I've never had anyone sit for me."

I nodded, moving to the next painting. It was of a cityscape, with a bridge that reminded me of Brooklyn, but I didn't think it was New York. Parts of it looked oddly futuristic, others like they'd come marching out of the past.

"Jesus, Riku," I murmured. "These are incredible." I glanced back to see the pleased grin on his face. I didn't think I'd ever seen him look so happy. "Have you shown them to anyone?"

Riku shook his head slowly, silver hair glinting in the dusty afternoon light. "Just you."

I frowned, trying to understand what the subtext of that was meant to be. I looked back at the cityscape. That one was by far my favorite.

"So what do you think?"

"I already told you, I think they're incredible."
"No, not the paintings." He suddenly looked vulnerable, younger somehow. "You said you I don't care what people think about me, but I do care. At least, about what some people think."

I looked at him, really studied him for the first time. Just a passing glance at Riku Erickson would reveal that he was ridiculously beautiful. But buried beneath the beauty was just a great big teeming vat of misery. He was surviving, and that in itself was impressive, but he wasn't happy.

I sighed, leaning back against the ominously groaning wall and crossing my arms. "As an adult and a role model, Riku, I would say I think you're an idiot for living on your own, and for thinking that a silly thing like art could ever support you."

Riku nodded, eyes on the floor, jaw set. This was the popular opinion, I could see it in his face.

"But as a friend and a philosopher, I think you could be doing a lot worse."

The frown dominating Riku's face slowly dissipated, until I was just being scrutinized with that piercing green gaze. He dropped his eyes to the floor, hair shadowing his expressing. "Alright. Thanks."

I stepped away from the paintings, surveying the rest of the studio. There was a futon in one corner, covered with a ratty looking quilt and luridly colored afghan. A sink and eighties refrigerator with the freezer door hanging slightly askew were the only other pieces of furniture. Curious, I opened the fridge. It was empty apart from a dented box of cornflakes, a jar of peanut butter, and several different species of mold. It was as warm inside as it was in the rest of the studio.

"Do you have electricity?" I asked, closing the fridge and straightening up.

Riku shook his head. "No. No hot water either."

"Jesus."

He shrugged. "I'm a squatter. As long as I have somewhere to sleep, I don't give a shit."

"Where do you shower?" It was out of my mouth before I stopped to think about what it would sound like.

Riku cracked a grin, that familiar smirk he wore whenever I said something he could misinterpret into an innuendo. He inclined his head toward the sink, and I noticed the bottle of generic-brand shampoo and the rough-looking scrub brush.

"Right there. I take off all my clothes and rub myself all over. Wanna see?"

I gave him a disapproving glance. He laughed. "Well, there you have it, Teach. The secret intricacies of Riku Erickson's life. Glamorous, ain't it?"

I nodded, not really listening as he went on about how there was somewhere he needed to be. I said bye at the top of the fire escape, climbing down the rickety metal construction to my car.

I drove home on autopilot, thinking about Riku Erickson, and all the things he called to memory. Meeting him had brought countless other things to the surface—things I hadn't thought about in years. I'd had crazy aspirations back then, things that included the guitar and music, not suits and parent-teacher conferences.

I realized I was gay when I was about thirteen. Of course, I'd felt stirrings before then—male teachers I liked just a little to much, attraction to the sexy hero in movies. Aladdin had always been my favorite Disney character—maybe that was where my thing for ethnic men stemmed from. I'd always loved dark-skinned guys—which made the fact I was currently with Cloud pretty damn ironic, with his blue eyes and gold-blond hair.

My first real crush, as I was saying, had been when I was thirteen—on my sister's boyfriend. Aeris had been fairly typical, as straight, pretty white girls went. Thin, giggly, and pink. She'd worn a lot of pink. Most of her boyfriends had been just as freeze-dried as her—the jocky, macho type, but then one day she'd brought home a street guitarist.

I remember him so clearly it's almost ridiculous. His skin was the color of warm chocolate, hair tied into dozens of shoulder-length dreads, each one strung with a shiny gold bead. He never wore anything that covered his arms, and the sight of that corded muscle had always made my stomach clench.

Michael had been a high school drop out, four years older than my seventeen year old sister. Our dad had been absolutely horrified, by his age, the fact that he made his money by playing music out on the street, and (though Dad never would have admitted it) the face that Michael was black. My father wasn't a racist, at least, not until a black man tried to lay hands on his daughter. It was awful, but now that I thought on it, I couldn't really blame him. He'd been brought up in a different era, with different expectations.

The afternoon light was just beginning to go grey with the approaching twilight. I took the long way home—back roads instead of the highway. I always though the best when I was driving, and I knew that as soon as I saw Cloud we'd be all over each other. We only had a week together before I left for school, and I was feeling strangely hungry for human contact at the moment.

The trees cast latticed shapes onto the street in front of the car as my thoughts drifted back to my thirteen year-old self again, remembering the first time I'd seen Michael. He'd been playing his guitar in the living room when I'd got home from school, strumming out the cords to No Woman No Cry, and singing along. I'd stood frozen in the doorway, trying to decide who the hell this man was and why I couldn't take my eyes off him.

I remember when we used to sit,

In the government yard in trenchtown.

And then Georgie would make the fire lights

And it was logwoods burning through the night.

He smiled at me, strumming out the last cord. "Hey, Aeris. There's a confused looking kid's just come in. Should I be worried?" He had just the slightest tinge of Jamaica left in his voice.

Aeris came around the corner and laughed. "That's my brother. Squall, this is Michael."

Michael shook my hand very seriously, looking thoughtful. "Squall. That's a thunderstorm, ain't it?"

His hand was warm, the fingertips calloused from the guitar pick. I had to try several times before I was able to get the word out. "Y-Yeah."

Michael smiled, revealing incredibly white teeth. "I like it. You Indian, boy?"

Aeris laughed again. "Good call. His mom was part Cherokee."

I pulled myself out of thoughts of the past as I pulled into the driveway. I put the car in park, shutting down the engine. I sat there for a couple of moments, taking deep breaths, just letting it all flow through me. It had been one hell of a weird day. I flipped down the car visor, surveying myself in the mirror. My eyes looked almost shockingly grey in the twilight, and I searched for the parts of me that immortalized my dead mother. My sharp cheekbones, dark, oddly-textured hair.

I sighed, climbing out of the car and crunching my way up the gravel walk to the house. It was unlocked, and as soon as I opened the door, the smell of cooking hit me in the face and I realized how hungry I was.

Cloud was in the kitchen, back turned to me, sautéing something on the stove. I slipped my arms around his waist, kissing him on the back of the neck.

"Hey gorgeous."

He chuckled, sound quickly becoming a giggle as I licked along the sensitive place beneath his ear. He shrugged his way out of my arms.

"Stop it, Leon. I can't cook with a hard-on."

"Sure you can." I kissed his neck one last time, before letting him go. "Anything I can do?"

"Set the table, maybe uncork the wine so it can breathe."

"Alright."

We sat down to eat a few minutes later, lights turned down, legs brushing beneath the table. I realized I would miss this, miss this a lot when we went our separate ways. But even as we finished up dinner, and Cloud's touches began to get more suggestive, I couldn't keep the image of silvery hair and shining green eyes out of my head.

Hoped you liked. Thanks for all the reviews I've been getting! This is a weird story, and a not-so-popular pairing, so…we'll see what happens.

See you next time!