Okay, fine, so this is part two of the Laguna Arc,
and the final part! Gomen! So, I also slipped
some Rinoa-Arc foreshadowing in here, and it's
not even remotely linear. So pay attention to
the time and location tags! Very important!



*************************************************
the hollow
Chapter Six: Fate Has Led You Through It
*************************************************
*************************************************
Every Moment Marked
Present Undetermined
*************************************************

He leaned into it, back pressed against the wall, feeling
it flow through him like the first bout of ECT. His bed,
unmade but unmussed, absorbed most of it; the wall took
the rest, cool against his flushed cheek.

It doesn't get much worse than this.

Stress, they'll call it later. And yes, his life had gone to hell
lately. He found his father --or his father found him-- became
Commander, and . . .

She died.

That last one shouldn't count. He'd never really loved her
anyway. He'd only thought that it was love. Besides, it was
his fault that she'd died.

Mostly his fault? Partly? Whatever. Anyway you looked at it
there was blame to be assigned, and he was more than
convenient.

So maybe that last one should count most of all, when he's
tearing through his veins with the fervor of a lemming at a
sky-diving convention. It definitely matters now, when his
sweat-soaked skin should be drenched with tears he can't
cry. When he can't sleep for seeing her. When he can't close
his eyes or use his voice because any of this might bring it
back.

When he can't live because she isn't around to make things
matter.

The first few nights, just after the closed-casket funeral, he
didn't sleep. Couldn't sleep. Stayed curled on their bed
wondering until dawn if he should follow her.

Wondering *why*, most of all.


***********************************************
Apparitions of Your Soul
Balamb Dormitory Single #18
One and one-quarter years to the present
************************************************
Irvine found him there, seated on his bed, back against the
wall, to all appearances perfectly calm. His eyes gave it away.

He was empty.

"Squall?" Irvine approached the bed with a caution that was
almost startling after his frantic scrabbling at the door. "Come
on, Squall," Irvine said, crouching near him to stare at one
uniform-clad knee. "Talk to me. What did he say to you?"

"Nothing," Squall said. His voice was dead, and it shivered
down Irvine's spine. "Don't worry about it," Squall continued,
still staring straight through the opposite wall.

"Bullshit," Irvine growled, moving to sit beside the Commander
on the SeeD issue bed. "He shook you bad, Squally-boy. I've
never seen you this bad."

"Don't call me that." Still in his careless voice.

"Hyne *damn* it, Squall!" Irvine surged to his feet, pacing angrily
away before turning to face the unmoved man. "You're *worse*
than a fucking Ice Prince! Let yourself *feel* something," he said,
his voice dropping as suddenly from anger to pleading. "You've
gotta feel, or you're just gonna fly apart."

Squall looked at him. Actually *at* him, and met his violet gaze.
He nodded.

"Thank you, Irvine," he said quietly, his voice just shy of monotone.
Then, all in one smooth motion, he lay down on his side and curled
into a relaxed fetal position, facing the wall.

Irvine stared at his back for a minute, unable to fathom Squall's
response.

"Squall?" he whispered.

"Not right now, Irvine, okay?" Squall said to the wall, his voice very
remote and mountain-top cold. "Please, I listened to you. Can you
just come back later?"

Irvine was silent for a long moment, staring at the uniformed back.

"Yeah," Irvine said slowly, his voice husking with sudden, unshed
tears.

Whoever had stood on that balcony and ripped Squall's heart to
confetti had a lot to answer for.

Irvine turned, just as slow, reaching for the door reluctantly.

"You'll be okay?" he asked, feeling silly: now neither was facing
the other, each talking to the opposite wall.

"Yeah," Squall whispered. There was no sound of movement
from the bed. Irvine swallowed.

"I'll stick around," Irvine said, clearing his throat with the words.
"If you need me."

"Whatever," Squall answered, as though more out of habit than
from any lack of feeling. Irvine had the horrible feeling--his second
of the day--that Squall was about to break down completely, and
that he should definitely stay.

He just couldn't think of a way around Squall's own stubbornness.

Unable to think of anything less cliche than 'Feel better', Irvine left
the room without another word.

The door hissed shut behind him, and he let himself fall against it,
cursing himself as he thumped into molded plastic.

How the hell did you handle this?

Irvine looked down the empty hall, still leaning against Squall's
door. Weariness filled his very soul, and he still had a child-
deserting bastard of a father to find. Damnit to Hyne, why was
nothing in Squall's life ever *easy*?!

"Irvine?"

He opened his eyes reluctantly.

"Rinoa?" Damnit, the girl was drunk. At least he'd sobered up
before trying to help. Squall did *not* need this right now.

She swayed a bit on her spike heels.

"What can I do for you, darling?" he drawled, narrowing his eyes in a
warning glare.

Her lower lip quivered in a way that most men probably found irresistible.
Irvine would have rolled his eyes if she weren't so oblivious.

"I heard that Squall was upset," she said innocently, clasping her hands
behind her back.

A lot of men probably found *that* irresistible as well.

"And?" he asked, pointedly not moving from the door.

She frowned. Well, pouted, more like.

"I thought maybe I could talk to him?"

"He really doesn't want to see anyone right now, Rin-honey," he said,
as gently as he could manage while still seeing Squall's blasted eyes
in his mind.

She tapped the toe of one death-spiked heel on the tiled floor, and
looked petulant.

"But he should talk to me," she insisted. "I got him to open up before."

Oh honey, Irvine thought. 'Right place at the right time' ring a bell? He
woulda opened up for that twit on a balcony a week ago. Hyne, he
opened up to *me*.

He said nothing, but still didn't move. Her forehead creased, and she
actually looked sad for a moment.

"Please, Irvy?" she asked, wringing her hands. "I wanna see him."

Oh, leave ringing of your hands, woman, and let me wring your heart.

He said nothing, but nodded; drunk she was, but he could respect
the honest feelings for Squall that came through the several glasses
of spiked punch she'd consumed. She just smiled her thanks, that
sweet, sincere smile that probably launched ships in its free time,
and sauntered through the open door.

The door hissed shut behind him, and he let himself fall against it,
cursing himself for a moment, before settling down to business.

If Squall wanted her in there, then certainly no one else was getting
in. Not on his watch.
******


*********************************
Drown Your Listening Brain
Present Undetermined
*********************************

I want to die.

Is that so surprising? I spent nearly a year of my life engaged in a
concentrated effort to destroy my life. Of course, that plan backfired.
Hero of the fucking planet, they tell me.

Great.

With that and some Prozac I might achieve personal happiness.

But then, Balamb Garden's Commander can't be hooked on
antidepressants, no, that would look bad. The hero of the fucking
planet shouldn't need certain chemicals suppressed or replaced
in order to feel normal, no, that would demoralize said fucking
planet.

I could quit.

Quitting this job is usually accompanied by either death or
disgrace, but I can be happy with either.

And that's the problem. What I'm happy with has no bearing
on my life. None whatsoever.

How can that be? How can the hero of the fucking planet not
be rolling in wealth/fame/women? How can I not be happy?

Simple. None of it means anything.

None of it means shit compared to the fact that my own *father*
sent me off to save the world without even telling me who he was.

Doesn't compare to waking in a pool of her blood.

Doesn't mean anything next to the shivering whine that Lionheart
makes when it slides home to the hilt.

None of it compares to the ice-slick feel of Shiva in my head, in
my enemy's heart.

None of it makes me feel more alive than the quick, hot pain of a
knife in my own flesh.

It's addictive, death. All of it. Theirs, yours. Mine. Pain, blood, the
excitement, the letdown, the depression and nightmares that
follow for months. It feels wonderful. It feels. I feel.

I feel.
******


************************************************
The Violence of Existing for Only You
Balamb Domitory Single #18
One and one-quarter years to the present
************************************************

She was giggling against the wall, jiggling the bed a bit with each
gasping breath. He lay still as stone, face dead, heart trying for
the same. He desperately wanted to be alone.

"Squall," she breathed, stilling at last. "Talk to me. Please?"

If I ignore her, she'll . . . start singing or something, Squall
acknowledged with something like despair. He *needed* to be
alone.

"Rin, please," he said, his usual monotone only a bit quieter than
normal. She frowned, an exaggerated expression of worry.

"Just tell me what's wrong," she said childishly, still somehow
adorable in her alcoholic haze.

"I . . ." He couldn't say the words. They were too close.

"C'mon," she coaxed in a lightly teasing voice. "You know you
can tell me anything."

It must be true. Rinoa didn't lie.

And hadn't he told her all about his past? She hadn't run then;
maybe she wouldn't run now.

"I . . ."

Again the words wouldn't come.

"Did it have to do with the man on the balcony?"

She really was surprisingly perceptive, at times.

Squall nodded, still staring at the wall. She scooted over a bit to
insinuate herself into his field of vision. He could see a blurred
bit of her crimson party dress and her cream-smooth thigh.

"Quisty came from that way looking upset, and then a man
followed after her a bit later. He had pretty hair, and looked
really sad. Was that him?"

He nodded again, unable to summon enough enthusiasm to
question Quistis' involvement or deny the word 'pretty'.

"Who was he?"

And that's the question, isn't it, he thought bitterly to himself.

Who's more of an idiot? You, for never looking, or him, for not
knowing to look?

And where was that ice when you needed it?

"My father," he said. His voice was hoarse. He cleared it irritably.

Rinoa was silent.

"Your . . ." she sputtered finally.

"Wasn't even looking, and there he is," he reiterated, staring
now at his clenched fist. Any defenses were burning fast now
as his rage woke and grumbled and roared. Just now, even
Devour sounded like a valid option.

"Oh, Squall . . ." she began, but he cut her off.

"He had to wait to tell me?" he muttered angrily, almost to
himself. "He had to wait until *after* the war? He couldn't have
sent me off to fight or die with a family?"

"Squall--"

"What *is* it about me?" he grated, his short nails cutting crescents
in his palms. "Was I not good enough before?" Blood began to
trickle down his wrists. He didn't notice. "He had to wait until I'd
saved the fucking world?"

"Squall, no!" Rinoa cried, wrapping his stiff shoulders in her arms;
she was sprawled across his body trying to reach him. He was still.

"Look," she said, sniffling. "He probably saw you, and got suspicious,
and wanted proof! That *must* be it! He had to wait until you got back,
and then had tests run while you were in the infirmary!"

He didn't answer her theory. The blood slowed and finally stopped as
his rage slipped back into the ice and his hands relaxed; he stared for
a long moment at the drying, crusting crimson, remembering its taste.

"Squall?"

"You forget, I've met the man," Squall said calmly, staring at his
bloodied wrists. "I don't think he's ever shown discretion in his life.
I'm not sure he knows how."

"So it wasn't something so noble," Rinoa protested. "Maybe he
was afraid for himself. Maybe he wanted to be really sure before
allowing himself to hope."

"For what? For a trained killer? For the fucking Ice Prince of Balamb?"

"For a son," Rinoa said quietly into his shoulder, stroking her fingers
through his hair. It was surprisingly soothing. He closed his eyes. "For
a son," she repeated, and he let her. "Can't you understand that, Squall?
I can," she sighed. "I only ever wanted a family."

"I . . ." he began, feeling something painful well beneath his heart.
"I never . . . I *couldn't* . . ."

"Shh." She hushed him, and pressed her cheek to his shoulder. The
braiding must have scratched her pale skin, but she didn't move. She
wouldn't move.

They stayed there into the next day.

It was the last time he spoke for a week.
******


***********************************
Four-thirty AM on a Tuesday
Balamb Dormitory Single #18
One year to the present
***********************************

The sound blended with the last milliseconds of his dream, and
as he smashed into the sheeting, shallow sea, he lunged abruptly
awake. His back hit the wall with his sudden move, his head
thumping into plaster; he kicked off the tangled, sweaty sheets,
almost frantic, gasping with the need to escape.

She wasn't moving.

"Rinoa?" His voice was its usual monotone, but his brows drew
around his scar in a concerned wrinkle. She should be questioning
him by now, clinging in her worry. His hand drifted over to her side
of the bed.

"Rinoa?" His hand drew back, sticky, like microwaved molasses.
He stared at the darker shadow in the night-black room. The hand
began a fine tremolo; blood spattered audibly on the soaked cotton
sheets.

"Somebody . . ." he whispered, staring fixedly at his blood-dipped
hand. "Someone help!" he yelled then. His voice cracked, and he fell
silent.

They found him there the next day, when neither of them showed at
work, at about nine-thirty that morning, curled naked into the wall,
staring at a hand crusted scarlet.
******

A/N Titles taken from 'Perfect Blue Buildings' by the Counting Crows,
a poem by Bernard Boches, and 'Do What You Have to Do' by Sarah
MacLachlan. References to Hamlet and to Helen of Troy. If you missed
them, don't worry about it. :)