Wow, it took forever to write this. I'm sorry. School and an AP test and an anime convention and video games monopolized great parts of my time. As did learning how to drive. I only have a month and then I'll have to renew my permit. Eep, I still can't park worth crap.

Strangely, the greater majority of this was written during church. I think this is a trend that will continue.

But think about it this way: this chapter's longer than the first one, and I've now beaten Sora's part of Kingdom Hearts: Chain of Memories. (Finally!) And I'm almost done with Reverse/Rebirth.

Spell-check wants Marluxia to be "malaria" and Larxene to be "larceny." Something about this seems oddly fitting.

Enough of my babbling. Thanks, as always, goes to my lovely beta/sister Meow Meow Ky. And to Delightful Sin for her delightful nagging. ...Don't glare at me! You know I love ya.

And wow, thanks to all you reviewers. I'm amazed. I've never had a first chapter be quite this popular so far.

Disclaimer: I don't own Kingdom Hearts or any Final Fantasy game. "Colors" is by Crossfade.

Lighthouse

Chapter 2:

Colors

Surely not the best colors that you shine…

Squall let the brush fall from his grasp. It tumbled to the floor, trailing a bead of muck-colored paint with it. Squall glared at the canvas before him. Judging from the light coming in from the window, it had to be at least noon. He'd been painting—if he could call his fervor that—for hours without even realizing it.

He was sitting on his bed, surrounded by half-empty paint tubes and crumpled up paper towels. A small bottle of mud-colored water balanced precariously on his knee and his pallet sat to his side, a mess of colors tainting its metallic surface.

Squall leaned back, scowling at what he had created. Black and red and blue and green and gold splattered across the canvas, trailed along roughly by brushes and fingertips, the colors bleeding together, converging in the center to form a uniform yellow-brown. And scrawled in the middle of it all, jaggedly, almost carelessly, was a single skeletal white feather. Squall was just as disgusted with it as he had been before.

He dragged a paint-caked hand through his shaggy brown hair, taking in the other canvases leaning along the wall. His finished paintings. Precise works of art, technical masterpieces. A lion roaring across the savannah. A pretty young girl—Rinoa had been the model—standing under the streetlights, smiling. A polished gunblade, naked metal appearing to almost glow.

All as detailed as a photograph. Nothing like the mess that sat before him.

Squall picked up his paints, returning them to their box, and gathered the paper towel pieces into a ball, lobbing it into the trashcan. Then he carried his palette and brushes to the sink in the kitchenette, scrubbing the acrylic paint off of them irritably. Once finished, he set them on a towel to dry.

Laughter floated over from the TV in the living room, and Squall couldn't help but feel like it was mocking him. He snarled, whirling to snatch his jacket and keys from where he'd left them on the counter. Flinging his arms into his coat, he shoved his feet into his boots in the entryway. He needed some fresh air.

"I'm going out," Squall barked back at Irvine, just so his roommate wouldn't waste the afternoon wondering where he had gone. "I'll be back in a few hours."

"Squall!" Irvine yelped, sitting up from where he was slumped on the couch and poking his head up from around the arm. "Wait a second!"

Squall took an impatient step back into the apartment.

"What?" At that moment, another head popped up next to Irvine's. "…Rinoa?"

The black-haired girl flashed a winning smile, giving him a little wave from where she sat beside Irvine on the couch. "Hi Squall!"

Squall pinched the bridge of his nose. He could feel a headache coming on. "What do you want?" he growled, turning to leave again.

"Come on, just sit down for a second before ya go rushing out the door," Irvine drawled, giving up his seat to stand behind the couch. "It won't kill you to listen to the woman."

Squall sighed, recognizing that particular glint in Rinoa's eyes. He couldn't help but worry that it just might.

But he took the offered seat anyway, fixing Rinoa with a skeptical glare. She was ready to kill him not twenty-four hours ago, and now she was sitting here smiling like nothing had happened? Women were impossible.

Rinoa took Squall's glare as a cue to start talking. She sighed. "Okay, Squall… I know we both had a rough time yesterday, but that doesn't mean we have to hate each other, right?" She looked at him hopefully. Behind Rinoa, Squall saw Irvine wink as if to say "I told you so. Here comes the apology." Squall resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

Rinoa gave up on getting confirmation and continued. "So even though we know our romantic relationship is doomed to failure, we can still be friends, right?" Squall looked even more skeptical. How could she sound so chipper and so depressingly melodramatic at the same time?

Rinoa sighed. She knew Squall well enough to realize she wouldn't get a response. "Look, Squall. I'm here with good news. And we're still friends, okay? So lighten up a little!" Behind her, Irvine nodded.

"….." was Squall's enthusiastic reply.

Rinoa rolled her eyes. "I think in Squall-ese that means he's interested." She looked to Irvine for confirmation. The cowboy just shrugged and trotted off to his room, presumably to go get his fiddle or something else equally annoying. Squall sighed, resigned to his fate. That was just like Irvine. Conspiring with this crazy woman and then leaving him alone with her. To come back not a day after their breakup, Rinoa had to be a little mentally unstable. As far as Squall understood, that just wasn't how things were done.

"Squ—all!" Rinoa whined, grabbing his arm. "Stop fidgeting like you're looking for an escape route! You'll like this news!" She paused as if for dramatic effect. "I think I found someone who will show your work!" Squall froze, turning to face her. Rinoa continued, emboldened by his interest. "He's a friend of mine: owns a private gallery. Nothing huge or anything, but I showed him some of the pictures I have of your stuff on my phone when he and I went out for lunch the other day and he said he thought people might buy it!" Suddenly, she lunged across the couch, throwing her arms tightly around Squall. "I'm so excited! This could be your big break!"

Squall stared down at his ex-girlfriend (who was squealing and squeezing his midsection) in stunned silence. She jumped up with a start, releasing him, as if she'd suddenly thought of something. "Oh! You'll need his card! He gave it to me…" She frantically padded the pockets of her jeans and her coat before dashing over to grab her purse off of the kitchenette counter. Squall stared blankly, wondering how he had missed its presence there when he'd grabbed his coat. Rinoa dug through her purse before finally fishing out a small business card from one of its pockets.

"Here it is!" She handed the card to Squall, and their fingers brushed against each other. Rinoa quickly withdrew her hand to flick a few dark strands of hair behind her ear. "There. Hey! You're going out anyway, right?" she remembered with a nervous laugh. Squall realized this was probably just as awkward for her as it was for him. "Why don't you go see him? Bring your portfolio and stuff!" She dashed off to Squall's room before he could stop her and emerged again in the blink of an eye, with the bulging bag of artwork and a few other large canvases clutched under her arm. "Go on! Go!" she exclaimed, grabbing onto Squall's wrist and leading him over to the door. "He's trying to find stuff for a new gallery show right now! Oh, this'll be so great!"

She flashed another smile, and before he knew what hit him, Squall found himself standing outside the door of his own apartment, with nothing but his portfolio and a couple other canvases for company. As he leaned one of the larger paintings against the wall so that he could adjust his grip on the others, he couldn't help but feel that the yawning lion painted on its surface was laughing at him.

Twenty minutes of crisscrossing snowy streets later—downtown Radiant Garden had probably been plowed and de-iced by now, but it often took days for the plows to make it out to Hollow Bastion—Squall found himself standing in the middle of a sidewalk on the left side of a nearly-deserted street lined by brick buildings. Squall scanned the storefronts before him, trying to match any of their signs to the business card clasped in his gloved fingers.

Letting out a sigh of relief, he readjusted his grip on his portfolio and trotted across the deserted street under an awning that covered the sidewalk. He quickly double-checked the stylized iris logo on the business card Rinoa had given him with the sign on the building's glass door.

Fleur-de-Lis Gallery

Welcome in.

Squall took the invitation.

The private art gallery owned by Rinoa's friend—whoever he was—seemed considerably larger once one was inside than would have seemed possible to someone standing on the street. Squall stamped the snow off of his boots on the doormat and then made his way across the polished wood floor, footsteps echoing noisily in the otherwise-silent building. On white-washed walls to either side of him hung several canvases and framed watercolors, the pride and joy of other local amateurs like himself. White pedestals of varying heights displayed sculptures and a few boldly-stained crooked clay vases. Everything was labeled neatly with titles, artists' names, occasional brief descriptions of the philosophy behind the piece, and of course, the price tag. Much to Squall's surprise, some of the hideous lopsided vases were adorned with "SOLD" stickers.

In the far corner of the room sat an empty desk that looked like it would belong to a receptionist, stacked with fliers advertising local artists, commissions, and upcoming gallery openings. Squall glanced around, searching the gallery for any signs of life. Finding none, he reluctantly trotted over to the desk, set down one of the canvases, and began rifling through the fliers. Rinoa made it sound like someone was expecting him. Why wasn't there anyone here? This was just like her… He'd come all this way for nothing. Rolling his eyes and sighing, Squall picked up the canvas and turned to leave.

"Well, if it isn't Squall—or should I say Leon?—Leonhart," trilled a silky voice, laden with fake affection. If Squall had been anyone else, he probably would have jumped at the sudden apparition. Or at least flinched. But instead he just spun coolly to face the man and woman now standing behind him.

"Marluxia…" he growled.

"Leon, Leon, such animosity!" The tall man shook his head, clicking his tongue in distaste. The blonde woman standing at his shoulder smirked, curling claw-like nails around the man's upper arm. "Rinoa told me all about you. How are you doing after all these years?"

Squall scowled. He didn't recognize the blonde woman, but Marluxia had gone to Radiant Garden University for art school as well, and the two of them had often been in the same studio classes. To say they'd never gotten along would be an understatement. There was something about Marluxia's supercilious attitude that got under Squall's skin in a way few other people could.

The man seemed to be doing quite well for himself. In contrast to Squall's scruffy appearance, Marluxia wore a neatly-pressed mauve dress shirt, black slacks, and shoes polished to a shine. His hair fell to his shoulders in feathered waves. Though it was actually an ashy brown, something in the lighting—or maybe it was his shirt—made it almost look pink.

Marluxia gestured to the woman at his arm. "This is Larxene." Apparently he deemed no other explanation necessary. Perhaps it wasn't. Judging by the simpering grin on the blonde woman's face and her crisp yet feminine suit, the two were cut out of the same mold. Her cropped blonde hair stuck up in two strange antennae. Or perhaps they were meant to be horns.

"How do you know Rinoa?" Squall demanded.

"No need to get upset," Marluxia replied, followed by a chuckle from Larxene. "We belong to the same book club." Squall raised an eyebrow. Rinoa had never struck him as a book-club-attending kind of girl. "We just finished reading Machiavelli's The Prince. One must be cruel in order to be kind."

Squall scoffed. Political theory. That's Rinoa.

Marluxia continued. "But you're not here because of that," he made no attempt to hide the scrutinizing glare he gave the portfolio clutched under Squall's arm, "are you, Leon?"

Squall's eye twitched. "Leon" had been a nickname he'd been given by some of his classmates in art school when they discovered that shortening his last name made a first name. Squall didn't think it was particularly clever, but he'd adopted the name anyway, using it to sign his pieces. It reminded him of lions. And he'd always, or at least in his more childish moments (which were thankfully rare), felt a strange affinity for lions. He wouldn't have minded the nickname if he didn't know Marluxia was only using it to mock him. So he didn't grace Marluxia with a response.

"Tut tut. You really haven't changed at all," Marluxia sighed.

"So cold!" Larxene cooed, giving a dramatic shiver. "It's a good thing Rinoa told us all about you and your little… painting business, because we'd never figure it out from you!" Squall glared at her, making her fanged grin become even more pronounced.

"Now now, don't bait him, Larxene." Marluxia gave the blonde a placating wave. We wouldn't want to bruise our budding baby artist." His smirk broadened while Squall wondered vaguely if dealing with this man would make his eye-twitch and headache permanent. Larxene wasn't helping either. She seemed to bring out Marluxia's sadistic side. Well, more so than normal. Squall heard Marluxia murmur, "The critics will take care of that for us." Larxene must have found this particularly vicious because she tittered with laughter—a sound like breaking glass—for a few seconds longer.

"Come now, let's take a look at what you've brought for us," Marluxia said to Squall. Larxene had finally released his arm. He walked to a door that Squall hadn't noticed before and held it open, gesturing for Squall to follow him. Inside was a cozy office containing a desk on which rested a laptop. In front of it sat a wooden armchair. Marluxia slid behind the desk and waved Squall to the chair.

Larxene reappeared in the doorway, wheeling in a desk chair, presumably from the receptionist's desk in the front. She rolled it behind Marluxia's desk and sat down as well, before leaning over to peer at Squall over steepled fingers.

"I'm sure you know how it works," she began. "We're here, taking time out of our busy schedules, out of the goodness of our hearts, because Rinoa's convinced him that something of yours might sell." She snorted as if she knew better. "No guarantees. And if something does sell, we get ten percent of whatever you make. To cover the cost of our space, advertising, etc. etc." Squall nodded. That was the way the art business was. "Good boy," Larxene sneered.

Marluxia sighed. "Now, to business. Care to show us some of your pieces? …Leon?" Squall fixed him with a glare, but Marluxia's grin only got wider. And here Squall had thought getting to work would make Marluxia act a little more professional. Apparently he'd been wrong. Squall set one of the larger canvases down on the desk.

Marluxia glared at its surface. The painted lion glared back.

"You have a very good grasp of perspective," Marluxia noted. "RGU taught you well, I see."

"Oh, how cute. It's a lion," Larxene sneered.

"It's very nice: detailed. People would buy it."

"Sure, if they were on a Mako trip."

Marluxia's glared turned to her. "Larxene. Do try to maintain an ounce of professionalism."

Larxene put a hand to her lips in mock distress. "Oh, I'm so sorry! Can you ever forgive me?"

Marluxia rolled his eyes before asking to see the next pieces. He approved the paintings of Rinoa and of the gunblade, complimenting Squall for a "masterful use of lighting." But he was not as impressed with Squall's other lion paintings.

"We can't fill up the whole show with too much of the same thing. Since this is your first gallery show, I think it's best to put up a broad sampling of your work."

"Some variety," Larxene scowled.

"Show people what you're capable of," Marluxia added. Squall nodded. He supposed it made sense, though he was especially proud of the series of lions. But he wasn't at all experienced with the workings of galleries, and though it pained him to admit it, Marluxia probably knew best. "Good, then we're in accord. So, do you think you could pick your favorite lion or two?"

"…Whatever." Squall indicated the large painting of the yawning lion and another smaller portrait of a roaring beast painted in all blues and grays except for its glowing yellow eyes. Marluxia nodded his approval while Larxene sat back in her chair, smirking as if she had something obnoxious she was dying to say.

"Wonderful," Marluxia stated. "We'd probably have room in your part of the show for one more piece, so if there are any last things you'd like to show us…"

Squall thought about it. Opening his portfolio, he didn't think he had anything else he'd want hanging in a gallery that Marluxia and Larxene hadn't already scrutinized. But reaching into the bag, he felt the corner of another canvas.

"What the…" He pulled it out, staring. The damn painting from earlier that morning! But he hadn't… Rinoa! It must've been her. When she'd rushed him out after telling him about the Fleur-de-Lis gallery, she must have stolen into his room and snuck the thing into his portfolio! He was mildly angry. Clearly Rinoa had no artistic taste. But he was also thankful that acrylics dried quickly. Not for the sake of the horrible little canvas, but because the rest of his paintings—the good ones—would have been ruined if wet paint had gotten on them. He sat the wretched little canvas down on the desk so he could replace the contents of his portfolio, about to say that no, that was all. But the instant he opened his mouth, Larxene snatched up the little 10x12 monstrosity greedily.

"Oho! What is this?" She poured over it with almost hungry glee, tilting the surface this way and that. Marluxia leaned over to get a glimpse for himself.

"Abstract, Squall?" he observed, raising an eyebrow. "I never would have expected something like this from you."

"It's nothing," Squall growled, holding out a hand to demand that Larxene give the painting back.

"Oh, but I like it!" Larxene exclaimed, leaning over the desk so she could leer at Squall. "It's full of such raw, naked emotion…" Her little pink tongue flicked over her lips. Squall scooted back in his chair nervously.

"I concur," Marluxia agreed with a nod. "Beautiful." Squall glared back stubbornly. "Do you mind if we put this in the show?" Squall slumped back in his chair, rubbing the bridge of his nose in silent frustration. "It's brilliant, really. I'd love to see you do more work like this," Marluxia continued, Larxene nodding furiously.

"Fine. Whatever." Squall snapped.

"Wonderful. Now, the gallery opening is next weekend, and the show will be up for a month, but we're hanging the show on Thursday, so we need these back with hanging gear put on them by then. Of course, we can do it for you—for a small fee, naturally." Squall shook his head. He could scrounge up a drill from someone in his building later and do the work himself. "Oh, good, good," Marluxia continued. "I'll call you in a few days to negotiate prices and such. No, no, don't worry, Rinoa already gave me your number. Good boy." He pressed a flier and a stack of cards displaying the show's date into Squall's grip. "Advertise a little, hm? Spread the word around. It's been wonderful to work with you, now run along. I've got work to do. Larxene will show you out."

By the time Squall made it back to his apartment, the sky was already beginning to darken. Sometime during the heat of the day, the snow had turned to slush, but now it was once again starting to harden. But the roads out of Radiant Garden were gridlocked with rush hour traffic, making it one of the few times Squall was grateful that he walked everywhere. He climbed the stairs to his apartment, set down a painting so he could unlock the door, and then elbowed it open. His full arms forced him to grip the key in his teeth as he kicked off his boots and carried the paintings to his room.

"Hey, Squall," Irvine called over the fizzling noise of a skillet he was holding over the burner in the small kitchenette. Squall frowned as he dropped the keys on the counter. It looked like Irvine was frying something, though Squall couldn't tell quite what. Was one supposed to do that with ramen noodles…?

"Is that edible?" Squall asked him with a rare smirk.

Irvine shrugged. "Think so. You hungry?" He turned down the burner, offering the steaming skillet to Squall, who shook his head.

"Don't want to risk death today." He reached into the fridge and pulled out some ham and cheese. Producing a loaf of bread from a cabinet, he frowned mildly at the blue spots marring the end of it, tossed the heel of the loaf into the trash, and selected two safe-looking slices.

"Might be too late for that," Irvine replied wryly. Squall stopped in mid bite of his sandwich, turning to stare incredulously at Irvine. "Your boss called," the red-headed cowboy explained.

Squall's brow furrowed in thought as he mentally catalogued all of his part-time jobs. "…Which boss?"

Irvine scowled. "The real mean one, the catering guy."

Squall grimaced. "Did he tell you what he wanted?"

"Man, I didn't even pick it up," Irvine drawled, massaging an ear. "Didn't want him biting my head off. Let the answering machine get it."

Squall rolled his eyes, took a bite of his sandwich, and strode over to hit "play" on the answering machine. His own voice played back to him.

"Hello, you've reached the residence of Squall Leonhart--"

"And Irvine Kinneas!"

"—Neither of us are here right now, so please leave a message after the beep, and we'll get back to you as soon as we can."

"BEEP!"

"Boy, it's Cid," a gruff voice barked. "Where the hell 're you this early in the goddamn afternoon, eh? Eh, don't matter. You better get this message, y'here? Get your scrawny ass over here by 7:00. We got asked to cater some movie premier garbage an' Wedge jus' called in sick. You don' 'ave ta cook nothin', just mix drinks or serve hors d'oeuvres or somethin'. Just get the hell over here!"

The message ended with a click.

Squall rolled his eyes again, gulping down the rest of his sandwich.

"Guess I'm gone."

And that was how Squall found himself standing behind a bar counter set up in the lobby of one of Radiant Garden's most prestigious (and fanciest) theatres, mixing cocktails for the stars of Calamity and their entourages of costumers, makeup artists, agents, event planners, and of course the ubiquitous paparazzi.

In his uniform white shirt and tuxedo vest, Squall felt vaguely like a trained penguin. He also felt that all the camera flashes were grating on his already worn-thin nerves. He leaned back against the counter, watching detachedly as Yuffie, one of his younger coworkers, bounced around the lobby, greeting Radiant Garden's finest with a tray of hors d'oeuvres.

A blown-up copy of the Calamity (starring Tifa Lockheart, Cloud Strife, and Sephiroth) movie poster hung in the center of the back wall of the lobby, displaying larger-than-life images of the already larger-than-lives that filled the building. The celebrities mixed and mingled around it, greeting each other with pasted-on smiles. Outside, the dark night was illuminated by another bout of camera flashes from the red carpet as someone else important made his or her stylish entrance. Squall was mildly surprised to see Sephiroth himself glide into the theatre, with a voluptuous brunette in a blue dress—Tifa Lockheart—on his arm. Immediately, the two were surrounded by reporters from all the major entertainment channels, magazines, and radio stations, bombarding them with questions about their work as the leads of Calamity.

Squall rolled his eyes. The press disgusted him. Give a man a few shiny statuettes and they fawned on him like a pack of dogs before an owner with a juicy bone. In fact, it wasn't a stretch for Squall to imagine wagging tails to go with their deferent postures and begging eyes. Pathetic.

Someone in front of him coughed to get his attention, snapping Squall back to what he was supposed to be doing. He turned to face the figure lounging on the barstool before him. In an attempt to maintain polite composure (after all, his paycheck, and thus a good portion of his career as an artist, was riding on this) he began, "Ah. I'm sorry. What would you li…" But the words failed him as he looked up, meeting the brilliant blue gaze of none other than Cloud Strife.

In a perfect world, I'd really not like to die again in Dirge of Cerberus.
Stupid snipers.