It's here, it's here, it's finally here! I have excuses! A combination of work, family vacations, and Tifa femmeslash stole my writing time/ability. Uh… ...I'm gonna go hide now!

Disclaimer: I don't own Kingdom Hearts or any Final Fantasy game. Or any miscellaneous products that appear in the course of this fic. "Piano Man" is by Billy Joel.

Lighthouse

Chapter 2:

Piano Man

…They're sharing a drink they call loneliness
But it's better than drinking alone…

"...A Coke," Cloud told him, bluntly.

Squall blinked stupidly. "…Huh?" Thinking of the fancy cocktails he'd been mixing up all night, he tried not to let the disbelief show in his face. Cloud fixed him with a bored stare.

The request finally sunk in. "Ah--one Coke! Right away, Sir." Squall skidded over to the freezer behind him and pulled out an iced glass, then scooped ice cubes into it. Setting the glass on the counter, he ducked down to fish a Coke can out of the small refrigerator.

"Diet," the blonde man added.

Beneath the counter, Squall grimaced, resisting the urge to make a snide remark about celebrities, diets, and sodas full of carcinogens. But he figured he was on thin ice already, and he knew celebrities usually left great tips. Instead, he pulled out a can of Diet Coke and poured what would fit into the glass before plunking both glass and can down in front of Cloud Strife.

Cloud took a sip.

Squall wracked his brain for a conversation starter. He hated starting conversations, but this was his job. No one tipped an unfriendly bartender. He said the first thing that came to mind.

"So, what's it like working with Sephiroth?" In all honesty, Squall didn't really care about Sephiroth, or any other part of Cloud's acting career – though something about Cloud himself intrigued him – but it seemed like the sort of thing that someone who did care would ask. And that was his job, when it came down to it. Acting like he cared.

Cloud shrugged, staring into his Diet Coke, as if hypnotized by the bubbles floating to the surface. Squall thought it almost looked like he was trying to drown in it. He leaned back against the counter, waiting for a verbal answer to his question. But none came. Obviously, Cloud wasn't going to make conversation any easier. Probably too stuck-up, Squall's mind jeered. But something about Cloud's eyes – what Squall could see of them, curtained by blonde bangs – told him otherwise.

Still, Squall surveyed the lobby, looking for someone else to wait on, anyone, so he wouldn't be stuck with the melancholy creature before him. Squall was fond of silence, more so than most people. He didn't know how to break it, not when the other party refused to reciprocate conversation. Rinoa and Irvine and the others were always better at that sort of thing. And when he was forced to mix drinks at functions for Cid's catering company, usually everyone he served was dying to share their life story. All he'd have to do was smile or frown, nod at appropriate places, and occasionally offer his two cents.

Such silence as Cloud's – especially from someone who, as Squall saw it, attracted attention for a living—perplexed him. It put him in a difficult and awkward position, where he didn't know what he was expected to do. So he looked for someone to relieve it.

But somewhere between Cloud's arrival at the bar and Squall's search for that can of Diet Coke, the lobby had begun to empty. By now, most of the guests had filed into the theatre. The showing of Calamity was about to begin.

"Aren't you going to watch it?" Squall asked, swinging a hand in the general direction of the larger-than-life Calamity poster hanging down from the ceiling.

Again Cloud shrugged. Took a sip of his drink. Exhaled.

"They won't miss me."

"You… don't want to see it all come together?" That was what Irvine always said he'd enjoyed most about theatre: the end results of months of work, seeing all the mistakes smooth themselves out at the last minute, seeing everything come together. …Irvine had never made it to the big screen.

"I know how it ends," Cloud replied without looking up from the glass in front of him.

It was Squall's turn to shrug. What business of his was any of this anyway? He wished he could pour himself a drink. He didn't belong here, entertaining celebrities with stupid questions. He wasn't like those photographers and columnists, chasing famous people to give their foolish lives meaning. He was just some kid from Hollow Bastion, doing what he could to survive.

He sighed and leaned back against the counter. Silence fell between them. The sound of an explosion drifted in from the theatre. Across the room, serving trays clinked together as Yuffie tidied them, popping a tasty morsel into her mouth as she did so, and humming merrily to herself.

"You don't want to be here," a quiet voice noted. Squall turned back to face his customer. Again, blue eyes met his own grey ones, and Squall felt a spark of understanding pass between them. It wasn't like he believed in special connections between people, or weird stuff like that that girls liked to sigh about. But all the same, he looked into Cloud's eyes, and it was just something he could see: As much as they pretended and put on airs, neither of them belonged here. Squall needed something life had so far refused to give him. It was what he sought through all of his paintings, what Rinoa had been trying to help him find. …He wondered if Cloud felt the same way.

Squall realized Cloud was still staring at him expectantly, waiting for the answer to some unspoken question.
"I… I paint," Squall admitted awkwardly. "This is just… supplementary income." Remembering the cards Marluxia had given him, he fished one out of his pocket and held it out for Cloud to take. "I… actually I have some stuff in a show opening next weekend."

The blonde man read the information on the little card, head tilted in feigned curiosity, and then set the card down on the counter to pour some more Diet Coke into his glass.
"From here?" he asked. It took Squall a second to realize what the question was directed at.

"No, Traverse. Went to RGU."

Cloud nodded, and what Squall could already tell was an uncharacteristic smirk spread across his features. "Thought so. You don't have that West Coast accent yet." He tapped the side of his head knowingly. Squall blinked. What was this sudden change in attitude? "I'm from the Midgar slums." Squall's eyes widened. First Cloud had started acting cheerful, something rarely seen in even his film roles, and now this? Squall wasn't a fool. He'd heard about Midgar, though he'd never actually been there, and he knew that people from the slums didn't become celebrities. From what he'd heard, they never became much of anything at all.

"Don't look so shocked," Cloud replied, smirk widening. "Something good had to come outta that shit hole eventually." He let out a loud bark of a laugh.

Squall was completely thrown for a loop. But before he could stop to seriously consider the strange transformation he was seeing in the blonde man, Cloud began steering the conversation away.

"Something in particular make you want to come to Radiant Garden?" he asked. And Squall was forced to reply.

Two and a half hours later, celebrities and quests began filing out of the building into their waiting limousines. Squall looked up at the noise, surprised the time had passed so quickly. He mouthed the beginning of a word of goodbye to Cloud, but the blonde had already slipped away without a sound, blending into the crowd.

As the theatre emptied, Squall wiped down the bar counter, mind foggy with thoughts of home and sleep. As he came to the stool where Cloud had sat, he saw a scrap of paper on the floor and bent to pick it up. At first his intent was to throw it away, but then he turned it over to read the print on the other side.

Fleur de Lis Gallery
Proudly fostering Radiant Garden's talent
New artwork on display Saturday February 17 until March 17.
Join us for the reception on February 17, 6:00 pm to 9:00 pm!

Squall frowned at it, eyes narrowing in disgust, before crumpling up the paper and lobbing it into the garbage can. What a waste.

The next day was Sunday, and Squall rested. By the time he was fully awake, it was nearly noon. Sometime earlier that morning, he'd heard Irvine tuning his guitar, so he wasn't surprised to find the apartment empty. Presumably, his roommate had left to earn his keep.

Squall wondered why the man wouldn't just get a job, instead of sitting on some street corner all day, strumming tunes and hoping someone took pity on him and dropped their spare change into his open guitar case. Irvine wasn't an idiot, Squall knew. But the man was stubborn as the Galbadian bulls on the ranch his family owned out West, stubborn like Squall himself. Perhaps that was why they got along as well as they did.

Again he thought of Rinoa, and it was almost all he could do to drag himself up and out of his room. She was stubborn, too, in her own way, insisting they remain friends even though they couldn't be the same. He'd love to talk to her today. Tell her about the show at Fleur de Lis. It would be the first time he'd confronted her of his own volition since their break-up…

Squall showered, dressed, and fished out a clean bowl, and the box of cereal. He tipped the box over his bowl, and noted with grim dismay the cereal crumbs that drizzled out. Then he went to the refrigerator, remembered they were out of milk, and finally downed the powdery cereal remains with a grimace. Grocery shopping seemed to be in order.

It was a pity Irvine had left. Squall was willing to make the trip for both of them, but he wasn't about to pay for Irvine's share. Well, there was nothing he could do about it now. He had enough from his tips at the premier the night before. He'd make Irvine reimburse him later. Pocketing his wallet, he slid on his jacket and boots and trotted out the door, locking it behind him. He walked the next few blocks at a leisurely pace – it was still cold, but the midday sun and the absence of wind made it more bearable – until he came to the closest of Hollow Bastion's supermarkets.

Inside, he grabbed a basket and began piling it with food. A loaf of bread, some lunchmeat and cheese, a couple apples, a new box of his favorite kind of cereal (Irvine be damned). Then the other necessities: razor blades, after shave, a tube of toothpaste. Contemplating his mental list, he meandered back to the food, adding a multi-pack of ramen noodles to his basket. Remembering the milk, he found himself debating the virtues of getting a half or a full gallon when something small and bony "thunked" into his side.

Caught off guard, Squall shifted his grip on his groceries and adjusted his footing in order to maintain balance. He fixed the person with a disgruntled glare, ready to snap at him or her to "watch it."

The small brunette, arms full of canned goods, whirled around. "Eheh, sorry!" she gasped, and shifted the cans around in her arms, making as if to steady Squall herself with a free elbow or finger. Then, green eyes widened. "Squall?!"

"Selphie?"

"Heyyy! Squally! How've you been?!" Selphie adjusted her pile of cans again, this time trying to hug him, but Squall recoiled and she gave up. "Wow, I haven't seen you in… forever!"

Squall shook his head. It had only been a few weeks since their paths had last crossed. "You're doing well?" he ventured. Selphie gave a bold nod.

"Yep! Never better!" Glancing from Squall to her handful of cans to her watch, she continued. "Hey! I've got an idea. You got everything?" She motioned to Squall's groceries. He nodded, settling on the half-gallon. "Well, then let's not stand around and catch up here! Let's go get lunch!"

Squall frowned. "Selphie…"

"Oh, don't you worry! My treat!" She fixed him with a thousand-watt grin. "I can drop you by your place to put away the groceries, too!" Squall still wasn't convinced. He had a nice, laid back day planned out… "Come on, Squall! We'll be back before Rinoa even misses you! …Besides, she knows you're not my type anyway." Selphie dashed up the aisle toward the cashiers, turning to give a beckoning wave. "Hurry up!"

Squall nodded in acknowledgement. Selphie was a good friend. She'd find out eventually. He might as well be the one to break the news… His day of peace and solitude could wait. He sighed and followed Selphie at a slower pace.

Selphie's yellow Volkswagen Beatle whipped into an open space in front of Mog's, a cozy little café tucked away from Radiant Garden's main streets. Selphie locked the car with a beep and trotted up to hold the café door for Squall, who followed behind her.

They filed into Mog's and were led to their table by a polite waitress who handed them menus and told them her name was Wendy, and to let her know if they needed anything. Wriggling out of her parka, Selphie ordered a raspberry lemonade, and began to peruse the menu. Squall ordered a cup of coffee, and followed suit.

Wendy returned with their drinks a few minutes later, and Selphie quickly ordered her favorite sandwich. Not nearly as familiar with the menu – he'd only been to Mog's once or twice, and that was when he was in school – Squall took a minute before settling on the lunch special: half a sandwich and a cup of the soup of the day. Wendy gave them a friendly smile and went to place their orders.

It wasn't until after Wendy was gone and Selphie saw the first sip of coffee touch Squall's lips that she seemed to think it safe to continue her earlier line of questioning.

"So, what've you been up to?" she chirped.

"I could ask the same of you," Squall told her. Selphie laughed nervously.

"Ohh, you know I can't tell you that!" she whined. "All my business with Shin-Ra is strictly classified! Top secret," she added matter-of-factly.

Squall rolled his eyes. Unlike the majority of his motley group of friends, who had all majored in some kind of art, Selphie had gone into engineering. Her mechanical skills, and her rabid interest in planes, trains, and automobiles, had landed her a summer internship with Shin-Ra Electric Power Company. Right after graduation, Selphie had been hired full-time, and she began quickly rising up the ranks of what was one of the most powerful companies in the world. Which easily explained why her salary was at least four times what he scraped by with.

"But I will tell you this:" Selphie continued. "There're planes involved – vroom vroom! -- and the new Shin-Ra president is really cute! I've only seen him from far away, though. Never talked to him or anything…"

Squall fixed Selphie with a look that plainly said "Whatever."

Selphie frowned at him. "Okay, fine. Your turn now." Squall just started at her. "Come on!! How's Rinoa?"

Squall sighed for probably the billionth time. Time to break the news… "We're not together anymore," he told her, staring down into his coffee.

"You're—But! You two were like--"

Squall's glare stopped her in mid-sentence. "Don't tell me about it," he snarled under his breath.

They settled into awkward silence. Squall lost himself in his coffee cup – anything to keep him from having to see Selphie's sympathetic (pitying) frown. Half of him wanted just to leave: he'd never really had a way with words. But despite all of her irritating habits, Selphie was his friend. He knew, deep down, that she only said what she did because she cared. …And she was paying for their lunch. More than conversation, Squall hated feeling like a burden. So he sat there, drinking his coffee, thinking about how all this would be easier if Rinoa or Irvine were there instead of him, and then mentally kicking himself for being so dependent.

Then his and Selphie's food arrived, brought on a tray by Mog himself, a stout little man with a shocking puff of red hair.

Squall sipped at his soup, intermittently taking a bite of his sandwich as Selphie fidgeted across the table from him, eyes flicking from her sandwich to Squall, to her sandwich again.

"Look…" Selphie began. Squall glanced up from his soup. She never could stand silence for long… "I'm sorry about you and Rinoa," she continued. "I'll… I'll talk to her, okay…?" Squall inclined his head in a noncommittal manner. It wasn't Selphie's problem to worry about.

Silence fell again as Squall watched Selphie pick at her sandwich. Slowly, a smirk spread across her face as she titled her head to meet Squall's gaze.

"Say… How's Irvine been?"

Squall leaned back against the booth in exasperation.

"Same as always," he groaned, but he could feel a smile twitching on his lips in spite of himself. "A deadbeat scoundrel who does nothing but sit around and play guitar or fiddle all day."

Selphie laughed at this, and he couldn't help but grin a little along with her.

"That's Irvine!" she crowed. "But how are you doing in your career of choice, monsieur artiste?"

"I make a living for myself. Just because he's too stubborn…"

"Glass houses!" Selphie admonished, waving a scolding finger across the table at him before picking up her sandwich and taking a bite.

She had a point. But –

"Actually, I've got some of my work hanging in a show next week," he told her, pulling out one of the invitations he still hadn't taken out of his coat pocket. "At Fleur de Lis Gallery."

Without putting down her sandwich, Selphie snatched the card gratefully. "Oh! Wowww! Is that a big one?"

"No. They're showing a lot of artists, so I'll only have a few pieces up, but-"

"Booyaka!" Selphie shouted, waving the sandwich around wildly. "Want me to make you some custom invites? I'll pass 'em out at work and advertise on my blog… 'Fleur de Lis Gallery – featuring new work from Radiant Garden's own Leon Leonhart!' Oh, I'm so excited!" She wolfed down her sandwich with equal enthusiasm. "Your big break!" she said through a mouthful. "I'm so proud!" Squall smiled appreciatively, and he was also a little embarrassed. There was no one in the world quite like Selphie Tilmitt. They sat in silence again, but it was a companionable silence, not an apprehensive one.

Until Wendy placed the bill in front of Squall.

"Squall!" Selphie implored. "I said I'd take care of it."

Squall frowned down at the little folder. In the long run, he knew he couldn't afford eating out, but he felt guilty leaving Selphie to pay his share, even though she'd agreed to. He felt like he was failing in some kind of duty, and he hated how it hurt his pride as he handed Selphie that folder and the little slip of paper it contained.

"Don't worry about it," Selphie assured him, signing the check with a smile. "Squall, you need to save your money to make more masterpieces!"

Squall rolled his eyes, but really, despite his wounded pride, he was grateful.

As they left the café and climbed into Selphie's car once again, Squall muttered a quiet "Thank you." At first he thought Selphie hadn't heard him, but at the next stop light she turned to face him, and fixed him with a glowing Selphie-smile.

"It's no trouble, Squall. You know that. Anytime you need a hand, just let me know, 'kay?"

The rest of the afternoon passed by quickly. After Selphie dropped him off at his building, Squall knocked on the door of the carpenter who lived two doors down, borrowed a drill, gathered his paintings, and busied himself putting on the screws, hooks, and wires that would be necessary to use to hang them in Marluxia's gallery. It didn't take long. Canvas was a nice medium in that it didn't need to be framed to look finished.

Satisfied with at least that part of his work, he returned the drill to his neighbor and then meandered back into his living room. Seeing no other pressing matters to take care of, he retrieved a pencil and his sketchbook and flopped down on the couch, flipping on the TV for company. Squall didn't watch television much, but some ambient background noise helped to fill the empty apartment.

He sketched through two hours of some soap or other, letting his mind wander to things that would be right to say and the person he'd have to say them to, before rolling his eyes at the staged drama. He flipped the channel to a movie, saw Cloud Strife in the supporting cast, growled, and quickly changed to the evening news. The same thing as always, Squall thought as he stared down at his page—filled with sketches of lions, birds' wings, Rinoas, and the occasional head of spiky blonde hair—wars across the ocean, interest rates skyrocketing, snow piling up, rolling blackouts, upcoming conference on Shin-Ra's new environmental policy… None of the news was really news anymore, he thought, turning the TV off in frustration.

That was it. He couldn't put it off anymore. Mechanically, Squall slid off the couch and walked to the door, locking it behind him, and then walked stiffly down the stairs until he came to the ground floor of the apartment complex. Then he made a left, a right, and another quick left, coming to stand in front of a worn door much like his own. Gathering his willpower – he was just doing this to be polite. There were no emotions involved anymore – he raised a hand and gave a quick rap on the door.

Immediately he was answered by a sharp stream of medium-pitched barks. Then a shout: "Angelo!" Some rattling noises. "Shhshhshh, attagirl," and finally the "click" of the door being unlocked. The door opened a crack and Squall caught a glimpse of a disheveled-looking Rinoa before the door burst fully open and he was tackled to the ground by a sloppy, writhing mass of tri-colored fur.

"Angelo!" Rinoa roared, though – if he looked past the wagging body on his chest, the shiny black nose obscuring his vision, and the wet tongue that was currently bathing his face – Squall could see the laughter in her eyes. "Bad! Bad dog!" she scolded, and the shepherd-mix, cowed, scrambled off of Squall to stand by her mistress, though as Squall got to his feet, he still detected the trace of an overjoyed wriggle from the tailless dog.

"Sorry…" Rinoa murmured, wrapping a firm grip around Angelo's collar. The dog panted noisily. "I guess she missed you…"

Awkward silence followed as Squall tried not to get defensive. It wasn't his fault Rinoa's dog had been denied his company. But saying so wouldn't get him anywhere, so he swallowed his pride so he could say what he'd come to say.

Before he could, Rinoa turned away from him to shoo Angelo back into her apartment. "Squall." She tentatively cracked the door open wider, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "Do you want to… come in?"

Squall shrugged, so Rinoa ushered him in toward her couch, which was quickly cleared of the stack of papers, file folders, and notebooks piled on it. She stacked these next to her laptop, which sat, open, on a coffee table.

"I was working on my novel," she explained, and sat down on the couch, staring expectantly at Squall. He shook his head when he realized she wanted him to join her.

"I'm not gonna take long," he told her. "Just wanted to say thanks. And here." He handed Rinoa an invitation to the gallery reception and let himself out, pretending he hadn't noticed Rinoa's disappointed frown. He didn't need her. Now she just needed to go find someone else to make her happy

Hey, guess what, people? We authors, we have hit counters now. You know what that means? I can see all of you who come in, read this story, and don't review. I know how easy it is to be a passive fanfiction reader. But I really do like hearing what you all think of this chapter. Like it? Tell me. Hate it from the bottom of your soul? TELL ME. Got any questions/comments/suggestions/criticism? Let me KNOW. I can't improve unless I know I'm doing something wrong.

The purple button is your friend, too. Click him, please. He's lonely.