Full Synopsis:
When does one become greater than the sum of his mistakes? For Squall Leonhart, it's a question with no clear answer. Reeling in the aftermath of all that could have been, Squall finds himself living a life that's mostly spiralled out: he's single, lonely, on the downturn of a long-loathed career, and rapidly approaching the end of his twenties. In fact, the only thing that keeps him going most days is his young daughter, Harper. But Squall has Harper only on weekends, and for the rest of the week, he's alone, stuck with nothing but his thoughts—on love, on family, on coping mechanisms, and on the demons that never seem to lie too far from the surface.
It's why he seeks refuge in the company of his record collection, in the few friendships he's actually managed to maintain, and in the vices that keep his pain dull. After all, what else is there to do when life is just a series of failed attempts at happiness? Squall knows that his situation is far from ideal, but it's all he can manage to stop himself from drowning in a myriad of ugly regrets and near unending anxiety.
It's only when he starts to really feel the pressure of a new decade of life coming on that he finally wonders if he should try to make a change. But change, like they say, is easier said than done. And without Rinoa at his side, is change even worthwhile at all?
This is the tale of finding oneself in the wake of a worst-case scenario come true, of finding love in the least expected places, and of finding happiness within instead of going without.
Author's Note: This is a rewrite/reimagining of the fic "Like Knives". It's a Squall-centric story, and if you had followed the original, there will be many changes. Squall's character arc, relationships (past and present), and dynamics with other characters will be explored. If you are here for a Squinoa piece, I'm sorry to say that this may not be the fic for you (although my body of work contains many OTHER Squinoa fics, if that's the ship you're after). I do hope you'll still read along, though, as this fic has become close to my heart, and I am really enjoying working on it!
There are a few real life elements contained within this fic for ease of reading against the narrative. Warning for drug-use and alcohol abuse throughout.
Prologue: No One
NOT ONE DAY in my twenty-nine years of existence has been quite as painful, as sobering, or as expected as the day Rinoa Heartilly left. Even now, it's hard for me to look back and recall everything that happened. The memory has become a permanent dark spot, this old bruise that just never seems to heal. The sting is gone, but there's still that sore, lingering ache, the skin all faded ashy purples and sickly dull yellows.
Still, if I'm ever forced to think about that cold, shitty Tuesday in March (three days after her birthday, and, not coincidentally, three days after our last fight), there are five specific details that always seem to stand out.
First, there was the feeling that had gotten caught up in the back of my throat. I know it sounds stupid, considering the weight of all that was going on. It's just that everything else felt so surreal, like some sort of bad dream that I couldn't wake up from. The burn of bile was that one thing keeping me grounded, tethering me to what was most certainly not a dream as I stood in the middle of our living room, staring blankly at her as though I was some half-ghost stuck in limbo.
Second was Rinoa herself, double-checking her bags, grabbing mementos off the shelves, still as beautiful as the night we'd first met under a thin, slivered moon. Her face was tear-stained, but she was never one to hide away from her emotions. She wore her hurt like a badge of honour, her defiance on full display.
It's something I've never been good at doing myself, so when the third detail, my own grief, came sweeping in like a tidal wave, it crashed against me hard, churning, violent. I tried to fight it off, thrashing and kicking like some panicked child, but I had already been pinned by the undertow. A part of me to this day wishes I would've just let myself drown. She'd brought on this torrent, she was holding my head underwater; the job was all but done. But I've never been good at taking the easy route, and for whatever reason, I kept holding onto my breath.
There were so many thoughts running rampant in that moment—tell her she's wrong, tell her she's destroying everything, tell her she can't do this, make it all stop—but I couldn't find a way to make the words come out. They stayed hitched up, trapped inside my head; they took a wrong turn, got lost on the way to my mouth.
It wouldn't have mattered, anyways. When all your worst fears are playing out in front of you, and you come to that slow, sick realization that you're too late to change course, too far gone to fix any of it, words are worthless.
And that brings me to the fourth detail, the realization that this was how it ended, in the room where I first told her I loved her, everything wilting away in some cruel and perverted form of irony. All the emotions I'd tried to bury for so long broke free from their shallow grave, and then it was my own tears welling up in spite of my protest. I didn't fucking dare let one stray. This was all my doing, after all. I knew that. Seven years I'd spent locked away, drowning in work, wrapped up in obligations, piling on fresh new traumas that I soaked in even newer vices. I let everything that ever mattered spiral out, the tapestry of our lives together reduced to nothing more than a thin gauze.
Even now, it's hard to believe that it all really went down like that. I can still see that open door. All her things neatly packed (of course, in luggage I'd bought for a vacation we never took). But what hurt the most—more than my throat, more than her leaving, more than anything—was the fifth detail in this punishing little trip down memory lane: watching Rinoa put our daughter, all wrapped up in her strawberry pink blanket, into the stroller. Her hands were trembling as she lowered her in; I could see her straining to steady, trying her best not to wake her.
I found my way back to the surface then, struggling against the waves just to get one last look at her: that small face, those strands of messy, dark hair framing pale, soft skin. Knowing that I would not see her like that ever again—not the next day, or the day after that, or for who knew how long—was what finally broke me. So I tried my best to memorize her, running my fingers across her cheeks, begging time to stand still.
But time is a fickle thing. It kept pushing along like always, and before I could stop it, a sob broke through—that fat, ugly sound, echoing against the walls.
I kissed her forehead, once, twice, knowing that this really was goodbye, and I whispered to her, even though she was too small to understand any of it. I hoped to gods I didn't believe in that no matter how deep the scars that ran between her mother and me, she would stay safe, unmarred.
"I love you." I love you, I love you, I love you.
When I stood back up, I saw Rinoa staring back at me. And I'm sure I looked like shit with my red-rimmed eyes, the tears running fresh, hot trails down the sides of my face. It wasn't a badge of honour for me. It was just shame. Shame that I could let myself hurt like this. Shame that I had let it get this far.
When Rinoa moved the stroller toward the door, something cracked; it was as if the weight of the room came crashing down with the force of an anvil. And I, dumbly, left her with one empty word that fell into the rubble between us.
"Please."
She shook her head then, turning her gaze away in favour of the floor. I could feel our bond deteriorate, the sinews and the synapses collapsing in a cascade, a grand symphony of my failure.
A waltz for no one.
"I'm sorry, Squall." Rinoa's voice cracked on my name. "I just can't do this anymore."
Fucking hell, I wanted to stop her. Of course I did. I wanted to convince her to stay, to show her that I was capable of change, to prove to her that I could become the person she needed. I wanted to tell her that I needed them, that I loved them, that I loved her, just please, please, please, don't take Harper away—
—But, just like I had done so many times before, I stood still while the people I loved the most faded into the distance.