Note: Thanks for reading so far! As mentioned before, this fic is laced with realism throughout (similar to the original), so there are mentions real life artists, songs, etc. just to help carry the narrative. There are some references in this chapter to help illustrate some of Squall's interests and relationships as he carries on with his life in Deling City. Also, huge thanks to irishais and Jessicamariek for beta reading! Do check out their fics, including The Lotus Eater, which they're co-authoring!

2. Loner

IF THE QUIET ever gets to be too much, there's always work. But there's a certain skill, maybe a secret I've yet to unearth, to engaging with a job that I've long since checked out from (admittedly though, it's good practice if I ever decide to actually leave Garden and find some mind-numbing gig in middle management). I sit on video calls, familiar voices droning on and on and on, talking in circles about nothing, and I write emails that sound equally monotonous—no problem, I'll have the report by EOD, I'll run that by the Headmaster.

After work is invariably harder. It means finding ways to occupy myself, searching for things to do to hold the demons at bay. That's probably the one thing I miss about Garden; there was always a demand for my time, paperwork or training or contracts or some combination of the three, all readily available to distract me from the world outside work that was always threatening to cave in.

In Deling, though, there's nothing here but me, whatever that is. I guess I'm still trying to define it. Bits and pieces of the person I might be have started to come through in the two years since I've been here; my townhouse is a good example of that. It looks nothing like my place back at Garden. That's on purpose. The mid-century-style furniture I've set up, the band posters I've framed and hung alongside photos of Harper, of Laguna and Ellone, of Quistis and me—they're all part of an attempt to construct the version of myself that stands separate and apart from Garden and SeeD.

But bits and pieces don't make a whole, and Monday evening rolls in like a cloud. On nights like this, I wish I had a hobby, something to help make time feel a little less stagnant. All my books are well-read, some to the point of collapsed spines, but beyond that, I have very little to go on. It's just so goddamned hard to get to know myself outside of Garden, having spent most of my life programmed inside of its walls. Fighting and training are all I know, but those things feel almost completely obsolete, at least in this new pacifist era. My gunblade sits locked away in a case, collecting dust in a closet and left virtually untouched for months.

Motivation is equally hard to come by. I had thought about going to the gym earlier, but then halfway through the day I'd already changed my mind. I decide to sift through the records in my collection instead, trying to find a sound that will pair with the Dolletian bourbon I'd picked on the way home from dropping off Harper last night. I've got a large painted-gold metal rack and a few crates full of albums to choose from. The oaky liquor necessitates warm tones, I think. I pick up the well-listened-to copy of Revolver that my father had given me last year for my twenty-eighth birthday.

It isn't long before Eleanor Rigby fills the space, and I sing along, my voice quiet despite being alone in the safety of my living room, "'All the lonely people, where do they all belong?'"

I often wonder if Laguna has any inclination of my musical tastes, or if he's just that good at taking lucky shots in the dark. Or maybe it's something that's inherited, as ingrained in my genetics as the shape of my nose or the one half-crooked tooth in my smile. Every so often, though, Laguna shows up on my doorstep with a new thing to listen to, something I inevitably find my way to liking, and always on vinyl, the sound low-tech and strangely honest, the format a subtle rejection of Esthar.

I'd gotten half a dozen records or so from the old man—Revolver and Rumours, my favourite—before I finally figured I should try and reciprocate, in turn gifting albums I'd had on repeat during my formative years. It's a small gesture, I think, but Laguna's always seemed appreciative to have any insight into my adolescence—the bulk of a life that he'd missed out on.

Here, There And Everywhere is playing by the time I find the bottom of my glass, and I don't spare half a thought before I'm up to refill it. Ice cube hitting muddled sugar and bitters, the bourbon pouring over. Fresh orange peel, squeeze, then garnish. Maybe in another life, I'd be a bartender like my mother. I can almost see it, if I think hard enough; there's a shadow of me that sits in the fuzzy corners of my imagination, and I'm mixing drinks together, music loud all around, people everywhere.

When Laguna was my age, he was well on his way to leading a nation at the helm of a rebellion, driven to suppress a sorceress, forced to forgo family in favour of duty. He'd once told me, "It was the greatest honour and biggest mistake of my life." The words stuck for years, rattling around in the back of my mind, but I never understood their true weight until the day Rinoa and Harper left Balamb for good.

It's easy to picture my father at twenty-nine, overburdened with a role that was far too big for him to carry. How he spent most of his time alone in that chaotic indigo city, so foreign and so overwhelming, listening to Revolver, drinking by himself, contemplating life. Mourning. Attempting to come to terms with his own version of loneliness.

For as long as I've known the man, I've been painfully aware of the irony of our parallel lines. Me, trying to make up for lost time with Harper. Laguna, trying to make up for a lost life with me. No love except lost love. I never intended for this mirror—I could have avoided all this if I had been smarter—but for a thousand different reasons, knowing the past was not enough to prevent me from repeating it.

Laguna's at least been trying though, and I probably don't give him enough credit for all he's done since he met me. Hell, he even left the Estharii Presidency and moved back to Galbadia with Ellone, all just to be closer to me (and later Harper). I try not to feel bad about it, but my brain's always been too neurotic to not harbour at least a little bit of guilt.

I finish off my second drink, reduced more or less to just a swill of melted ice, and I sing out one more line (this time, a little bolder thanks to the bourbon), "'She no longer needs you,'" before getting up and placing my empty glass on the island countertop.

—

I DON'T LEAVE the house until Tuesday night. It'd be really easy to just spend all week here, locked away, but for whatever reason, I'm feeling antsy, like if I don't get out now, I'll be trapped inside forever. I need to move, to escape these comfortable off-white walls, and the walk, at least, could be a welcome change of scenery.

It takes me more than a minute to mentally prepare to go outside. The prospect of taking a shot enters my mind, because one, a little alcohol never hurts (except when it does), and two, the illusion of warmth'll help me brace against the frost of late November. Before I can say no (like I'd ever say no, anyways), I find myself pouring a double that's thrown back far too easily for my liking.

Even with one shot down, it's still cold, cold, fucking cold. I pull my leather jacket over my hoodie and step out into the frozen air, my breath turning visible on the exhale. The sting is quick to set in as I put the hood up over my ears, trying to hoard the heat from the bourbon in my bloodstream. It's only ten blocks to get downtown, fifteen minutes at most, maybe even less if I manage to keep my pace up.

I grab a smoke from a new pack of cigarettes and light it without breaking my stride. The walk downtown is a familiar one, past the old convenience store where I buy my Malboro Reds, a turn off my quiet street and onto West Broadway to where the buildings grow more contradictory, all that beautiful and ornate thousand-year-old architecture, housing laundromats and pot dispensaries and Estharii take-out.

Two more blocks and I'm crossing under L'Arc de Triomphe, the site of that first failed mission, back when I was just a dumb, freshly minted SeeD, barely capable of leading myself, let alone a goddamned assassination attempt on a sorceress. I still think about that night, even now: the sound of the sniper rifle, the look of contempt on Matron's possessed face, the cold ice spear breaking through ribs and flesh, the screaming.

It's a bit of a paradox, I think, living in a place that had once considered me an enemy of the state and shipped me off to die in prison. But it's maybe even just a little bit amusing, too, like perhaps in some tiny way, I did win, after all.

I take the last pull of my cigarette and throw the butt onto the ground under the yawning space of the archway, sure not to miss my target in the centre of the gutter. The cold is starting to bite, now. I feel my pace picking up as my destination creeps into view.

The Oxford is an unimpressive haunt in the middle of the week, but it's cheap whisky night, and the food is tolerable enough. I step inside and wait for the fog on my glasses to subside before finding a spot close to the back, an easy score in a third-full pub. The server follows behind with menu-in-hand—a cute new girl I don't think I recognize—and sets it down in front of me.

I offer her a half-smile. She looks like someone that could be my type, if I can even definitively say I have a type at all: dark hair, warm eyes, a few tattoos adorning her arms and disappearing under her rolled up sleeves. She smiles back, and I think about flirting with her. I can't really say I'm particularly good at it, though, not the way Irvine is good at it, but I've come to learn over years of being single that I have a kind of attractiveness certain women seem to gravitate toward.

But inevitably, those certain women never seem to want anything from me other than a bit of fun, partying or sex or both—never anything lasting, never anything meaningful. Nothing that comes close to filling the void. I've yet to pick up anyone I'd even so much as consider introducing to Harper.

I push the notion of flirting aside for now and order myself an old fashioned (although admittedly, I'm not above staring at her ass for a moment as she walks off). Blame it on the loneliness. Maybe one day, I'll be some gross old man, still here, still alone, still eyeing up poor waitresses while drinking whatever's on special, all in an attempt to forget whatever bullshit's plaguing my future self. What a thought.

For now, though, I sit back into my seat, turning my attention to the room to observe the other patrons like the good SeeD I am. On a Saturday, this place transforms into something lively: band on the stage, the floor packed with people, and a line out the door if you neglected to arrive before 20:00. But tonight, it's some sad man at the bar with a pile of losing pull tabs, a couple more interested in their phones than each other, a few friends catching up over beers, and a too-rowdy-for-Tuesday group of coworkers drinking and making noise in a booth.

I remember the first time I came here. The loud alt-rock band, more beers than I'd ever drank in one sitting, lots of laughing (really laughing). A first date with the first girl I'd been interested in since my breakup with Rinoa. She was fun, exciting. Certainly different than anyone I'd ever met before. She had an innate way of making me feel like a normal human being—something I'd never really felt up to that point in my life.

Sometimes, I wonder if I'll ever run into her again. I still have the message she'd sent me a couple years ago, the one telling me that she was moving to Dollet. She'd said she was ready to try on a different city and see how it fit. Right after that, she was gone. And in the moment, it sucked, especially losing her that way. But I guess it wasn't completely unexpected. Her departure was just as abrupt as her arrival.

Still, the temptation to hit her up and see if she would be game for round two creeps into my mind more often than I'd care to admit. And it can be pretty goddamn difficult to shove the feeling down when I'm always by myself. I think about shooting her a message mostly on nights like these, after I've had a couple drinks, and the only thing I have to look forward to is an empty bed at home.

The sound of a full glass hitting the table brings me back to where I'm sitting, and I realize that I haven't even thought about food, let alone looked over the menu. I glance up at the server. She looks friendly enough. My eyes move to the pad and pen in her hands, and it's not long before I find myself wondering how far up her arms those tattoos go. There's another one on her neck, the letter "C", tucked away behind her ear.

"Know what you want?" she asks.

Company? "What's good?"

She smirks and offers me a small shrug. "The booze."

Fucking hell. She could very well be my type. Maybe it's just her job, but she almost seems to be inviting a little back and forth. I give her a small laugh. "Amazing, that's exactly what I was craving."

"My kind of guy."

I smile into my drink. I think I could like this girl with the "C" tattoo if I let myself. There's a part of me screaming to keep this up, that maybe I'd go home with a phone number instead of just my usual buzz. Sure, it'd probably amount to nothing, but it's been a good eight months since I've even had a hook-up, and that alone is starting to drive me crazy. I try to think of something clever to say.

Someone laughs, and for a second, I think it might be Rinoa, the easy, airy sound lighting up the room. I look up, adjust my glasses, start searching around for her, and feel the disappointment hit when I spot another woman sitting at the too-loud table—a soundalike, no more. It doesn't matter, though; my mind slips away all the same.

I look back up to "C", and I'm almost apologetic for making her stand there and wait. "I'm sorry," I tell her, "I think I need another minute."

—

I COAST INTO Wednesday stuck on auto-pilot, work nothing more than a series of motions to go through between smoke breaks. Two briefing calls with Xu. A presentation on Garden's admissions strategy for Q1. My overdue report detailing monthly travel expenses for SeeDs out in the field. A review of Timber's request for a contract extension with Squad Gamma.

Work is the expansion of seconds into minutes that make hours feel long and stagnant; it's looking at the clock and seeing no change. I can't help but get restless. I try to placate the feeling by pacing around my office, having a cigarette, refilling my coffee.

The only notable part of my day—maybe the only notable part of the whole damn month—is the new contract I receive, doing security detail for some politician coming to Deling next week. It's a small job—I've done dozens like it before—but I'm almost looking forward to it, if for no other reason than to do something other than stare at a screen. The extra pay's not bad, either.

It's not all that often that I even take field work anymore, not because I've become shy of the danger, but because of Harper. The thought of not being able to help raise her—either because I've been maimed or killed—is enough to keep me in check. Having my limbs and life intact is just a bonus.

If there's just one thing I hope for in this godforsaken world, it's that Harper will never, ever have to attend a Garden, or become someone else's weapon-for-hire. It's just so damned easy to fall victim to the indoctrination; the brainwashing started when I was barely a year older than she is now, my own childhood a stolen one. It had made me numb to the human condition. It made it okay to take life away. Easy, even.

I cannot, will not, bring myself to imagine such a future for her.

She deserves better; she deserves a normal life. It's hard to do when I'm not with Rinoa, but I figure lots of kids probably grow up with split parents these days. And it's a hell of a lot better than no parents—I can personally vouch for that. Still, I have to wonder what it would be like if we could be Mom and Dad together, again. I hate that I'd only gotten a few months into fatherhood myself, before I royally fucked that one up.

At one point, I'd (delusionally) thought maybe Rinoa and I would actually get back together, that I would figure my shit out and we would kiss and make up. We had a daughter, after all—why not try to make it work? But then Rinoa had to go and say something about not wanting to raise a kid in a loveless relationship, and it stung, because it had been the first time I had heard her say she didn't love me.

I shake my head and let out a sharp breath. I can feel myself wanting to come undone, a common symptom of my midweek life; the extent of all that time spent alone is starting to scratch at the base of my skull, making thoughts of day-drinking and other less-than-desirable pastimes harder and harder to escape.

That's the beauty of working remote, though. If I feel like fucking off for a bit, I can. I need some grounding company, someone who can keep me on track and away from booze at this sad hour of the day, so I decide to head out and see what Ellone is up to. She's probably off soon; it's almost 16:00. I grab my jacket and hustle out the door to catch her in time.

I manage to get onto the main drag before rush hour traffic picks up, and then it's just a ten-minute drive down to the elementary school where she works. A couple good songs pop up along the way, and I sing along, at least until I hit a red light. Then I kind of shy out of it (insecurities and all that). I know I shouldn't care, but I still have trouble with it.

I get to her school, Oakvale Elementary, right at 16:00 and park out front. It's hard to tell if she's still here, since she usually takes transit into work. I shoot her a text, "Come outside, let's get coffee." A read receipt pops up. I wait.

The parking lot is mostly empty, no kids, just a couple of vehicles. The car I'm parked in behind is a sunny yellow piece of shit with one bumper sticker that says "COEXIST" and another that reads "Gardens Are for Plants, Not Pawns." Lovely.

It's a few more minutes before she's passing through the doors, bag of books hauled over one shoulder. She jumps into the passenger seat and sets the bag down on the floor. "I love that you just assume I have no plans after work. How about a warning, next time?"

"Well," I shrug, "do you have plans?"

"...No."

"Perfect, let's go then."

We head back out, down towards the shopping arcade on Commercial. It's kind of a kitsch part of town—the locals would call it eclectic—full of hole-in-the-wall restaurants and vintage consignors and used book stores. I've spent a lot of time down in this area, sometimes to browse around my favourite shop, Monterosa Vinyl, sometimes to check out the nightlife. See, all the best live music is here; on a good weekend, you can catch some of Deling's lesser known bands across half a dozen venues, all within a matter of a few blocks. It's the kind of area I could see Laguna spending a lot of time in too, before he got swept off to Winhill.

I find a spot right outside the coffee shop, and it's enough to prompt Ellone to say, "The parking faeries are on your side today." Her remark is enough to prompt me to roll my eyes.

It's a bit pretentious, a bit try-hard, this place, but I know it's Ellone's favourite. There are books on the walls that no one reads, plants that contrast the white paint. Nirvana is playing In Bloom over the gutless, tinny speakers. The room smells like fresh grounds mixed in with a bit of spice. I'm not that big of a coffee snob, myself; I have a drip machine at home and that's always been good enough for me, but this is the kind of place that would give you shit if you ordered brewed coffee. I order a latte instead from the dreadlocked barista who's got six piercings (at least that I can see), and pay for both of us before finding a spot to sit.

"Well?" Ellone asks after a passing moment. "Any particular reason for the visit?"

Because getting drunk at 15:00 is frowned upon? "...No reason."

She eyes me up and gives me that half-crooked smile that she's given me for as long as I can remember. She could go back and review my reasons herself if she wanted to, but she knows I trust her not to use that power on me, and for the most part, she's respected that boundary.

"How about, 'I just wanted to see my wonderful sister and ask her about her day?'" she offers.

I laugh. "Sure. Let's go with that."

The barista drops off our drinks, and we both manage a quick "thanks" (Matron's lessons in manners never fail). There's a fern leaf drawn into the milk, mirroring the leaves on the plants scattered throughout the shop. I wrap my cold hands around the mug and let the warmth bleed off the ceramic, up through my fingers and into my palms.

"Okay, my day, let's see…" She claps her hands together and her eyes brighten. I feel like one of her first grade students, about to get a lesson. I wonder blithely if I should start calling her Miss Loire. "Well, the term's almost up, and I'm really looking forward to winter break. The kids are getting kinda antsy, too. It's getting hard to hold their attention for any amount of time."

"Maybe because they're already realizing that this clock-in, clock-out bullshit won't end until they're in their sixties." This comment earns me a look.

"Oh, what-ever, Squall!"

If I had to choose only three things in this world I could count on, one would be taxes, two would be my anxiety, and three would be my sister's constant need to "whatever" me. I figure she probably likens it to a small form of payback for all the times I've spit the word at other people. Joke's on her though. I have no issue with it.

I turn my attention down to my coffee. I'm a bit hesitant to drink it. See, coffee's become one of the many things that goes hand-in-hand with a cig (right along with lunch breaks, driving, beers, cocktails, nights out, nights in, so on and so forth), and I know the second I pull out my pack, I'm going to hear about it. Ellone's never really gotten on board with my whole après moi, le déluge thing. She's probably better off. I take a slow sip and try not to think about how much better it'd be with a smoke.

Ellone pivots to a new subject. "Have you talked to your dad lately?"

She always makes a point of calling Laguna "your dad" to me. I get the sentiment; she's always wanted that tight-knit family unit, the kind you catch on TV, but then she got landed with us, this dysfunctional, broken mess. The word "dad" as it relates to Laguna still feels clunky.

I'm not a dick though (at least not to her, not on purpose), so I answer her hanging question, "Not in a couple weeks."

"You and Harps should stop in for a visit soon."

I know, I know. "I know. I'll call him up," I concede. "Maybe this weekend, we'll head over."

"Do it," she pushes. "And remember that first part, 'call him up'. Because you know, some people do make plans if you don't let on what you're thinking."

It's not the worst idea. It's just awkward sometimes. I guess I still don't quite know how to act around Laguna. To what degree do I treat him like my father? Do I even know how to treat anyone like a father? Before him, the closest I've ever come is Cid, and I spent most of my life treating him more like a superior officer than anything else (not to mention, Cid always seemed more concerned with treating Seifer like a son than me). And Laguna actually seems to give a damn about the things that Cid never, ever asked about.

I remember the first day I visited with him after the truth came about. I was nineteen. It took me a whole year and change to even come around to the idea of spending time together, out of fear or spite or maybe a bit of both. He asked me things like, "what's your favourite food", or "what's your favourite colour", "do you have any hobbies"—rudimentary little questions. It was only punctuated by the fact that I didn't have any answers to any of them. I was an orphan, left to Garden's devices. My favourite food was whatever I was fed, cafeteria food or military rations or otherwise. Colour was irrelevant. My hobbies included training and working.

It took years more of uncoupling myself from Garden before I finally had answers to offer, but I figure by the time I was about twenty-two or so, I had a favourite food, steak au poivre, medium rare. My favourite colour was red. I liked reading and I loved music. And Laguna was the only reason I even gave these things any sort of consideration. Is that parenting, though? I don't know. I can barely figure out what I'm doing with Harper myself, half the time.

"Are you alright?" Her question catches me a little off-guard, but then I realize I've just been sitting here, saying nothing for a solid couple of minutes, and staring at milk foam that's starting to go cold. Swap spots, and I'd ask her the same thing.

"Yeah, I'm just," I make eye contact with her, and she looks more concerned than I'd like, "in my head, as usual."

"I can see that. Care to share?"

No. "It's nothing."

When I was a kid, I would always try my best to avoid carrying other people's burdens. But as I get older, I'm more concerned about overburdening the ones I'm closest to. Ellone has always been so willing, for better or worse, to be my crutch, telling me that's what big sisters are for. Laguna, too; I didn't ask him to be my father, or dad, or anything. He just volunteered, and he was willing to give up everything in his life to make it happen. Do they even know why they're doing this? Do they know who I really am—this thin human, resilient as paper and a match strike away from ash?