11. Father

HARPER AND I arrive at Laguna's in the late grey of the afternoon, welcomed by white lights framing the front door and the smell of dinner in the oven. Fleetwood Mac's Rumours weaves into the air, the sound of Second Hand News rolling down the hall as we cross through the entryway. Then it's Ellone's smile, her fleeting embrace, her kiss landing on my cheek. A wave and a shy "hello" from her boyfriend, Giles, and a bark from their corgi, Enzo.

My father steps out to greet us a moment later, his hair tied back and sleeves rolled up from a day spent in the kitchen. I can't help but notice how happy he looks, the lines on his face pronounced by the breadth of his smile. He kneels down to pick up Harper, who's almost too excited to contain herself, her eyes all alight, baby tooth grin as wide as it will go.

It feels a bit overwhelming, this so-called family tradition, all in the name of the longest night of the year. And yet, it's almost as though life should have always been this way. It feels like coming back home.

I want to try to be better this time. Present. Happy. Even if it's just for a little while. It was only last week that we had lunch with Laguna, if you could've even called it that. I was in and out, so fucked up over Quistis and Rinoa and Adrian. It made me barely able to think, barely available for anyone. And I know right now, Laguna is probably wondering what version of me he's getting. I see him eyeing me through sideways glances as we cross through the foyer and into the kitchen.

I set my side dish on the island and hand him a six-pack of beers and a new record I'd grabbed at Monterosa Vinyl for his collection, The Bends by Radiohead. He examines the cover, the plastic CPR mannequin lying on black, almost human-like, its expression lying in the void between euphoria and torment. It's a bizarre image, arresting in how uncomfortable it looks. But that's what initially drew me to it, back at that old record shop in FH, over a decade ago. Because it wasn't just some strange prop doll—to me, it felt almost like a reflection.

Laguna flips the record over, and the corners of his mouth quirk up as he reads the track list. Then it's a smile and a "thank you", and he wraps an arm around me in a half-hug. I return the gesture, although I feel awkward doing it; there's still that reflex telling me to slip away, that he's getting too close, and I have to consciously fight it off.

I don't hate it though, not like I did when I was a teenager. Despite my anxiety, I've gotten more used to the idea of being his son, and more comfortable with the thought that I could actually belong somewhere. There have been times—private, quiet moments—where I've stood in front of a mirror, trying on the name Squall Loire, times where I've written it down on paper, spelled out in print and scrawled in cursive. It's never quite fit, but it feels like the more I'm around him, the closer it gets.

Still, name or not, there's no doubt in my mind that this is my family. We hang out around the kitchen, sharing conversation and catching up, our chatter about work and Estharii politics and life and music filling up the room. Harper joins in, too, her Rinoa side shining bright with a story about a new friend she made at daycare, a boy, which has her turning a bright shade of red.

Ellone laughs. "Is he your boyfriend?"

"No!" Harper shakes her head emphatically.

I pick her up and give her a quick kiss. "Good answer."

The conversation takes a brief pause just before dinner, as Laguna makes a toast to Annette, to Raine, and to us, holding up his glass of wine while he tries to hold back that sad, wistful look. My gaze is drawn to the white lilies in the centre of the dining table, perfectly cut, a picture of my mother's arrangements from all those years ago in Winhill.

I catch Laguna staring at them too, our eyes meeting briefly across the bulbs and leaves. I'm sure he sees her in me right now, the same way I see Rinoa in Harper. For just the hint of a moment, he looks like he might cry, but then he shakes his head, draws in a breath.

Our glasses clink together, the silence ending on a shared exhale.

After that, it's right back to the chatter, with Laguna leading the way as he draws from his deep well of stories. One about getting in trouble with his cousins as a kid, one about his first fishing trip with Henri, another about himself, Kiros, and Ward getting lost on their way to Dollet, back in their army days.

I used to find it boring, how he'd drone on and on about his life without having any obvious point to make. It's different now, though. It's a part of his history, and in a way, a part of mine too; even if there's no destination, I find myself fascinated by the pictures he paints of himself as a child, as a young man, as an unwitting leader. And I can't help but laugh as he tangles up his idioms along the way. My favourites (in no particular order): "getting three dogs with one bone", "chewing up more than you can swallow", and "flogging a dead cow".

He's made too much food, of course, turkey and potatoes and stuffing, cranberries and salad and roasted brussels sprouts; all the things that Annette used to make for the solstice parties of his childhood. I find it almost amusing that he asked me to bring a side at all; I think it's more his way of making me feel included, rather than the actual need for it.

I wonder what Raine would think, seeing us all together like this. I've only seen her through the glimpses Ellone has given me, that short-lived junction to the past. Her dark brown hair, her pale eyes, so much like mine. The way she'd scowl when she was annoyed. That secret laugh she reserved just for my father. I know I'm fortunate for having experienced any part of her at all, but still, I wish I could have known her. The very concept of a mother—my mother—is still so foreign to me.

She probably would have been happy. As I'm helping to pack away the ample leftovers, I try to picture her with us, washing dishes, rearranging the flowers, playing with Harper. She's the silhouette in the shadows that catches me off-guard, the tear I spot forming in Laguna's eye, and the scent of lilies that linger in even the most impossible spaces.

As the longest night carries on, we migrate from the kitchen into the family room. Laguna lights up the fireplace, Enzo sprawls out in front of it, Ellone and Giles start a game of Scrabble, and Harper cuddles up next to me on the sofa with one of Henri's wooden train cars. I can tell she's tired, her energy burned off from all the excitement and too much dinner. She fights to keep her eyes open as she rolls the toy back and forth across my thigh.

I'm still kind of amazed that I get to experience this. When I was an orphan, I'd completely written off the idea of ever having a family. And at the time, it made sense; why bother hanging my hopes on something that was never meant to be? But then Ellone came back, and Laguna came through, and Harper came along, and everything changed.

What's most bizarre, though, is the fact that it's all so normal, now, almost to the point where I feel this weird twist on the survivor's guilt I've carried as a SeeD. Quistis, Selphie, Irvine, Seifer—they never found families for themselves. Even Rinoa has only Fury, and he's distant at the best of times, too concerned with things like duty and protocol to be concerned about her or Harper. (At least Zell was fortunate enough to come up in a home where he was loved, with the Dinchts in Balamb.)

I'd thought about inviting Quistis tonight. We've texted back and forth a bit in the past couple of days, just basic things—asking about each other's day, commenting on the weather. But we haven't come face-to-face yet, and I don't really feel like parading an awkward encounter in front of an audience.

Still, texting is at least something, a start. I don't feel quite as terrible as I did just a week ago. Hell, I've even managed to sleep a full eight hours the past couple nights in a row. That in itself is a goddamn miracle.

"Squall, you need to settle this. You're the 'whatever' expert." Ellone's voice draws me back into the room.

"Huh?" I have no clue what she's talking about, or even how one could become an expert on a single word. I lean forward and adjust my glasses, careful not to disturb Harper, who's all but fallen asleep next to me.

"Is 'whatevs' a word?" Giles asks, pointing down at the gameboard.

Ellone looks at him almost incredulously. "Of course it is. You ask me, 'what do you want for dinner,' and I say, 'whatevs.'"

"It's slang," he insists.

I can't help but laugh. My sister, the teacher, certainly knows better, but Elle, the bargainer, is probably sitting on a good number of points if she can sway the judgement in her favour. My eyes dart over to Laguna, who's wearing the smirk of a man who's been conned by this girl before. I give a small shrug. "Laguna's the writer, not me."

"Oh, you're no help!" Ellone turns her head to my father, and she tries to mimic Enzo with her best puppy dog face. She almost looks childlike, sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of her letter tiles. "What do you think?"

He sits down next to Harper and me, and cracks open one of his beers. "It's an abbreviation. It doesn't count."

She frowns, looks back at me. I shake my head. "The man has spoken."

"You guys suck," she says. "That just cost me twenty points."

Giles grins. "Good call."

Laguna winks and turns his attention to Harper, still holding onto the train car, passed out as she leans against me. He tucks her hair behind her ear and takes her in for a moment, her pale round cheeks, her dark lashes, that small pink pout she's inherited from Rinoa. And I'm sure he's wondering the same thing I am right now: how is any of this possible?

I get it. Sometimes, I worry that this is all just temporary, like maybe I'm just a stand-in, or an imposter, and this doesn't really all belong to me. For him, that same anxiety is rooted deep. I can still remember that time in his twenties, when Ellone connected me back to his life in Winhill. There was something so strained, so terrified, about the sound of his words, the way they cracked in his throat as he begged the air to let him still be in his bed when he woke up.

But back then, he was right to be scared. Because it wasn't long after that Ellone was ripped away, and then Raine, too. Life reminded him, cruelly as it could, that everything really was temporary. It's why he's so adamant on spending moments like these together now. He's never quite certain that anything's fixed in place, never sure the pieces in his life have truly settled into permanence.

I look down at Harper; she's slumped into some contorted position halfway across my lap, her neck arced to the side, legs hanging off the end of the cushion, arms reaching over my thighs. God, she's gotten so much bigger in these past few months.

Part of me selfishly wishes that the clock would stop, that maybe I could have at least a bit more time with her while she's small. I'm terrified of the day when she won't need me anymore. It's a strange feeling. I have never in my life wanted to be relied on for anything, by anybody, not even Rinoa. But Harper…she's the only person who's ever managed to change that.

Laguna stirs, lets out a low sigh. "All wiped out."

"She was pretty excited for today," I tell him.

His face pulls back up into a smile, crinkles in the corners of his eyes. "Same."

I know he's trying to will time to slow down, too, but I can't leave her to lie like this. My gaze meets his for a moment, apologetic—he does his best to memorize her, just like I did so many years ago, before Rinoa took her away. I let him stare for just a second longer, and then he nods.

I gently pick her up, move her to the loveseat, cover her with the woollen blanket that was draped across the back. For a moment, her eyes open, then it's a hazy look of confusion, still drunk on sleep. I give her a quick kiss, tell her everything's okay—and this time, it's not a lie. Everything is okay, at least right now. Her face resolves into a smile as she turns into a cocoon and falls quickly back into dreams.

On my return, I notice Laguna's gone to retrieve a beer for me. I take it, offer a quick "thanks", and find an empty spot around the gameboard as Giles finishes totalling up their scores; Ellone wins by five points.

"You playing?" she asks.

"Sure," I say.

She smirks. "Well, hopefully you're better at spelling than you are at Triple Triad."

Whatever. She's good at cards, really good, but I've managed to snag a few rare ones from her back in my hayday. I give her a challenging look. "Big words from the girl who thinks 'whatevs' counts for anything."

Giles gives me a small nudge. "You can help me make sure she doesn't cheat."

I smirk and crack open my beer, the hiss of the can marking the start of the next round. Giles carries the lead through the early part of the game, then Ellone comes through with the word twerk, which he and I both contest. This time, though, amazingly—because what even is language anymore—she's right, it's in the damn dictionary.

"What does 'twerk' mean?" Laguna asks.

"It's like, you know—" Ellone pauses. "When you move your… Well, it's more like when you've got a lot of junk in your…um. Squall, why don't you tell him?"

I bury my face in my hands. I am not explaining this. "Pass."

Giles raises an eyebrow, looks at us both, and puts on a grin that was made for an in-law. "It's a dance."

I knew I liked this guy. He and Ellone have been dating for a little over a year now. They met at one of those hipster poetry slam nights last winter and hit it off, a pair of would-be bohemians from Winhill finding each other for the first time in the city.

I've only ever been around him on a few occasions: last year's solstice, Ellone's birthday, a backyard barbeque Laguna held over the summer when Kiros was in town. He's generally been pretty quiet, even by my standards, but he's warmed up to our family (our family, such a weird statement still), and he's been good for Ellone. He keeps her grounded. And, in matters of Scrabble, honest.

As we run out of tiles and words to make, he wins, I manage second, with Ellone trailing closely behind. Not to be outdone, she challenges me to a round of Triple Triad from the old deck Laguna keeps tucked away with the other board games. We go a few rounds, but she's by far the better player. It doesn't help that she likes to throw in as many rules as she can, just to make it that much more difficult. To be fair, I'm kind of rusty; I haven't played much since I moved out of Garden. It shows. It takes losing three times and draining the rest of my beer before I can beat her.

She ends up coming away with five wins to my two, but it's okay. I'm just enjoying the time spent with her. I wonder what it would have been like had we truly grown up together, if circumstance didn't see her getting whisked off to live on a ship before I was even Harper's age. We've missed out on so many moments like this—almost fifteen years of empty space, long enough to forget her, but not the hurt. There's still a ghost living inside me, that sad, abandoned kid that doesn't want her to leave, even tonight.

But eventually, we run out of games to play, and everyone gets a bit more tired, and there's nothing left to do but say goodnight. She and Giles head out with Enzo just before midnight, although not before Laguna can send them off with plenty of takeaway containers of leftover food. She gives him and me each a hug and kisses Harper, who wakes up just enough to let out a groggy "bye Auntie" before falling back asleep.

"We should probably go, too," I tell him, after a moment of quiet.

Laguna turns his gaze to Harper, then to me. "Sure you don't want to stay a bit longer? I wouldn't mind the company, if you're up for it."

I shrug. It's not like I have anything waiting for me other than an empty bed. Still, being the centre of his attention gives me enough reason to pause, and I feel myself growing a bit anxious. But then I see that grey-green stare, holding onto a look of loneliness that I've become all too familiar with these past few years. It's enough for me to realize that I don't want to just leave him—especially not after all he's done tonight. I try to push my feelings aside. "Okay."

The look fades on my acceptance, sinking a few feet further beneath the surface, and he turns up a small grin in its place. To think that my company could be enough for anyone, let alone him, is a bit strange. It's not like I've ever brought much to our one-on-ones besides tension and a healthy amount of unresolved teenage angst.

Laguna motions for me to wait and disappears to the kitchen again, only to return a moment later with two more beers and his new copy of The Bends. He hands over one can to me, sets one onto the coffee table. Then it's the eager removal of the cellophane packaging from the record, and his careful hands as he puts it on the player, quiet enough to not disturb Harper.

We sit back down on the sofa, listening. There's a short, whispering hum before the sound of Planet Telex lifts above the crackling of the fireplace, the delayed guitar and Thom Yorke's drunken vocals wrapping up in the air. This album always stirs up a kind of nostalgia in me. The smell of old carpet and musty crates of records in that FH shop, that momentary escape, standing there alone. It was right after I was first handed command, that title hitting like damnation, sealing the fate that I myself had created.

My father opens his beer, takes a long pull. "So, why this one?"

The question shouldn't be hard for me to answer, but right now, I'm too tired to think straight. I have to pause, reflect. Usually when I give him a record, I take the time to write an accompanying note, explaining what my life was like when I first listened to it. But I never managed to write anything this time. I just couldn't get my shit together with everything that was going on.

"Lots of reasons," I finally say. I take a sip of my drink and sink back into the cushions. "It got me through some pretty tough times."

"Like what?"

Like finding out that I was responsible for the lives of a thousand cadets and a couple hundred mercenaries—most of them just kids (like me), too young and dumb to be carrying weapons of war. Like dealing with the fact that I was supposed to kill the only mother figure I've ever known. Like finding out that my family wasn't a foregone conclusion. Like Rinoa and Harper leaving me, broken and alone in Balamb.

I exhale the breath I didn't know I'd been holding. "There's too many to count."

He looks over at me. "I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault."

He shakes his head. God, I hate how he still seems to carry this guilt. But he's like me that way—always wondering what could've been done differently, always trying to bargain with memories, like maybe if the desire is strong enough, the outcome might somehow change. Of course, it never does, but we dwell, nonetheless.

He tries to compose himself, changes the subject. "When did you first hear it?"

"Years ago… I was seventeen," I tell him. "Maybe only a couple months before I met you. I'd just been named Commander."

"Lot of pressure to put on a kid," he says.

"Yeah." It's a lot of pressure to put on an adult, too. Enough that when I focus on it, the only thing that formulates in my head is how much I want out. I remember at one point thinking, maybe it won't be so bad after the war, maybe it'll get better. But it never did. Instead, I just became more jaded, more resigned. "I spent the first week just lying in bed, listening to this album. It was just so fucked up, suddenly having to carry that kind of weight around."

"I can relate to that," he says.

I nod. "I'm sure the word president wasn't one you thought you'd associate with yourself."

"No…" He leans forward onto his knees. "Twelve years of my life were surrendered to that job. There was just so much chaos after Adel was gone. The withdrawal from the world. Then almost a decade of in-fighting, all those rebel factions vying for power… I just wanted it to stop."

"So you stepped up and did what you thought was right," I say.

He casts his gaze up to the Kandinsky above the fireplace, the shapes all chaotic and yet in perfect order, reds, blues, yellows. "It was stupid to be so self-righteous."

"Maybe," I concede. Is it stupid? I think it would be worse to be someone like Xu, to have no conviction, no morals. Everything is just so…grey.

"Definitely," he whispers. Another sip of his beer. More staring.

The title track comes on to occupy the silence, my favourite of the album. I sit back up, listen closer. The whining of the guitar, the restless vocals churning up all sorts of insecurities. I catch myself thinking about all the shit that's happened recently. Venting with Seifer, my mess with Quistis, Rinoa and Adrian, my fuck-ups at work. That empty goddamned notepad.

I wish I knew what I was doing. I'm just as lost as the day I first heard this song. Thom cries out, "Where do we go from here," again and again and again, each time more strained than the last, and then suddenly, subdued.

I look back over to Laguna. Ellone's advice—to reach out to him, to get some perspective—resurfaces in my head. And honestly, I want to do it. I want him to be my parent. I think I always have, even back when I was a teenager, even when I tried so hard to deny him. I've just always managed to stand in my own way. My apprehensions, all those unresolved abandonment issues—they feel thick and murky, they cloud everything, they make it hard to break through.

There are just so many things between us that are still unsaid. And that's mostly my fault—I've been so hard on him, always too concerned about my own bullshit to care about how I might make him feel. I know it's not fair. It's just my default. Hell, I've never even called him "Dad". Not once. I don't claim to understand why it's so hard. And yes, I know I said before that it just feels clunky. But that's not really a great excuse, is it?

Of course, there's the part of me that is still so afraid to let anyone in, but there's more to it, I realize. I'm worried that if he gets any closer, he'll get caught in my undertow. I don't ever want him to come face-to-face with the disappointing reality: that his son is a borderline alcoholic (just like his own father), a chronic pothead, a lost man.

Fucking hell if I'm not just wasting time, though. And if I can't will it to stop, then the next best thing is to make the most of it. At least, I think so. Something has got to change. I'm so goddamn sick of this anxiety, so sick of letting my past traumas take control.

"Where do we go from here," indeed. It's enough to get my heart racing, and before I can stop myself, I blurt out: "What am I supposed to do with my life?"

Laguna looks a bit dumbfounded. He glances over at me, inhales slowly, exhales even slower. I don't mean to put him on the spot like that, but at the same time, I hope he has some sort of answer, or at the very least, a hint. Anything. We've practically lived two versions of the same life, mired in wars, forced into positions of leadership, tangled up in lost love. Our spotty parenting track records. Always, always alone. He knows all the mistakes, knows where all the land mines are buried.

But then finally, he says, "I don't even know what I'm doing with my own most of the time."

"Fuck," I say, mixed in with some perverted version of a laugh. It's not the answer I wanted to hear. If he doesn't know, what does that even mean for me? Am I still going to be this lost, this fucked up when I'm his age? Here I am fretting about thirty—I'm scared to even imagine what it would be like to feel the same at forty, or fifty, or sixty.

I can't help but feel a little bit disappointed. I should have known better, really. It's not like he's got some magic words that can just fix everything. I can't help but put some of the blame on Ellone. She's always made him out to be this well of knowledge, but she forgot whom she was talking about. Laguna doesn't have all the answers; he's been dragged along his whole life too, stumbling in and out of scenarios that were all seemingly too big for him to overcome.

"Squall, I—"

"—I'm sorry," I tell him, mostly because I don't know what else to say.

"I'm sorry, too," he says.

I feel myself getting a bit emotional. Partly because I feel awful that he thinks he needs to keep apologizing, but also because I've been getting so frustrated with not knowing how to do anything but fuck up. All the while, that stupid goddamned question—what do I want—keeps coming back to the forefront of everything; I'm worried that it's starting to define me in a way.

Laguna heaves out another sigh and rakes his fingers through greying hair. It's a gesture I recognize as my own. I'm sure he's wondering what he's supposed to do now, wondering how his son could have gone so far adrift. And he's probably blaming himself, but this isn't on him. None of what I've become is. I know that.

I wish it didn't have to be like this.

"I'm scared—" he starts, but then pauses to consider his words. He's gotten better at slowing down, thinking things through—especially when it comes to me. Something flickers then, a light switch turned on, and his eyes narrow into something like determination as he tries again. "I want to know that you're going to be okay."

I stare at the can sitting in my hands as Radiohead drones on about plastic trees. Am I going to be okay? I don't know. And how am I supposed to be able to tell? I don't think I've ever truly been okay for as long as I can remember; there's no metric to measure against, no baseline.

He's looking at me as if I am supposed to have an answer. I don't. He tries to fill the void in my stead. "I just… When I saw you last week, it bothered me. You didn't look well." He takes another pause, another sip, before pushing on. "You don't have to tell me why. But god, Squall, if you just keep…existing like this. I don't know."

Fuck's sakes. The sting of tears hit the corners of my eyes, and I have to draw in a slow, steadying breath to keep them from falling. He must be able to see that he's struck on some sort of nerve, too, because I feel his hand come to rest on my back. I'd normally recoil, but right now, it's okay. It's kind of nice to know there's someone there.

He tries to follow up. "You know, it's okay to not know what you want."

"Oh?" I say dumbly to the air. My anxiety is roiling.

He nods. "Life's already happening. Don't let yourself get so caught up in the destination that you miss the whole ride."

I half-laugh. It's so corny, so cliché. It reminds me of the speech he gave us about love and friendship before we headed off to face Adel. But even though it's a tired thought, he's still right in a way. Maybe the answer will come if I just let the question go.

I've just always been so accustomed to fixating on things throughout my entire life, whether it was the loss of Ellone, or becoming a SeeD, or my relationship with (and subsequent loss of) Rinoa, or the cacophony of failings that have made up so much of my adulthood. It's hard to know how to turn that off.

"Easier said than done," I say.

He whispers back, "I know. But you have to try."

Try. I dare to turn my head to face him. My gaze traces along his features, his determined eyes, the lines framing his drawn mouth that seem to get more pronounced with each passing year. He carries the look of a father who's concerned about his son. And in that moment, I feel it, too.

Something hits me then, raw, almost an instinct. I'm scared. If I give it a voice, will everything just evaporate, same as it always does? But what if I stay silent, hold it in? Is that not just as bad, if not worse? My gut reaction has always been to shut down, keep everything under wraps. It's gotten me nowhere.

"I need you to know something," I hear myself say. The anxiety rising under my skin is screaming for me to turn around, divert, keep my mouth shut. I do my best to ignore it. "I'm…" Deep breaths. "I just..."

His hand stirs, tracing loose figure eights across my shoulders. "You don't have to say anything. It's alright."

No. I can't let myself back out now. But god, all these feelings are coming up so fast—I've got the bends, the change in pressure is making it hard to breathe. My stomach ties into a thousand double-knots, pulled tight. But I push through anyways; I don't want to keep sinking. I need to surface.

So I try, one more time. "I need you to know that I'm just…really glad that you're my father."

There's a look of shock that strikes through him as he sits there, silent, and so, so still. For a moment, I'm scared that maybe I've gone too far, that I've said too much. But then his eyes start to form tears of their own. He doesn't fight them. He just smiles and lets them fall.