Author's Note: Thank you again everyone for reading! I just want to put up a comment to remind you that I have a playlist created in Spotify for this fic. Feel free to check it out (link is on my profile).

16. Son

I HEAD OUT after work on Thursday to get Laguna's birthday present, a copy of Fantastic Planet by Failure. I'm pretty keen to keep this little tradition of ours going. For so long, I thought I would never find a connection with him, that he'd always just be some vague figure in my life. Music changed all that. It opened up doors I'd once thought were better left shut, and suddenly, he was this man who, despite his demeanour, was not unlike me. Rather the opposite. I was able to discover not only how he and I had similar tastes, but how our experiences in this world were formulated by our myriad of mutual traits.

So call it sentimental, maybe even a bit naïve, but I feel like every time we do an exchange, my apprehension towards him seems to ebb away just a little bit more. He becomes less like Laguna and more like my dad (even though I still can't seem to call him that). But that's kind of the point, isn't it? Despite my early protestations, despite how much teenage me might have cringed, I've come to realize how important this relationship has become, not just for his sake, but for Harper's, and my own.

Anyway, Fantastic Planet is a little less known than some of the other albums I've bought Laguna over the years, but Monterosa Vinyl is the one shop that always seems to have what I'm after. It's a real cratedigger's fantasy; they've got every genre you could imagine, from rock to classical to jazz to Estharii synth pop. I've spent hours of my life there, sometimes with a record in mind, sometimes just to bring home something that I haven't heard before.

I pull up in front of the old brick building on Commercial, sandwiched between an upholstery shop and one of those hipsteresque poetry slam cafés Ellone's been known to visit. The warm glow that's cast from behind the windows spills into the snow-grey streets, and as I step inside, I'm hit with a certain mix of comfort and nostalgia, the smell of well-listened-to records, wooden crates, and musty, worn out carpet invading my senses. I love it. It's almost as if this place gives me permission to forget everything else in my life. Here it's just me and all my friends—all the artists I've listened to over the years, old and new, gathered up in one convenient spot.

The owner, Casey, looks up from behind the counter, nods in greeting. I throw him a quick wave. He's a bit of a weird-looking guy, bad skin, lank brown hair, often donning a denim jacket that looks almost like it's a part of him, stained from years of wear and covered in patches—"Fuck Vinzer", "Rock 'n' Roll is Dead", "Hey Ho, Let's Go."

He used to come ask me if there was anything I needed help finding; now he usually just leaves me to it as I browse up and down the rows, flipping through his ever-changing selection. I think I'm the type of customer he likes, the kind that's content to just be left alone, who doesn't make needless small talk. He seems pretty reserved himself, usually head down in a book or reading the liner notes of some obscure EP.

There have been plenty of times we've interacted, though. He always manages some sort of commentary about the records I bring to the till. And, if he's feeling a little more out of his shell, he'll tell me about different musicians coming into town. They're almost always small-time acts, playing at some bizarre, so-called intimate location: an indie group that played in an art supply store, another band that hosted a jam in a diner parking lot, a DJ who spun a set in the basement of some guy's house.

I look over the feature wall, top pop albums and a few new box sets, faces I recognize staring out from the cellophane-wrapped covers. Then it's straight to the alternative section to grab my record of choice for my father. It's an easy find; the retro sci-fi artwork stands out amongst the sea of album art, its design reminiscent of some old pulp fiction novel. There's a whole story that comes to mind as I pick it up, one of me at fourteen, listening to Failure for the first time after my roommate picked up a copy on CD from the shop in Balamb.

As I explore a bit more, looking for anything that catches my eye, I think about what my note should say—what can I tell Laguna about fourteen-year-old me? There's not too much that's actually notable. I was weird, insecure. Of course, I had just hit puberty, too; it felt like suddenly I was growing into this awkward half-kid, half-adult body, and I was noticing girls a lot more than I had even a year prior (although I still didn't have the courage to try talking to them).

It was also a time where I was discovering more about myself, finding out what movies and books I liked, paying more attention to music. I spent a lot of time with my Discman. I remember one day getting in shit from Mr. Aki because I'd tried to hide my headphones under my hair during one of his lessons. He'd told me that I would never learn anything that way. But the artists that I listened to back then stuck—his lecture on ancient Centran cultural traditions did not.

I take the album up to the counter, pull out my wallet. Casey looks over the cover, scans the tag, looks at me. He's quiet at first, moreso than usual. Something about his stare reads as troubled, and for a moment, I think about saying something. But then he pauses, lets out a long exhale, shakes his head, and says, "Good pick; heard them before?"

"Yeah," I say as I tap my credit card on the machine, "it's actually for my father."

"Nice. Hope he likes it."

I nod. "I think he will."

He pulls his mouth into this sad thin grin, tired eyes meeting mine, and I can't help but wonder if there's something he's not saying here, something he wants to tell me but for whatever reason, can't. As he slips the record into a shopping bag with my receipt, I'm on the hunt for any kind of hint, some sort of a sign. I turn up nothing more than an unsettled feeling. I could ask, sure, but he looks almost eager to shove the notion aside, so instead I offer him a quick "thanks" and head back out into the cold.

—

I HAVEN'T FELT this rattled about a Harper pick-up in well over a year, but as I ring the doorbell to Rinoa's, I'm finding it hard to breathe. And it seems like she is too, because when she opens the door, she draws in a sharp breath, bites the inside of her lip, and just stares. Neither of us say anything for what feels like a small eternity. It's almost terrifying how easily this apprehensive brand of silence can settle between us, now.

I'm the one who breaks first, albeit, meekly. "Hey."

"Hi." Her reply is nearly robotic.

"She ready?" I ask.

"She's just getting her bag," she says.

God, what I wouldn't do to go back to our shitty foyer small talk. Hell, I'd even take Adrian coming in to say a perfect hello, but for once, he's not here. Instead I'm left with our fight ringing in my ears, her words on repeat, sounding as sharp and clear as the day she spoke them—that two good years don't make up for nine bad ones, that she still can't fully trust me, that I should consider myself lucky that I get to see our daughter at all.

I can't shake the feeling that every part of me is being scrutinized. It's probably what spurred me to make sure I was in decent form before I even got here—showered, shaved, dressed in a well-fitted pair of jeans and a sweater that doesn't stink like cigarettes. Call it vain, neurotic, whatever, but that's not my motivation. I just don't want her planting any more question marks on me than she already has.

And the effort seems worth it; I can tell she's watching me, eyeing me up and down like I'm some stranger invading her home. I wish I could get any kind of a read on her, but the absence of our bond forces me to lean into my training instead. I watch right back, observing her much like I would any other target—her narrowed stare, her pin-straight hair framing her stoic face, that same Guerlain Shalimar perfume, her black mini dress. She's ready for a night out. If I had to guess, it's not with Adrian, otherwise he'd be here. Friends, maybe? Or coworkers—

—This is so fucking stupid. She's not some target on a mission for me to analyze. I sigh and turn my head down to the floor.

Thankfully, Harper eases some of the tension as she bounds down the stairs with her backpack over her shoulders. Angelo dutifully follows, comes over to give me a sniff, and then sits. I kneel down and give her a couple of quick scratches behind the ear before shifting my focus.

Seeing Harper feels like a relief. It was almost as though a small part of me thought maybe I wouldn't be allowed. And yes, I know that sounds ridiculous, but that's the kind of shit that pops into a brain that's rife with abandonment issues—I'm always expecting the absolute worst, forever preparing to lose the people I love the most.

"Hi Daddy," she says. Her baby tooth smile and bright eyes are completely oblivious to the strain between her mother and me.

"Hey Harps," I say as I pick her up. "Ready to go?"

"Be good," Rinoa says. She gives her a quick kiss.

Harper nods. "I will!"

I look at Rinoa then. There are so many things running through my head, but I can't seem to find the right words. I offer up a lame-sounding "see you Sunday", and head out the door. I get about halfway back to my car before I hear her calling after me.

"Squall!"

I turn around, still holding onto Harper. "Yeah?"

"I…" She pauses in the doorframe, tilts her head down, does that little thing where she traces a half-circle with her foot. For a second, there's this dull hope that maybe she's changed her mind, that maybe I could have more than the allotted forty-eight hours a week with our daughter, but it's doused as she exhales a small breath and lets her shoulders fall. "Um, sorry. Forget it."

—

SOMETHING HAS CHANGED since I was with Laguna last. Usually, the prospect of seeing him leaves me feeling anxious and a bit stressed out, but as I get my place ready to host his fifty-seventh, I'm surprisingly at ease. Maybe it's because I've got Whatever and Ever Amen going on the record player. Maybe it's because all my nerves were fried off at Rinoa's the day before, and I've got nothing left to expend. But maybe, just maybe, it's more than that.

The night of his solstice party, sitting in front of his fireplace, I felt like there was some sort of shift. For the first time in our relationship, I told him that I was glad to have him as my father. It's a sentiment that I've held close to my chest for a long time. I even tried to deny it in the beginning. I think I was just afraid of what it meant. But now it's out in the open, and strangely, I'm okay with it. It actually feels kind of liberating. Good, even.

He arrives just before dinner, bottle of wine in hand. I invite him inside. Right away, Harper comes running, her arms wide as she launches into a hug, which he clumsily catches one-handed. I pluck the wine from his grasp (before he drops it; what a tragedy that would be) and place it on the island.

"Grandpa!" she cries out.

"Hey Harps," he says, pulling her in tight. "How are you?"

"Good!" she says. "Come see my room!"

I let out a half-laugh. This kid. Always so excited about even the smallest things. "She cleaned it just for the occasion," I tell him.

He makes a face for Harper, almost childlike himself in spite of the lines on his face and greying hair saying otherwise. "You'd clean your room just for me?" he asks. She nods. His smile grows wider. "Well, you'd better show me, then."

And with that, she leads him away, little footsteps thudding up the stairs. There's a pause, then the sound of Laguna putting on an air of astonishment, his voice hitting this bright tone that I'm pretty sure he's reserved just for her.

I know my mother used to get annoyed with how kiddish Laguna could be, always chastising him, asking him to speak normally to Ellone, begging him to take things more seriously. I wish she could have lived to see how wrong she was. The way my father is with Harper, the bond that they've formed together—it's like he was always meant to be a grandparent. I'm sure she would have loved to have seen him like this, still full of that annoyingly infectious enthusiasm as he enjoys the company of their granddaughter.

They come back downstairs just as the doorbell rings again, and then it's Ellone and Giles, arriving with a gift bag, a large birthday cake, and a plastic baggie full of candles. She sets it all down beside the wine bottle and comes in for a hug.

"Hello, Bro," she says.

"Hi, Sis," I say.

And just like that, we're this family again, all together under one roof—my roof. It's nice, but strange. Maybe even a bit daunting. I've never really played host before. It's completely outside my comfort zone. See, this was always Rinoa's thing, having company over and just, well, being social in general. It always came naturally to her. And that was fine by me. I was happy to let her take the lead, bide my time in the background, wait until it was over.

So why'd I choose to do this now? Especially when I've always struggled with gatherings of any sort for as long as I can remember? I guess you could say I'm finally trying to take some of Seifer's advice: I'm branching out. It's awkward as all hell, and it's uncomfortable. It almost feels like I'm wearing someone else's clothes. There's a part of me that wants out.

But there's a bigger part of me that thinks maybe I'm doing the right thing. Looking around the room, hearing Laguna as he starts up with his stories, seeing Harper sit happily in his lap, catching Ellone and Giles smiling at each other as they listen along, makes all the discomfort worthwhile.

I make my quiet escape (well, as much of an escape as I can in an open concept living area) to the kitchen to finish making dinner. I've decided to make an attempt at my mother's beef rouladen; whether that's wise or not is yet to be seen. I've got her recipe, all written out by hand, one of several in a big binder Ellone had given to me a few years ago. It holds all the different dishes and ideas she'd created for special occasions at her pub.

Now, I wouldn't say I'm a particularly great cook. Not that I'm terrible either; I'm fully capable of following instructions (what SeeD isn't, though?). But much like socializing, it doesn't come naturally, and given the added pressure of hosting, I'm just trying my best not to screw everything up. I check on the pot, check the oven. Everything seems okay. My eyes scan back over to the recipe, searching for next steps.

There's something so humanizing about seeing my mother's handwriting. I pause for a moment, let my fingers brush against the page, running over ink and thirty-year-old oil stains. She's got this harder kind of scrawl, not cursive, but italic, the letters big and loose from her haste, but not at all messy. My father told me she was left-handed; I can tell. The weight of her stroke is heavy, embedded deep from pushing the pen forward rather than pulling it across. I try to picture her, writing out each step as she goes along, prepping ingredients, looping twine around the rolls, turning them in the pot.

I wonder what she would think of me. Would she be proud of the person I've become, or would she be disappointed? Would she hide her quiet anxiety behind a smile, like Laguna so often does? I think she'd feel a bit guilty, at the very least, that she couldn't have been there to prevent all the things that had happened to me: an orphan's upbringing, battles, war, trauma. A whole slew of abandonment issues, zero coping mechanisms. Working at a job I've come to hate, taking gigs from crooked, broken people. It's enough to make any parent feel like they've failed. I know Laguna still struggles with it, even now. I do too.

Still, despite all those flaws, as deeply embedded as they are, I just hope more than anything that she'd be happy to call me her son.

—

THE NIGHT GOES by quickly. Dinner (much to my relief) isn't a disaster, although it's certainly moreso thanks to my mother's meticulous directions rather than my own kitchen instincts. There's wine and conversation paired with it—Ellone's stories about her students coming back to class after winter break, Laguna's announcement that he's started writing an opinion article for Timber Maniacs. I'm quiet for the most part, content to just listen to the chatter filling up my usually empty home.

Cake comes out next, and then it's the singing of Happy Birthday. Harper sits on Laguna's lap, and he instructs her to help him think of a wish. She's thoughtful, holding her chin in her hand for a second, before opening her mouth to share her idea.

"No, Harps," Ellone says. "It has to be a secret."

She nods, turns to whisper in Laguna's ear, and gets his obvious approval. There's a wide smile on her face as she helps him blow out the candles.

Ellone gives Laguna her gift, addressed from both her and Giles, a leatherbound journal and a new pen. I give him the record and a card filled with notes on everything I could recall about my fourteen-year-old self. I'm a little bit embarrassed as he reads it right then and there in front of everyone (thankfully not out loud, at least). I can tell by his changing facial expressions which parts he's at: a wistful look as I describe how lonely I was, a smile as I explain how I saved up my paper route money to get my Discman, a small laugh at my horrible attempt to explain my way out of detention after I fell asleep in geography class.

"Thank you," Laguna says. "You guys didn't have to do all this."

"Of course we did," Ellone says. She leans over and gives him a kiss on the cheek. "It's your day, after all."

I lean forward. "I've been wanting to get you that album for awhile."

"You get it from that shop on Commercial? Monterosa Vinyl?" Laguna asks.

"Yeah," I say. "It's the best one in town. Although it was weird when I went in there."

He raises an eyebrow. "How so?"

I shrug. "It's just this feeling I got from the owner. Something was just…I don't know, off about him. It's like he was uneasy."

"Do you know him well?" Ellone asks.

"Not really," I say. "He likes to talk about different bands and shows sometimes, but nothing much beyond that."

"Well, did he mention anything this time?" she asks. "Drop any sort of hint?"

"No," I tell her. "He didn't say much at all, really."

"Maybe you're just overanalyzing." She curls her mouth into a knowing grin. "Always such a SeeD."

Giles holds up his phone. "Maybe not. The place is for sale."

"What?" I lean in closer, adjust my glasses, get a better look at the screen. There it is, an online listing, photo and all. Well, that explains a lot. And it fucking sucks too. The thought of having to suffer through some of the more pretentious independent shops, or worse, go to one of the chain stores at some godforsaken mall feels like such a shitty alternative.

"Bummer," Laguna says.

"Yeah." I sigh. "I really like that place."

Ellone smirks. "Why don't you buy it then?"

I let out a dry laugh. "Yeah right."

"'Yeah right' what?" She presses on. "Something wrong with doing something you like?"

I roll my eyes at her.

"What do you think, Harps?" Laguna asks. Harper scrunches up her nose in her best imitation of Rinoa and giggles in response.

I don't get the push from everyone all of a sudden, but whatever. There's doing things you like, and then there's going too far, and risking a stable paycheque—shitty Dollet missions and mundane spreadsheets aside—feels pretty goddamned far to me. Maybe if I had no responsibilities, no one depending on me, I'd consider it. That's not the case. I down the last of my wine and excuse myself to have a smoke.

The sting of January cold hits as soon as I step out onto the patio. I've resigned myself to the fact that I'll probably never fully get used to it. Still, in spite of the frost, the brief escape—this quiet—is nice, even if it's for only a moment. I pull out my pack of Malboros, light one up. It feels good to exhale.

It's probably worth clarifying that all of this is not to say that I've somehow had a bad night. Actually, I've kind of enjoyed hosting for once. It gave me a chance to fixate on easier, more pleasant things—making dinner, seeing Harper connect with my father, thinking about my mother. And it drew my mind away from some of the heaviness in my life—my awkward exchange with Rinoa, and my looming dread about the gig in Dollet.

(I like to think I did an okay job at it, too. Maybe that's something I have in common with both my parents.)

I hear the patio door open and shut again. I turn my gaze to see Laguna stepping outside; he's careful to avoid bits of snow out of fear that his socks might get wet. "Thought you might want some company," he says as he comes up next to me.

"...Sure," I say.

He lets out a half-laugh. "Don't sound too enthusiastic or anything."

"Sorry." It's not that I don't want his company. I just feel self-conscious. I'm out here doing something he hates, hauling away on my cigarette, and he's just kind of…watching. It's almost like he's trying to memorize me, much in the same way I've tried to memorize Harper so many times before. Part of me wants to shy away, tell him to stop, force him back inside, make him leave me alone.

I don't. I just let him stare until he realizes what he's doing, and turns his head to look down onto the street below.

"Thanks again for everything," he says after a moment, his words coming out in paper thin bits of breath, crystalizing in the cold and dissolving into nothing.

I nod. "You're welcome."

He folds his arms over his chest, pulls his sweater closer in an attempt to retain some sense of warmth. There's a flash across his grey-green eyes, and then a smile. "I loved the card. I don't think I'll ever get tired of those notes," he tells me. Then his demeanour shifts, and his next words come out quietly. "I just wish I could've been there."

Usually when he says something like that, I brush it off, tell him it's fine, that there's no point dwelling. So it comes mostly as a surprise when I hear myself say, "Me too."

The words sit in the air between us, two syllables that carry so much more weight than I had meant to give them. I take another long pull on my cigarette, he casts his stare down onto the deck. I don't know what else to say. Do I take it back? But then that would be a lie. I do wish he could have been there when I was growing up, that I could have had a father instead of some silhouette, this vague figure imagined out of my six-year-old sister's stories, a pencilled-in question mark.

Laguna gives his head a small shake before glancing back up at me. I worry that he's going to say he's sorry for the one-thousandth time since I have met him, which is not my intent; I don't need any more apologies. But he doesn't say sorry. Instead, he asks, "Is being here now enough?"

God, what am I supposed to say to that? It's a loaded question, hitting heavy against my chest. All that angst from my childhood would push me to tell him no, it's not enough, that he wasn't there when I needed him most, when there was still a chance to salvage me. I'm not that same child anymore, though. The hurt has all but dissipated, like breath through cold air, and I'm left with something that feels a lot more like acceptance than anger.

I finish my cigarette, flick the ember out, crush the butt into the ashtray. The Laguna-induced anxiety I thought I'd evaded starts to creep back up again, prickling under my skin, pulling around my ribs. I let out another exhale, smoke tangling around in the space between us.

Laguna forces a smile, pulls his shoulders back. "You don't have to answer—"

"—It's enough," I tell him.

His smile relaxes a bit, and he nods. For a moment, he looks like he wants to say something further, but instead he dares to reach across the gap, and he pulls me into a hug. A full hug. I don't know what to do. I've only ever shared half-gestures with him before, an arm across the shoulder, a hand on my back here and there. Not anything like this. My arms are almost frozen at my sides from the shock of it, my mind reeling at how strange, how deeply uncomfortable it feels. But despite my static, he doesn't relent. He just hangs on.

It strikes me then how sad it all is, too. Here I am at twenty-nine-years-old, having never hugged my father before. And here he is at fifty-seven to the day, holding his kid for the first time ever. I couldn't even begin to imagine waiting decades to hold Harper in the same way.

It takes me a few seconds more to process the shock, but eventually, I find the will to reach up and wrap my arms around him. He's warm, a bit taller than me, his breathing deep and slow. I rest my head on his shoulder as I slowly start to realize this is what it's like; this is that sense of belonging I've always sought after, that secret want that I've carried with me ever since I was small, finally coming true.

My head is racing. I catch myself thinking back to two-year-old me, longing for my family while Quistis held me after bedtime; to four-year-old me, worried that my father would never find me if I was sent away to Garden; to fourteen-year-old me, lonely and afraid that the world had all but forgotten about me; to eighteen-year-old me, screaming and crying when Laguna told me who he really was; to twenty-five-year-old me, nervous about my own prospects as a father as I introduced him to Harper; and now to nearly thirty-year-old me, standing out here in the cold with him, feeling scared and overwhelmed and relieved all at once.

"Love you, kid," he tells me.

I draw in a sharp breath. And although I can't say it back, I'm pretty sure I feel the same. Is that so wrong? It doesn't seem like it should be. I hold on a little tighter.