Author's note : this was written for the 1000 words at the #ficwip discord, for the August prompt: Poppies. I think the story works better if you read it while listening to the song "Kite", by U2.
POPPIES
There were many things that Squall Leonhart had never imagined doing before turning forty.
For starters, he had never expected to exceed the life expectancy of an active SeeD.
He had never imagined he would retire to a tranquil life at twenty-six, when his wife had turned out unexpectedly pregnant.
He had never even imagined he would have a wife, never mind children.
But when all those things had begun to happen to him, something inside of him mellowed, and his crippling fear of abandonment had slowly lessened its grip, and he had started to appreciate what life had given him, amidst all the pain: loving friends, a doting wife, adored children. And he had appreciated even more what life had given him back: his beloved sister, his long-lost father.
He knew he hadn't always been the most approachable of sons, to say the least. The beginning had been difficult, and exhausting, and the adjustment had threatened to drive him insane with pain. But life had given him a loving girlfriend, before giving him back a long-lost father, and he felt now truly grateful for the gift of a second chance. He never felt like he deserved it, and yet he had learned to grasp at it greedily.
He just hoped he had made the best out of it, even though he wasn't the easiest of sons to love.
On the hill, a gentle breeze blew all over him. It was warm, carrying the scent of wildflowers, and the poppies he had left on the tombstone swayed lightly. The petals fluttered in the gentle wind, settling against the L of his father's surname. He hoped he knew, wherever he was now, that he chose poppies because they were the flowers of the resistance in Timber, and he thought Laguna Loire deserved to be remembered as the hero of the revolution he sometimes joked of being.
He swallowed, trying to ignore the lump that had firmly lodged itself in his throat. There were so many things he had never imagined for himself, and so many things he still had to understand. He was a man, but sometimes he still felt like a child.
Thirteen years before, holding his newborn in his arms, he had finally learned what independent, all-encompassing, unconditional love was, and for the first time, he had realized that was how Laguna felt about him, and felt humbled, and felt ashamed, and felt honored.
Three days before, closing for the last time the eyes of his father, he had discovered the depth of pain, the unbalance of true, definite loss, and for the first time, he had realized that hardness does never really set in – there is always some raw point that makes us vulnerable. The ineffable tenderness that makes us human.
He hoped he was a good son, somewhere along the line, enough to make his father think that he loved him, too, in his own, convoluted, hurt, frightened way.
A rich, creamy perfume mingled with the delicate fragrance of wildflowers carried over by the soft breeze. He turned, watching as his wife carefully descended the hill, holding her pregnant belly. Shaking his head, for she was way too far along for descending a hill on her own, he offered her his hand, and she gratefully took it, squeezing it for reassurance, before letting him envelop her in his arms and press his nose against her hair, to inhale her warm, intoxicating perfume of tiare flowers.
"You ok?" she whispered, embracing him as much as her pregnancy allowed her to.
"Kind of," he replied, stealing a caress against a small foot pressing against her belly.
They remained silent for a while, the wind blowing against them from time and time. Then she pressed against him. "You chose the poppies."
"Seemed becoming."
"Yeah," she commented, rising on her tiptoes to press a kiss on his cheek. "They truly are."
They watched the red splash of color against Laguna Loire's tombstone, laid to rest next to his adored, never-forgotten Raine. He had chosen poppies because Zone had deemed them the flowers of the resistance, symbolizing the blood spilled by those who had fallen while fighting for freedom, and the unbreakable spirit of those who had survived, enduring oppression, and because poppies never stopped blooming in Timber's fields, and they were resilient as those who continued fighting until they achieved freedom. And Laguna Loire deserved his poppies because he had fought oppression and won, too, in his convoluted, wrong maps, wrong turns, wrong words, incredibly lucky way.
"Where are the kids?" he asked, his eyes fixed on his parents' graves.
"Kiran's playing cards with the hotel's owner, and the hotel's owner is muttering about him truly being his father's son. Lenna's watching them and hanging on Kiran's every word, as usual."
"She loves her Kiki," commented Squall with a small smile. His children were his father's joy, and he felt a pang of pain when he thought that the little one wouldn't know how much of a funny, loving, and weird grandfather Laguna could be.
"And he loves his Lili," she replied. Looking at the poppies against the immaculate white marble tombstone, she sighed. "They'll miss him. He was such a goofy grandfather, and they loved each other so much."
Throat closing, Squall nodded. Then, after swallowing his tears, he dared to ask: "Do you think he knew?"
"That you loved him?" she asked, tenderly, and for the umpteenth time, Squall was grateful because she knew him so well, and loved him so much. "Of course he did. There was a shadow in his eyes when we first met him, and there were no shadows in the end. He knew, and he loved you, too."
This wasn't goodbye, thought Squall. Love never says goodbye.
"We should fly that kite with the kids," he said, after a few minutes.
"Should we discuss the color once again?" she replied with a smile.
"Nah," he whispered. "We'll go with red. He deserves his poppies."
Author's note : as usual, betaread with Grammarly. Feel free to correct mistakes if you notice them.