Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Squall found himself watching Laguna Loire after that unsettling exchange by the elevator, as if that small secluded space between them hadn't evaporated with daylight or distance. It felt claustrophobic, this unlooked-for link. That glimpse of simple, direct honesty had been like a stone dropped in water, the impact delayed and drawn out. Squall kept waiting for the currents of politics to carry it away, for the roil of his own mind to dislodge it in favour of any of the more urgent things plaguing him.

The Sorceress-Knight bond hounded his thoughts — and he hated that, because this time it was of his own doing. Before, when it had intruded constantly into his consciousness, it had been discomfiting, unnerving; he had longed to bury it under paperwork and training, dates with Rinoa, normal things that he could handle, that didn't make his blood beat in a rhythm that wasn't his own, that didn't dry his mouth at the taste of magic in the air. But he kept trying to dredge it up and forward now, kept trying to reach for it, to check, worrying at it like a loose tooth — and there was nothing there, or so thready and weak he couldn't be sure he wasn't imagining things; splintered and hollow. His GFs stirred uneasily and leaked memories into his dreams and he snapped at them for it, wondered how hard they'd be to summon next time because of all this, and thought of Laguna's straightforward words like he was starving somehow.

Laguna, in turn, seemed to have turned down the sunshine-and-rainbows dial — Squall couldn't put his finger on it except that Laguna seemed to hover less, expect less, hope less. He'd been such a constant low-grade intrusion that it was strange to find him less present just as Squall had grown painfully aware of him, everything slipping through his fingers just as he turned his attention to it.

Squall sat in yet another meeting and watched Laguna gesticulate and grin and request Squall's backup like always. The city planning committee was kicking up some kind of fuss — resource diversion, commuting infrastructure to the proposed sites — and Laguna showed slides and invited Commander Leonhart to share his experience with how a Garden impacted nearby urban areas. Laguna smiled at him in invitation, the private smiles edged with something sad and distant now, and those frank words echoed back up again — go right ahead and be a jackass.

Laguna was turning away again, drawing breath to smooth over the bump Squall's silences and single-syllable answers inevitably introduced, when Squall's mouth started talking, giving an actual account of city-Garden interaction. Commuting, population attrition, tourism. Laguna turned to look at him again and, "The cadets take holidays in the city," Squall found himself saying, staring at his hands like he was a cadet himself, giving a report.

He dragged his eyes up — Commander Leonhart, dammit — and found the scrutiny of the table immediately irritating: polite sure I'm listening smiles, raised eyebrows and small attentive nods like these people cared about anything outside their own narrow spheres of interest. He cut his gaze back to Laguna and there it was again, the shadow of the simple genuine man, making Squall feel boxed in and somehow dragging yet another sentence out of him — "They often spend a lot of money in the city, and their exhibition matches draw visitors from other nearby towns..." He trailed off, frowning at Laguna, mouth sour for no reason he knew, but Laguna just nodded and turned to the table and took Squall's stilted little speech and ran with it, no more reaction or acceptance than that.

These strange contained moments made Squall want to find the man and— shake him, maybe. Fight him? Would sparring help? He knew well enough the kinds of tension that could be broken by a good spar — he thought of Almasy, wondered where the idiot was and if he could punch him in the face a few times — but this didn't seem to be it. It didn't feel like Laguna had shut a door in his face; he'd just... stopped holding it open and waving him in.

Squall pushed away these unwelcome concerns and reached half-automatically for the Bond, small too-frequent nudges near where his GFs listened, like a nervous gesture in his head; he was all too aware of it, noticing himself doing it just in time to feel the dip of disappointed irritation and small, distant grief. A cool wisp of loving concern and cold hungry disapproval feathered through his thoughts, and he shivered. Cerberus gave him a more direct and disgruntled mental nudge, a memory spilled accusingly back at his feet: Squall's hand cutting through the air in exasperation, Rinoa looking down at her feet as Squall's words bite the air: "Stop shuffling your Junctions around! They don't like it when you rearrange things constantly like that, you're bothering them and it makes them harder to summon. Time could be critical when you need them. Plan your Junctions and then leave them alone. And—" about to start on some other complaint, but he turns on his heel with a loud, irritated noise and stalks stiffly away. Behind him he hears Quistis come up in his stead, talking to Rinoa more quietly and steadily...

He'd forgotten that.

Laguna gave him a strange look after the meeting and Squall wondered if something had shown on his face, when he'd gotten lost in his own head again. The city planning people went one way, Laguna and Squall another, and Squall tried not to hug the opposite wall of the hallway, tried to ignore the space Laguna occupied and the silences that now sat heavy between them, palpable where Squall had once dismissed them almost without thought.

Squall stopped, and realized at the same moment that it wasn't because the sound of Laguna's footsteps had faded behind him — he hadn't heard that, wandering around in his mind again instead of paying attention, and this lack of care was getting dangerous when he couldn't keep track of people moving around him — no, he'd stopped simply because Laguna wasn't near anymore, the subconscious push of the man's presence like moonlight and just as noticeable in its absence. He turned to see Laguna several feet behind him in the hallway and wariness prickled down his spine, because Laguna was looking at him, all serious and earnest, and Squall could have left, turned around and left this behind.

Laguna regarded him in silence for a moment. His hands made some kind of aborted gesture, stopped; he took a breath to speak.

"Are you— are you all right?"

The question— it disarmed Squall, somehow; he blinked blankly and felt strangely cornered, the several strides of distance between them seeming to stretch out forever and slam together all at once. The hallway seemed to curve away and down — a slick of vertigo in his gut and Squall didn't know why it was such a loaded question, why it barred his thoughts like a wall and he couldn't get over it to see what was on the other side. His throat clogged with an urge to say something — anything — yes, no, mind your own business, can we still do drinks, leave me alone. He just stared, stupidly and helplessly, fingers curling at his sides. He wasn't even lost in thought this time. He just didn't know what to say.

But Laguna took the silence like he always did, letting it go; he ducked his head and shrugged his shoulders with a tiny what-will-you? smile, and started walking again, past Squall, and Squall stared at his retreating back, lips feeling numb and head thick and a sudden flare shot through his chest, something quick and small and desperate, he was so tired, and "I—" he started.

Laguna turned, closer this time than before, just a step or two away and gravity seemed to curve away again, leaving Squall weightless and uncertain, disoriented. He thought of space stations. He didn't know what he wanted to say and he wished he hadn't even started but there Laguna was, attentive, listening without judgment and he couldn't stop comparing this to how Rinoa used to be with him and the starving feeling came again and he found honesty on his tongue, his mouth shaping the words: "Thank you."

It came out stiff and stilted; it wasn't an answer to Laguna's question, in the slightest, and Squall couldn't explain — thanks for asking, thanks for prying, thanks for not prying harder, thanks for leaving me alone, thanks for that night, thanks for nothing, he didn't even know. But Laguna smiled, eyes crinkling and kind, seeming to understand this garbled gesture without elaboration — and Squall suspected Laguna received the less pleasant sides of the signal just fine, too, and smiled anyway; Squall felt guilty and stupid standing in this hallway with Laguna Loire, and looked away, to the side and down.

Laguna waited a few more moments and Squall tried not to shift under his gaze, a sudden rush of exasperation at the urge to shuffle his feet and the man's damn mannerisms infecting him — until finally Squall saw Laguna's weight shift back through his legs, preparing to turn around again. Laguna's hand, hanging loose by his side, lifted a little, opened in a small wave: letting the conversation go without rancour, wishing Squall well anyway. Squall's eyes jerked back up, the gesture catching in his memory somehow, lodging there like Laguna's unsettling honesty from before, but Laguna was walking away again, down the hallway and to whatever damned responsibility awaited him next.

Squall tossed restlessly around his thoughts that night, trying to sleep; he could discipline his body into stillness and deep breathing, but his mind was a morass — and he'd used to have such a firm grip on his thoughts until Rinoa had come and shattered it... He found himself reaching for her again and stamped on the impulse, annoyed; tossed off the sheets and prodded the computer to life, its screen lighting up the dark room, hurting his eyes.

He blinked the blindness away and had the message open and addressed already when he stopped and stared at the endless blank where his words should go. He was so tired of magic. The impulse had sent him here, to something more concrete, something he understood, something simple, signals sent in electricity instead of the heart-thrum of his blood and the distant echo of magic in the shadow of the moon. But one needed words and the other didn't; his fingers flexed and he hated this terrible indecision, all the layers of Rinoa-Squall-Rinoa peeled back to show that he still didn't know what to say to her.

Aborted words tangled on the screen, hands pecking hesitant at the keyboard for a moment followed by sharp jabs at the backspace key; his eyes watered with lack of sleep and the terminal's too-bright light. I miss you. What are you doing to me? Stop putting yourself in danger. Please go home — but Balamb Garden wasn't her home, and Squall put his face in his hands, brows pinched together, hair falling in his way and the air of the room feeling too cold on his bare shoulders.

I hope you're safe.

He hit send and powered the terminal down in jerky, unsteady motions; his covers had gone cool while he'd hunched over the computer and he thought of Shiva and her cold unwelcome comfort. He closed his eyes, and tried to sleep.

And the Guardians whispered to him in his dreams, restless from the too-frequent touch of his mind; memories leaked across to him in disorienting drifts, his and theirs, his-and-theirs, things they'd shared and things they'd stolen and things he'd kept — the orphanage, and Matron by the sea; the first time he'd seen Quistis lose a match; the only time he'd cried as a cadet (it had been Shiva, Junctioning her for the first time — how cruel and cold, her heartless commentary on everyone around them and realizing she was like a sister to his heart and crying then for reasons he didn't understand, thirteen and so ashamed). And Rinoa, always: bright and smiling, the flare of her temper and the way she looked at him and understood. Her caring eyes became Laguna's, and the space between them that never seemed to shrink or grow, and he saw hands, endlessly: Rinoa's curling and uncurling around a feather and Laguna's tiny wave, again and again, parting and parting.

Sensation seemed to wash over him in his sleep and he found it was his own hand drifting up for that small gesture, waving and watching himself-Squall-himself standing a few steps down the hall, and then Laguna-him fighting the dragon again, him-Laguna running down a forest path, the dream-memories washing up over him again, the ones he had spread before his Guardians and thought take them, take them, they're so useless. Remembering so well what it felt like to be Laguna Loire that his dreams provided him with the extrapolation effortlessly, Laguna-Squall standing and watching Commander Leonhart for ages and ages, waiting, before leaving like it didn't matter.

Squall woke feeling even less rested and didn't rise for a moment, staring blindly at the ceiling. He didn't want to remember these things. Closed his eyes. He couldn't keep bothering the Bond like this, not if he wanted to— to survive this thing with Rinoa. To sleep.

Messages had piled up in the night, automated alerts of meetings and events sent off every midnight; end-of-the-day correspondence from Zell back in Balamb, time difference putting them out of sync with Squall's evening. Rinoa's response was buried among them, but he read it first and then couldn't stand the thought of wading through the rest, the empty automated words, when Rinoa's response held none of her usual friendly chatter, said nothing to explain the spell-sing of his blood, when the empty suite seemed large and airless, when he felt so hollow and tired. He grabbed his clothes and shut the door, no appetite for breakfast, leaving the message untouched on the screen until the computer quietly shut itself down.

I'm okay.

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Laguna glanced up at the heavy metal clang of the door, thinking Kiros might be joining him on the roof this morning, to find Squall blinking at him, frozen in the doorway. Laguna's first thought was to freeze, too, as if Squall were a wary animal; his second thought was that Squall looked like hell and a half, which was followed immediately by his hand offering Squall the coffee without asking Laguna's inadequately caffeinated brain about it.

Squall stared at the proffered cup, then at Laguna, his gaze disconcertingly steady. Laguna felt a little ridiculous with his hand stuck out between them like that with its half-full coffee cup and he was regretting the unthinking gesture already; Squall's sense of private space was so prickly and unpredictable, and he'd probably just wanted to be alone out here for a while before the day descended on them both — but then Squall's hand came up, slowly. Laguna watched it, suddenly and ridiculously nervous that they'd fumble this simple action of passing a cup between them, Laguna unwilling to intrude enough to touch hands and they were going to drop it, he was convinced, and coffee would splash all over Squall's uniform pants and Laguna would babble to himself even harder— But Squall gripped the cup firmly, from beneath, avoiding Laguna's fingers without endangering the drink. Laguna withdrew his hand, too slowly under Squall's expressionless gaze, and tried really hard to become absorbed in the vista again.

There wasn't really all that much room up here; Squall settled himself not far away, leaning on the railing and staring silently out into the pink haze of impending sunrise. He held the cup in both hands in front of him, propping himself up on his elbows, fingers interlaced lightly around the mug. Squall closed his eyes for a moment, breathing in the coffee's scented steam. Laguna, bereft of his drink, tried to keep eating his sandwich but the thing suddenly tasted mealy and unappetizing; he didn't like ham anyway. He wrapped it back up, the sound loud in the silent air until a small breeze picked the noise up and carried it away.

It felt small and fragile, whatever this was — cease-fire, he was tempted to think — he didn't know if there was space here for words, gestures, anything besides Squall tolerating his presence, by choice. Words crowded in his mouth, unhelpful and useless — Squall wouldn't welcome them, and Laguna didn't even know what they were, knew they'd come out tumbled and tangled if he tried. The thin silence seemed delicate in the pale dawn light, filmy and evanescent like soap bubbles — he thought of Ellone, buying her a bottle and watching her blow them into the Winhill fields for hours, consenting to chase them through the grass with her until they were both breathless. The bubbles had popped at the slightest touch, leaving their fingers wet and sticky; sometimes they'd fade and die out reaching too long and far for the sun. Laguna's hands curled and uncurled at the memory as he tried not to watch Squall sipping from his mug.

And then the door clanged again, Kiros for real this time and Laguna's stomach did something uncomfortable and confused — a hollow dip of disappointment churned with a blot of panic (no, don't interrupt this) — Kiros' eyes flicking to Squall and raising one expressive eyebrow in Laguna's direction before dipping his chin in greeting to them both. Squall had turned at the noise and Laguna caught the stiffening of his shoulders; it left him feeling helpless somehow as he watched Squall jerk a nod for Kiros's benefit. Kiros waved a sheaf of papers at Laguna. "Lab research budget?" The question was telegraphed in Kiros's eyes and tone, and Laguna was suddenly nervous about the possibility of Squall knowing how to interpret it — he hadn't spent that much time around Kiros in Laguna's head, had he? — because the question wasn't want to take care of this now? but he's here, how do you want to handle this?

Squall was watching him, quietly but without subterfuge, as if asking the same question. Laguna's coffee was still in Squall's hands, unfinished and cooling. He looked so tired, and Laguna was almost torn — his instinct was to stay, to keep that exhaustion company through the grumpy hours of the morning. But he remembered the long, almost relaxed line of Squall's back before Kiros came, the way he'd closed his eyes and inhaled the coffee smell, and realized abruptly that those had been confidences, small secrets against the sunrise.

Laguna gestured Kiros back to the door, Squall's gaze on him like a weight; he gave a small wave that Squall returned as a nod, the exchange feeling new and brittle. They went down the stairs, and Laguna craned his neck to watch the strong planes of Squall's back before the door shut the sight away.

He blew out his breath.

Kiros put a hand low on Laguna's back as they descended, at the base of his spine, light but firm, reassuring and steady. Laguna leaned into it for a moment, the touch as good and solid as a wall propping him up, warm against the tension in his back, and he saw Kiros' lips quirk; felt his hand spread and press a little more. Kiros's breath was warm against Laguna's ear as he murmured, "Need a hand?"

A laugh puffed out of Laguna and he shook his head, a quick grin of thanks before tapping the papers still in Kiros's hand. "With the budget, sure."

Kiros smiled acceptance, and a queasy-warm wave of gratitude washed through Laguna, that Kiros was so effortless to deal with, was such a good friend, could accept his dodges and rejections with such easy grace; Hyne but Laguna needed that right now. Someone who wasn't all sharp angles and slippery surfaces.

"Why is he so complicated?" he burst out, halting on the stairs, and he almost stamped his foot. It was amazing how Squall managed to make him feel — the hilarity — nineteen again.

Kiros jerked to a halt, too, following Laguna, even that motion fluid— and barked a laugh. Laguna scowled at him; Kiros gave a smooth placating wave of his hand, sobering. "Maybe," Kiros said, his voice affectionately teasing and serious at once, "because he's your son."

"I'm not that complicated! I just want my coffee and to know what the hell he's thinking!"

"Of course," Kiros grinned, his tone and face saying, Bullshit.

Laguna deflated, abruptly, unwilling to argue the point — and Kiros changed tacks effortlessly, grin sliding off his face to be replaced by warm concern. "What did I walk in on, up there?"

"I don't know. He— he didn't leave when he saw me there? And he took my coffee. God, why did I do that. That was cafeteria coffee." Kiros' lips were sliding up at the corners again, and Laguna knew he was babbling, but the image of Squall leaning on the railing, breathing in the kitchen coffee smell, was stuck on loop in his mind: fingers interlaced and eyes closed and hair shifting in the small breezes — he'd looked relaxed, right? (He hadn't hated the coffee, right?) "He sniffed my coffee," Laguna blurted.

"He seemed to be enjoying it when I saw him," Kiros offered, distinctly not-laughing at him, and Laguna felt restless at this tilted conversation, thankful for the way Kiros bent himself around Laguna's sharp mental turns but so tired of his brain sliding every which way — his thoughts were buzzing and Squall had his coffee and it was way too early for alcohol.

Laguna's eyes flicked up to Kiros'. "That helpful offer still open?" he breathed.

Kiros chuckled, the sound dark and smooth and rich and Laguna almost melted against the stairwell wall in relief, tugging Kiros forward by his shirt; their mouths slid together, warm and familiar and distracting and Laguna arched up into it thoughtlessly, hands wrapping around Kiros's waist. One of Kiros's hands sank into Laguna's hair, which felt amazing, occupying all of his attention for a moment as silky warmth slid from that contact and down his neck, his spine—

The lab budget crinkled, loud and echoing in the stairwell, crushed between Kiros's other hand and Laguna's hip. "Probably not here," Kiros murmured in his ear, rich with amusement, but Laguna's mind jumped immediately to the thought of Squall catching them here and god no, that would probably not be helpful — and tension spilled back across his shoulders thinking of Squall a flight above them, probably done with the coffee and scowling at the horizon about whatever was wrong, and Laguna's continuing inability to help or even know how to offer it.

He sighed, and let his hands slide off Kiros's waist. "Yeah. Probably not here," he echoed, with a small smile. "Let's— let's take care of that budget."

Kiros raised an eyebrow, something flickering across his face, but assented without commentary, trotting after Laguna down the stairs.

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Ellone rounded the corner, and her first glimpse of Squall was him leaning against the wall, shoulders hunched in that off-putting way he had, hands in his pockets, gaze on the ground — muttering something to Laguna, who was shifting his weight from foot to foot and looking nervous — but laughing, out loud, apparently at whatever Squall was saying. She paused for one long moment and drank them in: family, in the same building, in the same hallway, and even if Squall was still putting out those leave-me-alone vibes he at least wasn't acting on them anymore. Her family was here.

Then Laguna caught sight of her, and it was like she was five years old again, feet skidding across the carefully-polished floor so that she fell, clumsily, into Laguna's arms — pretending to fight off Caterchipillars in front of the bar — he squeezed her tighter, as if he hadn't seen her in months instead of just a few weeks — goldfish crackers in her soup; Laguna's laugh as he spilled his water — Ellone buried her face in Uncle Laguna's shirt and breathed, trying to block the powerful wave of memories that leapt out at her.

(It had been like this, since Time Compression, as if her grip on now was just a little too loose. She hadn't told anyone. It was... bearable.)

"Uncle Laguna," she said, keeping her voice playful as she took a step away from him, trying to regain her mental footing in the here-and-now. "It's about time you called me over here!" She looked over his shoulder at Squall. Squall looked... he looked annoyed, like he always did, but there was something bright and happy in his eyes too. "Hi, Squall."

"Hi, Sis." His voice was low, almost dismissive, but Ellone caught the nickname, and her heart wanted to burst with it: family. He hadn't remembered for so long but she always had — her own memories caught in her brain, stickier than the others — and the soft recognition in his eyes always seemed to dawn just for her, Squall's version of a heartfelt welcome.

She carefully moved Laguna to the side. "Come on, Squall, give your sis a hug," she said, and threw her arms around him.

Squall stayed stiff and awkward for just a few moments — Rinoa's head, leaning against his hip; fingers in her hair, her tears on his skin—and then relaxed into it, his hands coming up tentatively to circle behind her — iron-strong grip on Lionheart as he swung, and the recoil of the gun jerking his elbows — Ellone hugged him tighter almost instinctively — fire, firefirefire and a sweeping shock leaving him breathless— she opened her eyes and stepped back, her hands shaking. What in the world...?

Squall frowned down at her, and Ellone babbled a little bit: "Sorry, I think... you just hug too tight, Squall!" She devolved into teasing, her natural response, even as she swallowed the memory of bile in Squall's mouth and sweat across his forehead. Something had happened. What was she picking up?

By the time she turned around, Laguna was rubbing the back of his neck, that bright-light smile on his face the way she knew he always hid upset (Laguna was easy to read for her, a myriad of expressions playing across her memory like the pages of a flip-book). "Why don't I let you two catch up a little. Squall, I'll be... I'll see you at dinner." He turned away, pausing on his first step as if he wanted to add something else—but then he continued, still idly rubbing his neck.

"See you." The words sounded almost begrudging, but Ellone recognized the gesture in them. She turned to Squall, smiling, trying to express every bit of her approval without using words—he didn't use too many words, did he? Trying, reaching and failing, she slipped through his fingers— the aftershock of Squall's memory still rang in her ears and she reached for anything, conversation, idle chatter to cover her own distraction.

"I'm so sorry I wasn't here earlier. I've been away for a bit, and only just got Laguna's message yesterday." The leisurely pace of her usual wanderings had turned into a headlong rush, and she would have urged the White SeeD ship on even faster, if she could have. Its familiar metal hulls were a peaceful block to the way her magic leaked, now, but she had abandoned the temptation of that comfort in an instant when she'd learned where Squall was. "I hope you still have time to spend with me!"

Squall's mouth twitched in a tiny smile. "I assume I can work something in around all of the meetings."

"Meetings?" Ellone frowned, and her hands clasped at each other in a second of query. Laguna had sounded so nervous on the phone — Ellie-Elle, please, if you have any time at all, come stay at the Palace and help your Uncle Laguna out, Squall likes you — she'd been under the assumption that this was a friendly visit, or at least a civilian one, the first step in a reconciliation between father and son. "What in the world for?"

Squall sighed, and lurched against the wall again, and she wondered whether they should go somewhere separate and talk. "Esthar submitted a proposal for a new Garden. I'm here to investigate potential sites and see whether or not it would be feasible."

"Oh!" She heard the disappointment in her own voice, and tried to turn it into a laugh. "Sorry, for some reason I thought this was... a vacation."

Squall snorted in answer, and in case she hadn't gotten the message, he also rolled his eyes and hunched over even more. "No," he said, and his tone of voice said, not on my life. "Business."

Ellone looked at him for a moment. Suspicion and incredulity grew in equal measures—did he really not...? "I'm sure Laguna would like to be friends," she said, her voice inviting, encouraging, wondering.

"I'm sure he would." Squall's voice was even and just as flat, but held nothing—no recognition, no hidden anything. No understanding at all. He looked up, and regret crossed his face. "Sorry, sis. I know you like him a lot. I won't... insult him."

"But he's your..." Father, she wanted to say, because did he really not know? It flickered inside her, memory-pictures playing like a scrapbook — the first time Laguna had made her pancakes, because Raine was too ill in those early days of the— Squall shrugged, and the memory faded.

"I know I have to work with him," Squall bit out, and she heard resentment, irritation, and a strange wistfulness in equal parts. "I'm being nice. Look." He sighed, and rubbed a hand over his face; when he dropped it, he tried to smile at her; it wrenched at her heart it was so sad, although she smiled back. "It's been a very rough couple weeks," he admitted. "I'm sorry. Can we maybe—go get dinner or something, some day I'm not..." Frustrated up the wall, said his body language, and as she looked closer, it flashed across her head again, blinding-white static and Squall, please, the echo of a voice she thought she knew—

"Tired," he said finally.

"Of course." Ellone conjured up a smile through the blockade of pain currently clutching at her heart. "No problem. I'm going to be staying here for a couple of days, so let's definitely do dinner once or twice." She stepped forward, suddenly feeling strangely protective, and put a hand on his arm — teaching Squall to build sandcastles — Matron, watching from the window, her eyes sad — Quistis, too young, standing in front of the classroom — how many women had tried to care for Squall? Rinoa, in the ocean, the tug of the tide around his ankles. "Squall," she said, feeling a swell of sisterly affection. "You seem really stressed."

The noise he made wasn't committal at all, but was probably an affirmation.

"Go take a break. I'll probably see you at dinner, anyway — Laguna likes to have Kiros or Ward take me. As a date." Her nose screwed up at it, and Hyne woke up, this got a laugh from Squall. "And we can figure things out then, okay? I haven't even unpacked yet!"

Her words seemed to reassure Squall, and he nodded in agreement, pausing to press his lips against her forehead in a very un-Squall-like gesture — Rinoa, sleeping in the darkness, aeons of space between them — and he gave her a little wave as he turned to leave.

Ellone waited until he had turned the corner and then sank into the wall; it was still warm from Squall, and it breathed memory at her: Laguna had spent the afternoon meeting learning how to draw Moomba prints (what a moron) — the morning bagels were stale (this is ridiculous) — and nowhere, nowhere was there any recognition of what Laguna actually was, what stood before Squall in all its connective glory. She sagged, leaning her head back against the wall, pressing her palms into it and trying to read the heat of Squall's body from the paint, but the memories were fading quickly: she got a flash of cool-ice-stars wheeling in the sky — feathers — (I want to go home (but I don't)) — and then it drowned her senses in static again.

Tears pricked her eyes. Had Squall really not figured it out yet? How was Laguna dealing with this — he'd been so worried, so nervous, and to have to stand and watch his own son right next to him not know him — it was heartbreaking, to her, just to think about. All she had left of her own parents were a handful of genuine memories from her early years and another handful she'd scrabbled from the past, in Winhill, using Laguna and Raine as unwitting conduits before she really understood what she could do. And every time she opened that box she felt the loss, that she'd only see them through stolen eyes. How could Squall not see it? How could he not feel this tug?

She had to make him see. So many people had lost their chance — she'd almost inadvertently wrecked the world just to see that she was loved as a child! And Squall had his own father right there, beside him, drawing those stupid moombas again (they look like blobs with feet) and showing them to Kiros —

But she could show him.

Ellone closed her eyes. She could make him see, of course, literally— or, once she could have. Something had loosened within her; her ability to connect had come back stained, tainted with the shadows of so many ages upon it, threads of white dyed too many colors to count now, too many ages and Sorceresses and years to keep anything untangled anymore. Could she? She pressed her hands into the wall; she hadn't lost it: no, it was like she had brought back more than she'd had before, and it... frightened her.

Heat faded into her palms and she remembered the flash of static, the bird's-cry and blooming fire and white noise, and she wondered: was she picking up Rinoa? She and Rinoa were still connected, vaguely, Squall being the fulcrum of their own private Time Compression and the cobweb of it draped over them all like ribbons, sometimes, in Ellone's dreams. She pressed her hands to her face.

Laguna, sad, over the bowl of soup and the spilled water: "I just wonder if he'll..." A tentative trail, and then he grinned. "Whatever, right? It's okay. Let's get a piece of every pie they have here."

She stood up. She owed it to them to make this happen: owed it to Laguna, to Squall; to her own parents, lost in time, and to Raine, whom she'd loved. She owed it to them to at least try; once ("once" was a strange thought, because that single moment once had lasted for all the ages, every second of every hour that ever had existed) time had been her plaything, or at least memories had.

Ellone breathed in the sharp air of the hallway, and breathed out a smile. She could do this.

_________________________________

Laguna closed the door to his office and sighed, loud and exuberantly, because it always made him feel better to fill this sterile space with noise of some kind: some days, he swore, half of his bumblings and mumblings and personal jokes muttered to himself were really just attempts to ward off silence, that most awful of enemies. He hated the quiet emptiness that fell in rooms, because it left space for his idle thoughts and all his ghosts together, crowding in as silence fell in small but unrelenting movements. He rubbed a hand over his face. Squall was getting to him, this time; Squall and Ellone, both here, in his space — and they looked so good together, so happy to see each other, that Squall's cold shoulder hurt all the more in retrospect.

Dammit. He opened the top drawer of his desk and fumbled around for a pad of sticky notes, intending to send Kiros a memo asking about a private dinner tonight with the recently reunited family—was there anything the kitchen could do on short notice? Hell, he'd eat ice-cream for dinner (again) to see Squall and Ellone at the same table, Squall's closed face tentatively opening to Elle's frank, simple teasing. And he, the old voyeur at the end of the table, frantically taking notes in glitter pen directly into his skull: how does one get Squall to do such things?

It was like — at first he couldn't turn off around the kid. Kiros had said in the past he was always way too eager to please, but Laguna had found himself on overdrive around Squall: trying not just to please but to impress, to make an impression on, to show that he was something and someone worth knowing, worth speaking to, worth joking with. But now it was like he just couldn't turn on, because engaging hurt like an anchor to the skull (and didn't he know how that felt, what with Ward and hangovers)—giving all of that and not getting any of it back. Not getting anything; talking to Squall was like talking to a wall, sometimes, except for those paper-thin cracks, those tiny fault-lines he let slip every now and then.

It was as if Ellone held some key into Squall. And Laguna didn't want to steal her key; he wanted his own, anything, a sign that they shared some kind of connection. An acknowledgment? No, that didn't really make sense. He didn't want to be Squall's dad—no, that came out wrong, because he was and he did; it was more that the time for all of that had passed. He wasn't looking to pick up responsibilities or give guidance or share when I was your age stories, mainly because god, when he'd been Squall's age he'd been a mess and a half, and if Squall thought he was stupid now god forbid he ever see Laguna at nineteen. Squall was stronger, brighter, better than he'd ever been—and it was probably because Laguna had never touched him, growing up, with the noisy mess he seemed to carry with him.

He closed the door more harshly than he'd meant. Squall didn't owe him anything just because he was his kid. And he didn't want to get to know Squall because Squall was his kid—he wanted to know Squall, Squall Leonhart, brilliant and sharp and prickly, soldier-trained, mercenary-raised. Maybe you could stop looking for things that aren't there, and start focusing on the things that are?

The sticky note stared up at him, blank and inviting.

_________________________________

Squall watched as Ellone ran her fingers lightly across the fancy scrollwork adorning the haft of her fork; he might have taken it as an absentminded gesture except that he'd caught her doing it to other things, too: she'd touched the fringed tablecloth as they'd been seated at their table and she'd lingered, earlier, over the little wooden table in the lobby, her hands brushing its lacquered surface — though her eyes had been on the bowl of after-dinner buttermints atop it. Squall had smiled, then, and silently predicted she would pocket some on the way out; now he found himself tracking this habit, watching Ellone's face and fingers. She was looking around the restaurant alertly, taking it all in, eyes flicker-lingering over other random curiosities of the place.

She caught him looking, and put the fork down, tucked her hair behind her ear. "Still sure you don't want to try the pie?" She smiled.

He shook his head no, frowning at an out-of-place note of mental dissonance. It wasn't the pie — she had coaxed him all the way here, trying to get him to order some overly-elaborate sounding cavity vehicle — then he realized that it was the fork, putting down the fork without a word to him. He'd been expecting more, he realized, because Rinoa did the same thing, picking out little details — and then sharing with him, pointing them out, inviting him to see, to know all these little things together and remember later. Ellone hadn't said a word about any of the small things she'd seen or touched, and it occurred to him to wonder what memory meant to her.

"So," she picked up the trailed-off conversation, "the new Garden project sounds pretty complicated. You've been here all this time reviewing Esthar's bid?" She had spent the dinner extracting the details of Squall's reason for being in Esthar — though they hadn't reached the subject of Squall's rather precipitous departure from Balamb, which was not something he wanted to discuss.

Not that he was too enthused to be going over the Garden thing, again; his mouth twisted now, every hour spent in meetings weighing it down. "Yeah."

"Not as exciting as you'd hoped?" Her eyes twinkled, but her smile spoke sympathy.

Squall snorted. "I hadn't expected Esthar politics to be so... involved," he confessed.

"It's been... complicated, since the wall came down and the Lunar Cry." Ellone hesitated, and Squall saw her hand drift towards the fork again, as if she wanted comfort before saying something difficult— and then the waiter deposited their check; Squall signed off on it without checking the sum — if Laguna was going to push perks on him so insistently...

Esthar's cool night air swept his face as they left the restaurant; Squall closed his eyes for a moment to let it run through his hair, remembering the soft rooftop breezes of that morning. He opened his eyes and Ellone was watching him with a small, simple smile, the wind catching on her shawl. He found himself smiling back at her, the breeze seeming to carry away some of the tension in his shoulders, his face, his hands. "I'm glad you're here," he said abruptly, but it came out easy and heartfelt and he couldn't really care how awkward it felt in his mouth when Ellone smiled even wider at him.

"I'd have come earlier if you'd told me," she returned, teasing. The comment seemed to skewer the little ease, but Squall's guilty grimace was dislodged by Ellone bumping her shoulder against his. He barely felt her thin frame through the leather of his jacket, but gave her a small smile; her own grin had a wistful edge to it and he realized belatedly that he was supposed to bump back or— something, some more enthusiastic display. He turned his head before she could see the smile sliding off his face.

"Home?" he asked, starting up the street.

"Yeah," she sighed, big and wistful. "I need to get my sleep." There was some kind of playful undercurrent to her words that he didn't understand — what? — some other social sibling-cue that he didn't know how to pick up, maybe; thinking about it was making him feel hollow and irritated and he put it out of his mind. The conversation flattened again.

"Well," Ellone continued after a beat, "what have you been doing this whole time?"

He opened his mouth to reply, but her hand came up to cut him off— "Besides meetings." He gave her an exasperated look.

They turned a corner; his eyes swept the street automatically while he tried to think past the haze of exhaustion and endless boardroom tables to remember anything else about this visit. His thoughts stumbled over his dreams, over the unsettling space where the Bond had been. Rinoa, Timber, politics, magic he didn't understand. He could feel Ellone beside him, attentive, expectant, wanting things from him and... maybe... But the words to explain tangled somewhere in his stomach. He realized he'd been silent for too long again and tried to think of anything about this visit that wasn't meetings and nightmares.

"... Loire took me out to tour the sites." He caught the unhappy flinch of Ellone's mouth — dammit, I can at least call him by his first name for her. "Alone. He got rid of all the bureaucrats somehow. Showed me around." He remembered the last site, the odd looks passing over the man's face. "He seemed— lonely." Where had that come from?

It seemed to gratify Ellone, though. "He wants to get to know you," she said. Her voice lilted with encouragement. Why had he led them onto this subject?

"He has Kiros. I know they're good friends." He rolled his eyes, and Ellone giggled, covering her mouth delicately. "Kiros seems... sensible," he went on, trying to be generous. Ellone loved these people so much. It felt strange trying to fit their lives together again...

"I like Ward," Squall said, after a beat. "We have good talks." And Ellone laughed at the halting joke, making Squall's mouth hitch up; though it was true, he got along well with Ward, who communicated eloquently — and briefly — with expressions and gestures and well-chosen words on his tablet. The self-deprecating humour — it's not like he wasn't aware how little he talked — had at least drawn a kind of delicate delight to Ellone's face, and he let his small smile relax his face.

Ellone's laugh faded into the night, and she sighed, content and a little... wistful? "It's good to see you," she said, bright and smiling up at him, all his awkwardness forgiven or forgotten.

"Good to see you too, Sis," and she made it easy for him to put an arm around her shoulders, for a moment, right before they reached the Palace doors.

_________________________________

Esthar was comforting to Ellone; its sleek-metal and shining-plastic surfaces were blinding to her eye, but memories slipped right off them to pool at her feet, a thick puddle she could nevertheless walk through or over with only minor distraction. It was a nice feeling, not at all overwhelming, and as they walked she kept her eye on the road and only felt the faint hum of distraction on the soles of her feet.

Laguna stopped at a corner market to buy some flowers — for what purpose, Ellone had absolutely no idea; he was recognized, and the haggling continued for some time in a bizarre parody of itself: the vendor insisting on giving the President a discount; Laguna arguing, laughing, that he could and would pay full price. Ellone watched, amused, and dabbled a toe into the memories in the street (mostly walking, running, late-hurry-panic, with a swirl of some deep dark growl that couldn't have been human).

He came back with his arms full of daisies and his face alight with a delighted smile. "I'm going to set these out at the social tonight!" He seemed to be genuinely pleased, and it made Ellone smile. She knew walking Esthar was one of Laguna's favorite things to do; he would set out with no designs, no intentions, just a general desire to see his city and talk to its people. They were both armed, of course — after the Cry, most Esthar citizens were — but it was still a casual walk. A casual walk with flowers, now.

Ellone knew it helped Laguna, sometimes, just to walk the city. Part of it was the action itself, the calm soothing motion of a walk, the way it got Laguna out of meetings and up on his feet; he made definite efforts to stay active and in shape, but a walk was more relaxing than real training. Part of it was the people: Laguna never made any attempts to turn people away or have any sort of privacy. He was a President who couldn't stay no, and often their walks spiraled out of control, into hours of policy discussion or idle gossip; it was part of Laguna's appeal to Esthar, Ellone thought privately, a piece of genuinely interesting and interested humanity in the middle of a country full of screens and gears and wheels. Esthar's citizens loved having a President who was within their reach, walking their streets, and Laguna loved the feedback of it: he reveled in every single individual conversation, telling endless stories about the people he met. The discussions rejuvenated him.

And part of it was just taking the time to see the city, this place Laguna had chosen to serve. Ellone knew — from memory-flash, dream-speak, the kinds of things her powers planted in her head like unwilling seeds — that Laguna wore his choices deep, like a wound, one that had healed over but had irrevocably changed things in the process. He wore his regrets deeper, in places only Ellone and maybe Kiros could see (Raine — the sound of sobs; heartache, a ring of gold — Elle; Adel — Winhill); Laguna didn't believe in dwelling on anything, and yet... things dwelt in him, a river so deep and bitter Ellone was constantly surprised every time she was reminded of it. His walks were confirmation, affirmation, renewing every day he could the choices he had made, recommitting himself to this path that had left him so strong and so broken.

They turned the corner and Elle looked out at the market, bright baubles reflecting Esthar's electric lights. The scent of potions and spiced pie filled the air. She laughed out loud, delighted, as all of her senses filled and the feeling of Time Compression, never far from the back of her brain, usually creeping over her senses like mist, faded in the onslaught of scent and taste and sound.

Laguna grinned. "I thought you'd like this. You didn't see last month's, did you?"

They wheeled through the market slowly, Ellone stopping to touch fabric and graze appetizers and smell perfumes; Laguna made idle conversation with the vendors, the flowers not hindering him at all as he chatted. It was odd to think this wouldn't have been here only a few years prior, Esthar's odd solitude making such trade impossible.

Sated and happy, they sat down on a bench to people-watch. The bench was warm metal, and Ellone sank onto it thankfully; her mind was pleasantly overloaded, and the memories whispered by her softly, none requiring or demanding any more of her attention than she had to spare.

"Do you think Squall would like this place?" The question was overly casual, and Laguna's eyes were firmly on the flowers, adjusting part of the wrapper; Ellone's heart broke at his pretended nonchalance.

"I'm not sure," she said honestly. "It's very... busy." She tried to picture Squall in the middle of the square, fingers grazing fabric — no. Bent over that stall of weapons? Maybe. Then she tried to picture Squall over in the corner, leaning up against a cement balustrade and sulking: that was easy. "Maybe not," she said ruefully.

"Yeah." Laguna didn't say much else.

Ellone's heart broke at it, again; she wanted so badly for things to work between them, for this family of hers to come together the way she knew they could and should. A part of her, hidden as deep as Laguna's heart, felt responsible for this. With Raine gone, she'd been the only one who knew about Squall, but she hadn't realized it until she was much, much older: so much of her childhood had been a whirl of not-dreams and White SeeD and soldiers chasing her, and it had been an older and more responsible Ellone who had finally realized how much had been disconnected. She was the connection, and she couldn't help but feel regret that she hadn't brought them together sooner — she blamed herself for this, the great gaping hole in Laguna's heart and the walls Squall wore about himself like shells. She hadn't known as a kid, but — there was so much she could have done! She'd seen all the gaping holes of opportunity in her own past, dreams flickering by her, stretching her arms to reach them and finding the flow of the past too white-rapid fast to stay in her own grasp.

Witches may have searched through eons for her power, Ellone thought bitterly, but it didn't seem all that useful from her point of view.

The daisies rustled at the edge of her attention, and Laguna stood up. "Alright," he said, and she watched as he flipped the switch from pensive back to cheerful; it looked easy on Laguna, but she had seen memories of the nights that switch stuck midway between elation and despair, and she shuddered. Kiros' hands, firm and steady — the pillow hides the tears — regrets, choke like water — wash it all away — Raine's hand, so small in his own.

But now, Laguna just smiled. "Let's get these back and in some water."

Ellone stood and took a moment to brush the dust from her skirt, letting the motion anchor her in the present.

_________________________________

The lion moved silently, stalking up and down the dark hall, growl rough in his throat, floor cool beneath his great paws, fur rippling round his face like the collar of his jacket — Rinoa laughed; "You always wear that thing," she said, "even when it's too hot to breathe!"—the scent of blood reached his nose, alerting his senses, and he paused, sniffing at it. (What is this? Griever?) His ears rotated towards the sudden sound — a scuffle, a loud rough human move, clumsy and fumbling in his halls, and he turned, paws silently padding as his teeth tingled in anticipation of—

"Squall," Rinoa said, her voice full of morning laughter; "it's time to get up."

She arched beneath him, her fingers coming up to work themselves into his hair the way he loved, tangling along his scalp. (Did I cut my hair? Why is it so short?) He tucked his head, lips eagerly tracing the lines of her neck, the curves of her collarbone, tasting sweat and perfume and her, Rinoa, hissing harshly in a way he'd only heard once or twice.

(Odd. She looks younger.)

(...and beautiful.)

His hands (those aren't my hands) worked their way up the smooth skin of her belly; a finger tucked beneath her bra, and she gasped, the name becoming a drawn-out Sssssss—

(...Squall? Or Seifer?)

"Squall. Really. You said you had a meeting."

He opened his eyes. Rinoa was there, up on one elbow above him, her hair still sleep-mussed about her face. She had put on one of his work-out tanks; it was transparent on her, the curves of breast and nipple obvious through the thin white ribbed cotton. He never knew how to tell her he preferred this — military undershirt and panties — to her more contrived and elaborate outfits, although he could never complain about those either, the way she smiled sultry heat in heels.

His lips curved up, and she leaned in to kiss him. He closed his eyes, tasting only her in the morning light, her gentle breath warm and comforting on his face.

When he opened his eyes, Kiros laughed. (What? Kiros?) "Laguna, we don't have time."

"Aw, come on," he said (no! Don't say that), chuckling, the sound rumbling upward easily. "They won't miss us at breakfast."

"Maybe not." A light in Kiros' eyes told him the proposal was being considered; light fingers tracing chest muscles furthered the concept — foreign-not-foreign heat bloomed in the touch's wake (—no. what?). "But you'll miss breakfast, Loire, about two hours from now, and I'm the one who will have to put up with the whining."

(Oh, shit.)

The smile curved his face, crinkled his eyes; "That's why I stole ration bars yesterday."

"Oh?" Kiros' eyes narrowed into suspicious, merrily glinting slits. "That confident in my answer, are you?"

(Wake up wake up wakeupwake—)

Squall sat up in bed. Gasped. Choked on it, hurled it out of his lungs like air on fire, and breathed again.

He stumbled to the shower, unseeing and tripping through the unfamiliar bathroom; slammed the cold water on and threw himself into it, hissing, wake up wake up wake— Ice seemed to shatter across his spine and he breathed out an echo of magic, gasping, hands scrambling to turn on the hot water, adrenaline suddenly electric in his blood as memories tangled with dreams and fuck, he was bloody awake now. His skin shivered under the tepid water, more shock than cold, and he leaned his arm up against the cool tile, pressed his forehead against it. A languid roil of warmth was still dissolving in his belly, driven nauseous and uneven by the cold water, the memory of ice piercing through him. He forced his breath even, ignoring the tendrils of heat that neither shower nor shock had managed to banish — electric heat across his chest, the light trace of fingers — he breathed, hard and through his teeth.

He shut the useless shower off, chafed himself dry with a towel (ignored the echoed rough warmth of hands, broad and masculine), made his way out of the bathroom; grey light already filled the suite, morning or close enough to it — Rinoa's skin in the morning light, almost blue-pale, lovely against the white of his tank, her hair a dark messy spill — Laguna's hand pale against Kiros's skin, Laguna's body arching up—

Squall turned on his heel, a sharp right into the closet, and jerked a uniform off its hanger; the mechanical motions of dressing took over as he prodded his GFs: are you doing this? what is this? These— things — these were not dreams he'd ever have normally — the spilled memory of Rinoa echoed inside him, resonant, and he refused to inspect the rest — but Shiva just laughed at him, high and sharp and tinkling, and Cerberus shifted with a low rumble that, dammit, was also probably laughter. He jerked the jacket closed with unnecessary savagery, and whipped the belt around his waist (hands on Laguna's torso) with a harsh snap. The Guardians could get impossible, when it struck them and they were loose from their Junctions and he almost, almost considered doing it, Junctioning them up, just to make them quiet — but the strain of it was— was something he didn't need right now, dammit, and neither was this.

Laguna hovered around him for at least half of each day, and Squall was irrationally irritated that the man wouldn't even leave him alone in his sleep; it was absurd and he didn't care. He stalked out of the closet.

The mug with its faded slogan sat accusingly on his desk, where he'd absently left it, forgetting that it was a loan, and the very last thing he needed was more reminders of Laguna Loire, more of the man invading his room and his life.

He snatched up the cup. A perfunctory rinse in the bathroom sink later, and he was carrying it up to the roof, feeling stupid and irritated at himself and Laguna: two (three?) feelings he had really been getting too much of lately. The roof door clanged open under his rough push, but the man was nowhere to be found — predictable — and Squall stood there a moment, stymied. It was still early morning — he could be in his rooms. Squall turned on his heel and trotted down the stairs again, the short flight to the President's floor. He knew he was being irrational about this by now; it fed back into his frustration and he let it, stalking down the hallway with the mug clutched in one hand.

Squall rapped sharply on the door to the front rooms of the Presidential suite and prepared to cool his heels and deflate some of this useless temper—

The door opened entirely too soon, and Squall was abruptly confronted by Laguna Loire, half-dressed in slacks and undershirt, a foot from him in the doorway. "Oh—" Laguna blinked at him and Squall's mind was stuck at of course he doesn't check who's at the door— "Hey!" Laguna grinned, uncertain but bright.

Squall blinked back, noting distantly the tank's evidence that Laguna had, if not exactly maintained a soldier's physique, stayed trim for his age when the observation slid dizzyingly into memory, Rinoa in Squall's undershirt, and this dissolved into Kiros' hands on his—

Squall tried not to choke, and thrust the mug forward, narrowly avoiding punching Laguna in the stomach with it. Laguna glanced down with a surprised flinch, hands coming up apparently automatically to accept the cup, and Squall snatched his fingers away from the man's warm-dry hands; he was entirely beyond trying to read the series of expressions that rippled over Laguna's face as he looked back up — why couldn't the man keep his feelings to himself— Laguna's grin returned, full-force and more certain. "Thanks, I would have missed this one. It's my favorite."

Squall's eyes flicked down to the goofy picture of a moomba lounging under an umbrella next to the words LIFE'S A BEACH.

Laguna flung the door all the way open. "Would you like some more? The kitchen stuff's not bad but I have this blend they do in Fisherman's Horizon and— oh, come on in," he waved with his back to Squall, apparently utterly unconcerned with his state of half-dress in front of visiting dignitaries— Squall mentally dug in his heels, No. Hell no. He was not going in there. Some kind of clinking noises came from within the suite. He hovered in the hallway, telling himself that it would be rude on the minor-international-incident level to just go and leave the President with his door open onto an empty hallway. I promised Ellone I'd be nice.

Too late; Laguna was back with two steaming cups, chattering again already — or still. He pressed the one blessedly free of moronic adornments into Squall's numb hands and propped himself against the doorframe to nurse his own cup, one hip cocked into the lean, the white tank making a long line of his torso. "I already had some on to show Ellone — I was out last time she visited and she teased me, said I was pining and she wanted to know what the big deal was," he laughed a little before finishing, "but she's not up yet." Squall felt faintly dizzy, more than usual for trying to follow Laguna's rambles. He sipped the coffee, automatically— it really was good, nutty and rich; it distracted him for a moment, waking up his frazzled brain a little.

Laguna watched him drink, smiling a little. A slightly serious, almost sad smile, Squall realized, abruptly aware that he was intruding on Laguna's morning as much as Laguna was intruding on his. Laguna gave him a few seconds to appreciate the coffee before prompting, "How was your dinner with her?"

Squall swallowed, feeling vaguely cornered. "...Good."

Laguna's smile, still in place, turned a little... wistful? His eyes were serious, direct. "I know how much she loves you. It's okay if you want to blow off some of this Garden stuff to spend time with her." Laguna regarded him steadily, lips still lightly quirked, nothing of reproach or bitterness in his tone.

And the directness disoriented Squall, again, the morning taking another sharp turn under his feet; he blinked. "Thanks," he found himself saying, and continuing, like Laguna's self-deprecating smile was pulling it out of him, "She wants to see some of you, too."

Laguna considered him for a moment, before saying, hesitant and easy at once, "There's a solution to both problems, you know." And it took Squall a few seconds to realize Laguna meant spending time with both of them, the three of them together. The thought dizzied him and he planted his feet, wide and hard — it should have been presumptuous, pressing, but with Laguna's eyes uninsistent and earnest on him, Laguna's coffee warm in his hands and his tone almost teasing, like ha ha isn't that a funny suggestion; who would fall for that under the evenness of sincerity — outs for Squall either way, layers and layers and Squall realized he was still blinking silently and staring at Laguna's face.

Laguna held up his hands, head tipped down like defeat but smiling still. "Okay. Truce." He looked back up, uneven quirk on his lips. "I don't insist — but let me know, all right?" His eyes were even and calm with the offer. "If you need to make time." And the eyes flicked down to Squall's hands; the grin bloomed full again. "Or more coffee."

And Laguna nodded a farewell and retreated into his suite, sipping his coffee and aiming for what looked like a dress shirt and shoes stacked unevenly half atop each other; Squall could see, through the door that Laguna had left open behind him. His eyes drifted down to the coffee in his hands, and back up to the open doorway in front of him. It was a long morning already.

He finished the coffee quickly, too fast and scalding, and left the mug by the door before walking back down the hall.

_________________________________

Laguna saw the car pull up just as he was walking the Minister of Finance out to call a cab of his own—convenient, that—and so he waited for Squall to get out and head up to the building. To his surprise, Squall's face was a stony glower—an expression! Hyne wakes up!—and as he walked into the building, he left the two construction company representatives he'd been touring with behind him like dust and smoke.

Whatever they'd done to rankle Squall that badly was nothing he wanted to get involved with, Laguna decided cheerfully, and he gave them a vague, half-insulting salute and closed the Palace door on them.

Squall stood in the lobby, seething; outwardly the only real sign Laguna could see was fists, clenched, but he was radiating anger out of almost every pore, and — "What the hell?" Laguna asked before he could think of any better way to phrase it.

The air came through Squall's teeth so intently Laguna could almost see it hiss into steam as it hit the air; then he watched as Squall swallowed, and tried to swallow all of it, the upset and the emotion and whatever he could—but he failed to catch it all; his face was still grey with it, and Laguna watched his hands clench more tightly as Squall realized he was too mad to hide it.

"They tried to bribe me," Squall said simply, and Laguna made a mental sticky note that apparently this was how Squall looked when angry: the same as always, only tighter, wound stiff with it like a live wire wrapped and tangled in its own devices. "They said maybe if I helped them out they could help me out a little—arrange a place to stay for me and—while it was being built—they were talking about Rinoa -" The words were disjointed; Laguna listened, unsure how Squall's girlfriend fit into all of this mess, fascinated at the steam-anger leaking off of his son.

Squall rubbed a hand over his face, and Laguna froze, because he recognized the same gesture he used, to wipe off his exasperation as if it were something that could be removed by simple friction—had Squall ever seen him do that? What were the chances they'd both develop the same tic so separately? — but then he looked up, resigned and grim and — yes, actually, sardonically, amused despite all of it.

Laguna's lips quirked in a little grin before he could help himself. Apparently it was something of the right gesture—some kind of solidarity, he thought—because Squall shrugged amiably and stood there, almost expectant. The glower still smoked off of him, but it was as if—it was like Laguna was inside it, now, rather than targeted by it: united in our common enemy? It was easier to see Squall's tics here, too, the way his hands clenched and unclenched until Laguna figured every last knuckle on his hands had to be taut and sore.

"Sounds like you need a drink." The words blurted from his mouth unchecked, unfiltered. And yet Squall looked up slowly, and from within his guard Laguna watched one fist tentatively relax—a question. "Kiros and Ellone are probably already knocking back a few—we just finished up our meeting." Would that make it better, a more tempting offer? Or were more people bad? Laguna tamped down on a confused flurry of his own mixed opinions, a nervous selfish urge to snatch this time just for himself. He pitched it casual, just an invite between colleagues: "Wanna come?"

The other fist relaxed, one miniscule flexion of pressure and tension releasing. "Are you at that corner bar?" Squall asked; the words fell foreign from his lips. Laguna wondered if he'd ever gone out after a long day, had a beer (or five), blown off some steam. Squall would probably be excellent at darts. Maybe he would suck at quarters.

"Yeah." He shrugged again. And didn't say anything else; it was tentative between them, and he was afraid to tip the balance either way. What he'd said in the beginning was true—he only wanted Squall to be Squall around him; only wanted him to do whatever he wanted to do.

Squall's lip twitched, and for a second it looked like a tiny little grin of forfeit, sarcastic and dark and appreciative all at once. "I think I need a beer," he said, carefully not looking too much at Laguna, not acknowledging the invite, not even saying yes—but he fell into step beside Laguna, and they threw the doors open together and left the Palace.

"I hope you like cheap beer." Laguna was grinning now, trying to keep it mostly inside. "It's not a fancy place."

"Suits me fine," Squall replied after a long moment of silence—a silence growing comfortable between them. Maybe this was the trick, Laguna thought: conversation with Squall just followed different rules. If you could wait a long time for a very small number of words, and consider the price well worth it.

Laguna found himself eyeing Squall sidelong as they walked, noting all kinds of things, his brain turning haphazardly random in the face of success—finally! a victory! He noted how long Squall's legs were, the way he strode evenly and carefully, pausing for pedestrians rather than swerving. He watched Squall's hands, unclenched but not at all relaxed—was this caution, this awareness, Garden-born? A mercenary trait, the result of long training days and grueling exams? Squall seemed almost unnervingly ready, tense with preparation, as if this alert observance had soaked into his bones and become the default for existence. Or was it something wholly Squall, born from years of walling himself off, defending at all costs, refusing to relax?

This physical awareness was new, and so preoccupying that they almost walked past the door of the pub; and Laguna felt like a right idiot as he stopped, nearly bumping into a young woman with a stroller, his hand reaching out to grab Squall's arm. "Here," he said, and his voice cracked a little on it: forlorn, because for a few short seconds he expected Squall to roll his eyes and huff right on back to the Palace to go be intimate with his console. "This is it."

Squall looked the place up and down, his eyes glinting in—surely that wasn't amusement? "You almost missed it."

"I told you it was a hole in the wall," Laguna said, his mouth running with this sudden rush of nerves, afraid that Squall would change his mind—afraid that he cared too much about it, that he'd make (more of) an ass of himself over this. "I swear, every time I come here, it's dirtier. Must be some kind of camouflage."

Squall's mouth quirked. "Do you bring all your guests here?"

Laguna's hand twitched on the door-handle, because it was a joke, an honest-to-god sense of humor lying dry and crackling beneath the sullen grimace. "Only the ones I want to get drunk," he quipped, and threw the door open. "C'mon. Time for a shot."

He glanced over his shoulder; Squall's face was frozen in a very strange expression, an odd off-center sort of surprised contemplation—but then it wiped clean, replaced with dry stoicism, and Squall followed him into the bar after all.

_________________________________

That night it was almost like normal, his increasing tendency to hassle his GFs relentlessly dampened by three tall mugs of admittedly terrible beer and a few hours in which Squall had felt awkward as hell, mainly trying to keep conversation going without investing himself in it: engaging with people like that, casual and friendly, exhausted him in a way he didn't understand—battle was easy; talking was hard. Even one person, even — especially? — Laguna, and Squall remembered the uneven mixed rush when they'd seen that Kiros and Ellone had already left, Squall's urge to flee frozen confusedly against thinking maybe this is easier—and he fell into bed feeling drained and empty and strangely, severely hopeful, as if emotional exhaustion would help him sleep better, this time.

The GFs in his head were mostly quiet. They were never completely silent—not to someone who'd spent so much time interfaced with them, intertwined in their existence—and since Rinoa, they had been even less so, as if pricked into a higher state of awareness by whatever side of the magic resided in Squall's own head. But tonight they seemed calm, if not invisible, Shiva's cool murmurs blending with Cerberus' low vibrating hum, a simple wall of white noise Squall was at least used to dealing with. For one odd moment he thought of thanking them, trying to send gratitude in their intangible direction — but he feared the attention would only ruin this strange state of... not-thinking, not-doing, not-feeling. He lay down, the pillow cool against his face, and let himself drift off.

Drifting was a good word; it wasn't so much sleep as a long rest: the feeling of floating, bobbing soft and slow on the tides of it, Quistis is with him in the ocean, trying to teach him how to swim, even though she is shorter than he is and is having trouble keeping her own head above the waves; all he wants is to go back to shore, because Sis is building a sandcastle and he wants to help. He felt the low stirring in his mind, and Shiva drifted past in a long slow meteoric spin, brushing his consciousness with that same cold chill — loud power; soft love—the memories stirred in her wake like driftwood after a passing ship, some sinking down into irretrievable depths and others bobbing upwards into the sun.

Laguna is leaning over the bar, refilling his own mug from the tap, mostly foam in his glass because he isn't paying attention; trading jests with the bartender easily, making her crack a smile even as the beer-foam overflows and spills all over his fingers. Laguna swears, laughs, and sits back down on his stool, setting the mug of foam down in front of him and letting his foam-soaked hand drip patterns onto the uneven surface of the bar for a few long seconds as Squall watches, enthralled despite himself, despite the way he finds it really obnoxious the way Laguna does everything he wants the way he wants: what will he do now? Laguna lifts the hand, puts his finger to his mouth, and Squall watches his lips suck the foam from it, totally un-self-conscious and completely unaware of the way his tongue flicks out against his own finger, the way his lips—

"This is seriously bad beer," Laguna laughs, and he dabs his wet hand on a stack of napkins and then reaches for the popcorn, and Squall wonders what the hell just happened.

Squall floated, near sleep, his mind tangled up in a GF haze he recognized: when Guardian Forces were left in the mind but untouched, unused, unSummoned, they became restless. This was their way of settling in: tossing memories around, combining them in ways that weren't necessarily real, rearranging them like a dog pawing at its bed and turning around before curling up to rest. Somehow recognizing this made Squall relax, finally, into the familiarity of that; Cerberus shifted low and subtly and Squall drifted off into it, this rest-not-rest, because it was better than dreaming and far better than lying awake thinking about Rinoa.

Instead he thought about Laguna, which might have been strange under full consciousness but here, sprawled out beneath Shiva's star-wheeling chill and tucked up against Cerberus' sleeping warmth, it was almost... pleasant; a part of Squall, tranced-out and lazy, was deeply amused that Laguna seemed so much more attractive in the abstract. Something knocked itself, loose, and Squall watched himself at breakfast, Laguna debriefing him on all the vendors: these ones are gonna push you for the first site, but just put on your grumpy face and tell them nothing's been decided — yeah, that face, good work!... I am going to assume you are wearing it as an example and not for me. Moving on. He'd looked so eager, and serious with it; Squall finally had to admit to himself that Laguna's bumbling manner and goofy grins hid actual competence.

No, hid was the wrong word: the goofy parts of Laguna were part of that competence, right alongside his uncannily accurate way of reading people down to the bone after a single conversation and his ability to cut right to the center of an issue — he did it all cheerfully, which was something Squall couldn't fathom but was beginning to admire, a begrudging understanding of the man's motives growing somewhere in the back of his brain.

It wasn't that Laguna put on a show — he simply had an understanding of every single situation that struck on multiple levels, from the most shallow and silly to the deepest and most subtle motivations. And he did it simultaneously, without disturbing a single hair — and could with one action make headway on multiple levels as well.

Squall wondered how Laguna had developed this skill, and whether it was the kind of thing that could be learned. His mind drifted; he imagined Laguna, in early meetings, listening to droning committee members and painstakingly taking the kind of notes a teenager did, color-coded with circles over the 'i's. He handed the page to Kiros, who shook his head even as he smiled; Ward looked at the notes, and whuffed a half-laugh, and typed YOU'RE AN IDIOT into his tablet and passed it around (at least Ward knows what's up). But Kiros just laughed, and Laguna shook his head (his hair used to be longer? Huh.) as he stood up, stretching, feeling every minute of that meeting along his spine (man, he needs to stretch more (Rinoa used to rub—))

He flickered awake at the thought of Rinoa, a leap of panic in his chest, but there was nothing — no flare of alarm and fear from the Bond, just the same white-noise buzz it had been spurting and spitting for days. Cerberus shifted, the sense of something curling up in his brain, memories tossed like leaves as the Guardian rearranged himself to comfort. Squall closed his eyes again, leaning back into that sense of calm slowly, strangely still feeling the stiffness in his back. It reminded him of...

(Rinoa used to rub those knots out after long days.) He leaned forward in the chair as Kiros' fingers turned heavy circles on his neck, the pressure grinding out the soreness of the day, his thumbs pushing slowly until the sudden release of it made Laguna exhale, sharply; Kiros chuckled, and his hands pressed and released again, fingertips leaving hot spots along the skin of his nape—

Squall's eyes blinked drearily open, and then drifted shut again. He wasn't sure why the thought of a neck massage sounded so appealing — the pain in his back had been imagined, the product of a long day of meetings and a GF's dream-making spiral, but suddenly he thought of Laguna behind him at the bar, one hand gently rubbing relief into the knot in Squall's shoulder, Squall's head sagging lower as the stress seeped out of him; relax, Laguna said, and Squall felt himself drift off...

Shiva spun a slow sparkling circle of twinkling ice above him, and it fell like shooting stars, and Squall sank into sleep.

_________________________________

Laguna kicked at the couch cushion, trying to settle it closer to the couch and plump it up properly, the way Ellone liked it: sitting on the floor with her legs tucked up, plate in her lap. He wished they had more time today, dammit, but he really had to get those technological collaboration project people all pointed in the same direction — hell, even extracting the summaries from them for the bid proposal had been a nightmare; he'd have to keep an eye on them when he could finally present them to Squall, that should be really interesting — but at least he could snatch a little time now for a quick breakfast with Elle. He was getting so few chances to see her, this visit, though she was at least spending some time with Squall, which he didn't begrudge but— but it made him wistful anyway, which made him cranky, so he gave the cushion another, entirely unnecessary kick on his way to the phone to check on the service — shouldn't breakfast have arrived by now?

A knock on the door — finally! — he changed course to get it, anticipating food or maybe Ellone, swinging it open with friendly harping ready for the staff, or greetings ready for Elle— only to find his doorway filled with Ellone, and Kiros, and Ward, and breakfast, and this sudden assault of good things stopped up his mouth for a second with awareness of how much he wanted this, suddenly. Kiros was saying something to Ellone, voice dying at the opening of the door, and Ward towered smiling behind them, and they all turned to look at him and Hyne he must really be stressed if something so simple could get to him like this—

"Hi. Uh. Everyone. Hi! Get in here!" He grinned, shooing them all inside.

"I ran into them in the halls and asked them to come, too," Ellone explained, almost breathlessly; Laguna knew how much these things meant to hear, this warm inclusive glow of the family they'd chosen, and his grin slid into a smile, less frenetic and more feeling, for her.

"I can finish the collab project notes later," Kiros said, setting down the two plates he carried (waffles, simply soaked in syrup, god he loved everything right now), "and Ward says he wouldn't miss this for the world."

Ward's lips twisted up as he set down his own plates, tablet tucked under his arm; Laguna squeezed his shoulder for a moment. "Of course."

Ellone found the cushion waiting for her on the floor and laughed, delight flashing across her features, and warmth bubbled in Laguna's belly, floating outward until he didn't feel so damn heavy and tired as he watched her settle down on the floor; Kiros perched on Laguna's desk, and Ward distributed himself across the couch and its remaining cushions and it was almost perfect except for how Laguna didn't even have the time to sit down and how there was an empty space left in the armchair and— and he thought of Squall at the bar last night and thought, maybe— haha. Well. He grabbed the plate Kiros had deposited for him, and stuffed the first quarter of the waffle in his mouth. His eyes rolled up at the taste; the morning could definitely wait for him to appreciate this for just a few seconds. God, he loved being President sometimes. Presidents got the good waffles.

Kiros was grinning at him when he opened his eyes again. "Hedonist," he accused.

"Don't you start." Laguna jabbed a finger in his direction. "The things I could say about you and y—"

Ward drummed his fingers on the endtable, and angled his tablet so Laguna could see, smile crooked over the display: LADY PRESENT.

"That's right," Kiros said, eyes crinkling. "We're in polite company." He gave a little half-bow in Ellone's direction from his hip-cocked perch on the desk; her laugh tinkled through the air.

"Outmaneuvered!" Laguna cried: maximum drama. "I guess I'll just go ahead and keep getting ready to get out of here." He snatched up his tie from where he'd abandoned it on his desk at some point. Kiros rolled his eyes, mouth too full of his own breakfast to bite back. "Where did I put that collab project budget thing?" he muttered, trying to knot his tie and look around at the same time.

Ward tapped a stack of papers on the end table by the couch. "Aha! Thanks, Ward."

Kiros swallowed the bacon he'd been working on. "Weren't you supposed to finish those last night?"

Laguna stopped with one hand on the papers and another on his tie; swallowed. "Uh. Haha. I kind of. Showed Squall the bar yesterday."

"Really?" Ellone breathed; she wiped her mouth with one of the napkins, blinking up at him— something overeager in her eyes, disproportionate even to what Laguna knew she wanted for Squall and he blinked, for a second— "Oh— you must have just missed me and Kiros when we went to the night market! Did he— How did it go?" Laguna swallowed again, because he knew what she was asking and— hell, he didn't even know; the thought crept up on him, again, the possibility of Squall being right here, with them all.

"He... he thought the beer was really bad."

Ellone made a face at him, and above her Ward flashed a good-natured glower and his tablet: LAGUNA. "Come on, Uncle Laguna. What happened?"

"We just. Drank a little. Talked. A little. Decompressed, mostly." He was restless, suddenly; he wanted more of that decompression, end-of-the-day release of tension, not this morning rush — he loved how he could share the time, if not all of his attention but... He picked up the papers and flicked through them, absently, as he hurried over to his blazer and started shrugging it on. "He seemed stressed," Laguna commented unthinkingly from inside the tangle of jacket sleeves. "More than usual, I mean." He frowned, remembering the furrow between Squall's eyebrows, growing less deep but never quite vanishing; some idiotically old part of him commenting inside, he is going to get wrinkles from doing that. He drifted closer to his plate again, eying the waffle as he tried to get his elbows to coordinate with the sleeves.

"Did he... say why?" Ellone asked, hesitant and uncertain and— a little hopeful? Guilty? Dammit, Laguna was usually better at reading people than this; what was going on?

Then his brain caught up with Ellone's question instead of her tone and, "Well," he laughed, nervous and dark, "no, he's SqualI. He doesn't really confide his problems to me." He crammed more of the now-cooling waffle in his mouth, like he was trying to stop himself saying any more on that front.

Ellone chewed on her lip; her hands were playing with the edges of the couch cushion, where the texture was most interesting, but her eyes were still on him, worried and sad and Laguna didn't know when the air had gone so hollow, this thing hanging between them like a private grief.

"Ward's right." Kiros's voice broke through the heavy moment. "At least he went with you at all." Laguna glanced at Ward; if he'd written anything Laguna couldn't see it now, but he was smiling, broad and gentle.

"We should come next time," Ellone said, sitting up a little on her cushion and Laguna remembered thinking of the keys Ellone held, the way Squall unfolded and opened around her and maybe— maybe—

"Yeah," he said. "Next time, all together."

"One big happy family," Kiros said, smiling and light, and Ward lifted a spoonful of oatmeal into the air like a toast.

"Hear, hear," Laguna echoed, spearing the last of his waffle and saluting with it; Ellone grinned and offered up her bowl of cereal, two-handed and mock-solemn.

He chewed on the last of his waffle as he maneuvered into his shoes and the others consummated their own toasts, the thoughts rising inside him and popping like bubbles: Squall with everyone else, like this; Squall and him alone at the bar... Laguna hopped back over to his papers in one shoe, still trying to get the other on, unbalanced for an entirely different reason as the bright melancholy warmth of the first thought mixed with the lower, buzzing warmth of the second; the waffle had gone cold in his mouth and he didn't know how he could feel so grateful-happy and disappointed-sour at once.

Laguna took a big breath, the shoes finally on and the papers in his hand. "All right. Time to go herd scientists."

Kiros and Ward collected themselves on cue; Ellone stood up more slowly, her face distracted and thoughtful. "Thanks for the breakfast, Uncle Laguna," she said.

"Anytime," he said, and meant it, so hard, as he looked around at them all together here, with him.

_________________________________

Ellone picked at the cartons strewn across the coffee table, piling a little bit of everything on her plate; she was never sure what she'd like the best, and Squall had been unusually extravagant with his order this time, taking advantage of Laguna's absence (a private and unavoidable crisis on one of the borders—probably Cry-related—had canceled their other dinner plans) and whatever standing credit he had with Esthar to order practically half the take-out menu. Ellone had then taken advantage of the situation to come down to Squall's room in her jammies, and Squall had laughed at her and adamantly refused to get into his own—and it was just like it should have been: the two of them up late with a bottle of pilfered wine and junk food and secrets.

Squall's room was new and overly furnished, and Ellone loved the way it only whispered at her, remnants of its past guests faded into the new wall-hangings and absurdly ugly couch, no memories here except Squall's—and she was doing her best to not delve into those too deeply: keeping her fingers distracted with the savory flavors in front of her, and her mind occupied with Squall-in-the-present.

She'd watched the lines on his face fade with his first glass of wine and plate of (absurdly, in her opinion) spicy noodles; he was now what passed for relaxed in Squall's world, an almost detached attention to his surroundings, an awareness that became automatic rather than active. He refilled his glass, then hers, and then frowned at the bottle: "Are we going to want more?"

Ellone shrugged, feeling extravagant and wasteful and wicked, here in this room with her foster brother and her slippers. "Why not? Let's call room service."

Squall arched a brow. "Room service?"

"Call a guard." She wiggled her slippered feet in the direction of the phone. "Have him bring us more."

"You do it." He sat back in his chair, looking shyly smug, and Ellone was amused and saddened simultaneously at his attempts: brotherly, familiar, and yet not-quite-automatic. Squall was trying, though.

"Fine," she huffed, and shuffled her way across the room to phone Kiros, who she knew wouldn't turn her down. Three minutes later, a very bland-faced gentleman showed up at Squall's door with a four-bottle selection of Esthar's finest: bless Kiros. Ellone crowed victory and took all four, carrying them carefully to the minibar. She glanced over her shoulder—Squall was, as she expected, checking his console again—and, on a whim, set the bottles down and then wrapped her hands around the first one.

The rustle of a cart, and an old man's voice, muttering the price. The next: silks, and the crook of her arm as she carried it into the grand room; the third was nothing but machines, grinding, as he wiped sweat off his brow. The fourth sang, the tinkling and unsure notes of her daughter's voice as she tucked this away, and for some reason Ellone liked that best. She popped the cork with fervor.

Squall turned at the sound, and his eyeroll was exasperated but friendly. Their hands glanced as he took his glass, and faint white buzzing lulling him to sleep— the shock prompted her to ask: "So, where is Rinoa?"

Squall's glower told her she had asked an interesting question. "She's in Timber."

No further information seemed forthcoming, so Ellone mused aloud, twirling her glass in her fingers. "I haven't seen her in so long. How is she?"

Squall's blink seemed to last a second too long, as if he were closing his eyes, and Ellone caught a flash of fire, wings, drowning before his eyes opened again and she wondered if he had just checked—but then he sighed, and downed a little more wine than usual. "She's... okay." He said the words as if they meant something, and his eyes flashed to the console, and Ellone was suddenly deeply curious.

"Are you two... okay?"

For a second Squall looked down into his glass and Ellone could see the walls closing in around him, the bland stone look appearing on his face- but his eyes looked tired, and she found herself urging silently, no, Squall, come on, please talk to me... He swallowed, and she saw his fingers tense around the glass like clasps. "Yes and no," he said, slowly, and it was like he was taking so much time to choose the words and Ellone wondered: had he ever really talked to anyone like this? "We're... taking a break."

"Oh." The word gasped out of her unintentionally, and she felt immediately stupid for it: "Sorry, I—I'm sorry, Squall. That's hard." And it explained so much of the tension he was carrying around in the set of his shoulders, the way it took him a fraction of a second too long to smile at anything. "Are you alright?"

"Mostly." The word—and the shrug that accompanied it—contained multitudes, shades of longing and anger and stubborn pride and love wrapped up in one word, and Ellone couldn't help but flinch at the smattering of scenes that accompanied it: dark hair across a pillow—the curve of a shoulder—standing in the water, the sea tugging at his ankles like chains—watching her across the room, her arms wrapped about herself, wanting to hug her—close the door in her face—yell—cry—static across the Bond, a sound like glass shattering in his ears over and over—

She shook her head, trying to clear her ears; her hands gripped each other, looking for grounding.

"I'm more—" Squall paused, breath inhaled, looking for words, and Ellone waited. "I'm worried about her," he admitted. "Timber is... volatile. There was an attack, and she was there. There could be another one any day. I hate not being... able to do anything about it."

"Do you usually go with her?" Ellone winced at the glower that darkened his face—obviously the wrong thing to ask—and she fumbled for another question. "Is anyone there with her?"

"She has Quistis as a bodyguard." Squall glanced again at the console, and then added reluctantly, "...and she has the Owls." It left a strange bitter taste in the air, and Ellone shook her hair into her face preemptively to block whatever memories the thought had released, because there was something important here, now, if she could just stay in this moment long enough to figure out a way to help Squall.

"Do you want me to go?" The words came out of nowhere, surprising even Elle—but she thought about them, considered them. If things weren't right between Squall and Rinoa, he couldn't go to check on her, but maybe having someone close to him go would be an acceptable alternative. Squall's head jerked up, as if he hadn't even really thought of it before. She could see his counterarguments flashing in his eyes, his face steady and even (so unlike Laguna, whose expressions would have blabbed it all before he opened his mouth).

She held up a hand. "I know I'm not much in the tough defense department, but that's why she has Quistis, right? I could go make sure she's doing okay after the attack. Have you talked to her?" His face shuttered, and she winced again, saying all the wrong things—wait. She closed her eyes, and breathed, gently, and Rinoa, looking up at him, her cheek leaned against his hip and her eyes full of tears—and then she stopped, because this felt too voyeuristic, Squall's raw pain cutting across the room.

"I don't mind," she added, her voice sounding very small. "I like traveling."

Squall opened his hands in his lap, as if the answers were written there—and god, this was so much like Uncle Laguna, the way his brow crinkled when he was thinking hard, his fingers twitching imperceptibly—how did Squall still not see it? Ellone—panicked, her chest churning—should she tell him now? She could just say it, blurt it out and see what happened—

Squall looked up, and looked her directly in the eye. "I think..." He swallowed. "If you don't mind. Would you go?"

The blankness of the air whisked past her, the absence of a breeze, and Ellone realized how hard this was for Squall by that alone: the absence of memories, nothing whispering to her across space-time. Had he never asked for help before? Probably not; he'd built himself self-dependent, independent, a machine made to work alone.

"Of course," she said, and she smiled at him, making it easy. "That's what family's for, you big dummy."

Squall froze for a second, a caterchipillar in headlights, and Ellone opened her mouth to flail something into the awkward space—but then he just took another sip of wine and said, "Thank you," and that was really all they needed to say about that.

Silence passed between them, golden and rich.

"So," Ellone said, pitching her voice to sound serious. "Who do you think is the cutest councilman?"

Squall choked on his wine, looked up—the peal of a girl's laughter; the tug of the sea; rain, falling, alone—and then his mouth flattened into a dry frown and he threw a pillow at her.

_________________________________

Rinoa spun, her skirts flaring out around her knees; her laughter twinkled like the stars above them, bright but shattering in its briefness. She tilted towards him, and pointed a finger upwards, her head tipped playfully; the stars spun and sang, bright-wheeling, cold pricking his skin and wrapping round his wrists like rope. He extended his arms and she took his hands, pulling him forward, and her laugh lit the night: fireworks burst above them, and Rinoa laughed harder, and at her laugh bright starry flower-blossoms bloomed across the sky in lines like a spell-rune. She dropped his hands and threw her hands upwards, and suddenly the bursts of twinkling light were fire, explosions, things in space—remnants of the space station, bursting into metallic flames, and Rinoa laughed as it burned and wrote her name across the sky—

(Rinoa!)

She turned, throwing him a very sultry glance over her shoulder, and then turned back to face the piano; her dress darkened into red, and she flicked one carefully-curled lock of hair over her shoulder before her hands landed on the keys, slender fingers gracing the surfaces, not yet pressing down, simply sliding across the top like the lightest touch along skin, and he could feel it down his spine, her feather-light touch tracing intricate patterns along his shoulderblades. (Rinoa plays, but—) A hand on his knee, and Kiros leaned in, smile just teasing the edge of his lips: "I think that look was for you, soldier..."

He laughed, the chuckle bubbling up warm from his belly (she looks so much like her mother), and signaled to the waiter; "Can— Can I send a drink to Julia, please? Wine, yeah, white..."

(Rinoa? Is this... you?)

She laughed, and sat up; the straps of her dress fell from one shoulder, champagne-pale against her skin; she scrabbled at it with lazy fingers, pulling it back up. Squall leaned forward and tasted her shoulder, first with his lips and then tongue; Rinoa laughed, and pulled the other strap off her shoulder; he trailed kisses from right to left across her back, tasting her wings beneath the skin, buzzing and white and eager. Her hair swept his face, and he gathered it in his hands, piling it atop her head—

—and she removed the pins, laughing, dark curls tumbling down, sharp against the red satin. "Laguna," she said, laughing, and as she shook her head curls bounced cheerfully from her cheeks; "I'm sure it looks awful—"

Shiva hissed laughter, bright and cold, and Squall's eyes flew open like sparks from a fire, the sudden burst of awareness-heat-lust fading as quickly as it had risen. He stared at the ceiling, gasping air shock-cold into his lungs and unaware of —what he had been feeling: surprise? Excitement? Dismay? There was nothing there now, just a vast quiet emptiness: no Rinoa, not even Shiva, just a silence that rose within him and stared back.

_________________________________

The knock on the door was the last thing he wanted to hear; Laguna dropped the stack of folders on his desk with emphasis, and then hissed a curse; he'd just made it obvious that he was in here. No hiding under the desk until they left, then. He swallowed a groan. It had been a long and grueling day, and more importantly Squall had agreed to come out that night—grudgingly, of course, glowering at it but with that smirk in his eye that meant he was enjoying everyone's tentative joking. He wanted to file all of these folders—preferably under "L" for "Less Important Than Beer"—not get caught up in a politically tricky conversation with someone's accounting secretary who felt overlooked and underpaid.

A second knock. He exhaled, gathered all the patience he could find, and opened the door.

Ellone smiled, her eyes crinkling. "Hey, Uncle Laguna. Ready to go?"

His heart lifted at the sight of her, papers and folders forgotten. "Almost, Ellie-Elle. Can you wait a second?"

"Sure." Her smile turned vague as she entered the room, her hands coming to clasp together in front of each other, almost nervously—Laguna froze, and looked closer. She idled along the side of the room, her fingers brushing against various things: a book, translating phrases of old Centran; a picture frame, he and Kiros and Ward in their uniforms; a folder of printed spreadsheets from yesterday's meeting. Her eyes flickered open and closed and his throat tightened, because she looked distant, and he remembered opening the door of Odine's lab and seeing her eyes: old, ancient, multitudes of eons so far away it took her five minutes to recognize his white, terrified face.

She pressed her palm to his file cabinet, the one he'd inherited from the last three Presidents—and straightened, chirping. "Oh, um. Uncle Laguna. I'm going to go to Timber for a few days, I think."

"Oh?" This caught his attention; he glanced up from his sorting. "What's up?"

Her hands twisted in each other like birds caught. "You heard about the latest bombing, right?"

Laguna frowned. He'd been receiving conflicting briefs from three of his secretaries: Galbadia had done it, Timber had done it, an independent group of terrorists was behind it; a bomb had blown up a crowd, a weapon had malfunctioned, there had been a riot. He hadn't had time to make sense of it, with all his attention on Squall. "Yeah, kind of."

"Rinoa's there." Ellone's voice lilted, and Laguna looked up more sharply this time. Her eyes were distant, locked on something he couldn't see—and then she shook her head and smiled. "Squall... well, he didn't ask me to go." Her smile turned meaningful, and Laguna shrugged in sympathy. "But I think he would like someone to be there. I told him I'd go and make sure she's okay."

A thousand things poked his brain at this—were Squall and Rinoa not talking? Were they okay? Was Squall's eternal crankiness due to something other than his loathing of Laguna—hey, am I doing better than I think I am? and yet — Ellone's eyes flickered, and he stepped around from the desk, putting a hand on her elbow. "Elle. Are you alright?"

She blinked up at him, and her smile dimmed. "Yeah." She sighed. "Sorry. It's just..." The words died, and Laguna tasted emptiness on his tongue as he waited, breath caught, a strange paternal fear clutching his chest. "Sometimes, time catches up with me." Her head-shake was slow, her gaze focused mid-air, and Laguna remembered the first time she'd sent him back, weirdly staggering around as an old man he'd later found was Ellone's grandfather. He'd thought it was the ghosts of Winhill, the same way he'd thought Squall, his companions, and his Guardians were faeries; so much of Ellone's power was like that, a fairy-tale's one grain of truth centered in a girl who lived on a boat. Even that sounded like a fairy-tale, Laguna thought, the kind he'd tell his children... except that the daughter of his heart was already the protagonist, and the son he didn't know would correct the fantasy, drawing military fact-lines through all the illustrations.

She sighed, and said, "It's been worse, lately," and Laguna's heart stopped—beat twice, sharp, in his chest, suddenly and strangely reminding him how old he was (not that old!) and the look on his face must have been awful because Ellone laughed, twinkling. "It isn't bad. Please don't worry. It just ...takes some getting used to, some days."

"What can I— can I do anything for you?" He wasn't sure what he could offer—he'd dealt with a Sorceress, yes, learned her ways inside and out and realized in the end that a simple trick would work better than an elaborate plan because Adel was too used to thinking in galaxies, not minutes—but Ellone wasn't a Sorceress; she lived in the grey areas around that kind of magic, and as much as Laguna had traveled and interviewed and seen he'd never met another person who could do what she did. "Anything. Do you need help? I can call in specialists. Make a task force!" Although he didn't even know whether that would help, whether anyone in the world had any idea what to do with Ellone's gifts; what sort of task force would it be, a group of women and men who sat and asked the same questions that rang in Ellone's head every day and every night?

The thought must have occurred to her too, because she tilted her head and grinned. "Come to the bar, Uncle Laguna. Seriously. I'm alright, and the thing that'll help me most right now is a daquiri."

The stack of folders was suddenly so much less important. "Daquiri it is, then! Hyne knows my Elle needs her medicine." She made a face, half-amused and half-embarrassed, and he took her elbow, locking the door behind them.

_________________________________

The tap on his shoulder jerked Squall out of his half-reverie — it was half-thinking and half-exhaustion, really, because his nights had been less than restful lately, with the Bond and his Guardians spitting static and scenes at each other in a way that had him morosely reluctant to go to bed in the first place. He glanced up, and Ellone's playful smile tricked a reply from his own lips before he'd really registered her presence.

She held out the set of orange darts. "Your turn."

"You lost?"

"Oh! No." Ellone shook her head, and the smile turned delightfully evil for a second as she turned to look across the room. "Laguna lost, again."

"Please do not let Squall play," Laguna said, craning his head to look in their direction. "He is the Dart King and we will be here for hours trying to knock him off of his Dart Pedestal so that we can all go home."

Ellone simply smiled more and brandished the darts at Squall again. He thought about refusing — he didn't want to get up and throw bright-orange darts at this neon dartboard, filling the room with electronic bird chirps every time he struck. But he also didn't want to sit here alone with his thoughts and his beer and his Guardians, and the memories of his dreams, red-hot and all too real, hands on his skin— Abruptly he stood up.

"Prepare to be beaten soundly," Laguna said, and there was real satisfaction in his voice. "I hope you like the taste of losing."

"Better than the taste of that beer," Ellone chirped. She was drinking something pink with a flower stuck into it, after having firmly refused every beer bought for her. This meant Kiros had already consumed eight, by Squall's half-hearted count; the tally, earlier, had been helping keep his thoughts occupied.

This— wasn't really enough, Squall thought, as he tossed the first dart; his brain was still flickering back and forth between here and his mind's-eye, between the present and the dreams that might have been the past and might have just been magical static; between this bar and Timber, the other end of this Bond that kept surging magical interference his way. He tossed the second dart with force, angry at his lack of self-control. The third hit the bull's-eye.

"Squall," Laguna pronounced, "I am convinced that you cheat."

He snorted, and took a pull of his beer. "How so?"

Laguna's eyes twinkled, half at the response and half at getting any sort of response. "I have figured it out. Guardian Forces. Ha!" He pointed an unsteady finger at Squall; Kiros, who had admittedly had twice the beer, nevertheless reached up a steadying hand. "Unfair advantage."

Squall raised an eyebrow, because of course his GFs were unJunctioned now — he assumed it was behind his difficulty sleeping — but as he opened his mouth to explain the difference between carrying a GF and Junctioning one, he heard Laguna say: "So give me one, buddy."

The room seemed to pause for a moment, slowing down immensely, and in the extended moment Squall met Laguna's eyes and had enough time to think, why would he—? as Laguna's gaze burned into his own, the look a challenge and a promise and warmth, too, pooling in Squall's belly and—

"Ooh, yes!" Ellone clapped her hands, and handed her blue darts to Laguna. "Go ahead. It'll be fun to watch you lose again."

"Such trash talk. Where did you learn this attitude." Laguna stood up, clumsily, and accepted the darts. "Young lady, someone should wash your mouth out with soap." He fumbled the darts into his left pocket and turned to face Squall. "How do we, uh, do this?"

Squall's face felt hot as he stared for a minute because this, this was wrong, this was a bad idea, and it was also very much frowned upon to give a Guardian Force to a civilian in a non-combat situation, his brain was repeating the regs right now in a strange monotone that buzzed in the background—and an even worse idea to give one to a politician: his mouth was dry and he swallowed against it, his throat sticking in uneasy yet eager anticipation. "Here," he said, grudgingly, damning whatever instinct had him agreeing to this rather than saying no, hell no, fuck no. But eyes were on him, and Ellone's laugh, and Laguna's eyes, warm and pleased and approving— He held up a hand, palm facing Laguna.

Bemused, Laguna reached out, his smile becoming so decidedly and visibly quirked that Squall almost snatched his hand back from the awkward bubble: tightening around them slowly, the air rushing away, until it felt like that moment in space, all his limbs and movements muffled in airless silence. For a minute nothing happened, and Laguna's smile twisted itself upright, amused.

Then Squall sighed, and closed his eyes, and gently tugged at his GFs with what he hoped was a distinct air of apologetic annoyance.

To his surprise, it was Shiva who rose, cold sparking showers of white behind his eyes as she slipped upwards, and he felt the undeniable chill of her laughter down his back like pinpricks as she surged through him and into Laguna. The press of their hands together lit up, suddenly, so cold it burned, the sensation of Laguna's palm against his filling Squall's entire body with a tingling feeling like lightning, building from the base of his spine; Laguna jerked and clasped Squall's hand, and the friction of the movement sent delicious spikes of sensation through Squall. He wrapped his fingers around Laguna's almost instinctively, grasping at the sturdy, heady feeling of it, and Shiva laughed bright-cold charm at them both, oddly pleased.

"Wh— woah." Laguna stumbled back and their grip loosened, broke; Squall felt the — whatever it was — fade into a dull Junctioning headache. He felt suddenly chilled, lonely, and he shook his head because that was stupid and mentally poked at Cerberus a little more angrily than necessary.

This is the stupidest thing I've ever done for a game of darts.

Cerberus grumbled, half sleepy and half indignant, and Squall got a very distinct sense of kid, you're on your own for this shit as he dragged the GF out of the dark depths of his consciousness and fit his Junctions into place. The sensation was heady on top of the alcohol, and he breathed in sharply as Cerberus snapped things here and there: it wasn't battle-ready by any means, it wasn't even worthy of a cadet, and Squall snorted at this deliberate expression of annoyance and opened his eyes.

Laguna looked —breathless, dizzy with something more than the drinking. He looked up at Squall and this look was — strangely solemn, almost apologetic; except it was carrying a distinct air of amusement, and something else besides, heavy in the air. Laguna's pupils were wide, and he looked surprised, his mouth caught in a wide ‘o' — and then he smiled, rueful, and the moment was broken into strangely tangible pieces. "These things were a lot easier to handle when I was in shape. This might end up being an unsuccessful winning strategy."

"I could have told you," Squall murmured, but it was the wrong thing to say; it came out strangely intimate, his face flushing with the words and how the corners of Laguna's mouth quirked up in that way that was totally private, somehow, just the two of them in this bar full of people and space.

Ellone whistled, and somehow that made it —wrong, that she was watching with that light in her eyes, all too pleased, innocent, and Squall hunched his shoulders away from Laguna to break this thing they were sharing; his hands fisted, and the darts bit into his skin, finally shattering this strange, GF-and-Laguna-induced haze.

"Darts." It came out as a word, not a sentence, and Squall bit his tongue—what the hell was his problem? But Laguna visibly shook himself, and straightened, throwing his shoulders back in a way that suddenly made him look younger again, and Squall shivered at the memory: looking into the mirror, squaring his shoulders and admiring the way the uniform—

"Alright, my boy," Laguna said, clapping a hand on Squall's shoulder, "let's play some damn darts."

Squall squeezed his eyes shut and then opened them, because he could focus on darts, rather than this strange wavering feeling that permeated the air like steam, hot and sticky. "Someone," he managed to say, a little less than a croak, "please get me another beer."

_________________________________

The air was sticky-hot, the collar of his uniform chafing uncomfortably (at least I didn't wear that stupid tie) and his feet were sweaty in these boots. He dropped his bag gratefully to the ground (be careful, moron, you might break something) and sighed, trying to exhale some of this heat, the sweltering feeling of being trapped, even his skin unable to breathe.

"Laguna," Kiros hissed (not again?) and he turned, and Kiros grabbed his arm and—stumbling down a hill, stones crinkling—a blur of time, and then before him was a wide-open pool of water, secluded, looking crisp and cool and inviting and he'd already thrown his jacket to the ground and loosened his belt before he heard Kiros laughing, warm and rich as the day.

"What are you waiting for?"

"Admiring the view." Dark eyes sparkled at him, and he would have felt self-conscious except the trickle of sweat down his back was more annoying than anything and damn, there was water right there.

"Where's Ward? It's hot as hell."

Kiros laughed and finally started to unbutton his jacket. "Up flirting with the new captain. I'm sure he's hot too, but she's hotter." The trickle of the small waterfall, and only the sound of the rustling fall of clothing, and Laguna felt peace begin to creep along his skin, an oddly active sense of it. He glanced over at Kiros and then, daring, pulled the tank off over his head, because hell, if it was just the two of them...

Kiros raised an eyebrow, all appreciative, and Laguna felt a hot shiver start from the base of his spine upwards.

"Get in the water, Loire," all silky-smooth like cream, and Laguna chuckled as he waded in: "Who made you the commanding officer?" God, that was nice, perfectly cool but not cold, and he splashed some up into his face, feeling it trickle through his hair and down his back.

The trickle turned cold, suddenly, a breeze from nowhere causing goosebumps and chills and Squall jerked awake, suddenly, shivering with it, warmth in his belly and bone-chilling cold along his spine.

Shiva. The Guardian declined to answer, instead spinning a wide white circle around Squall's brain and tossing up another memory: Laguna came up for air, and Kiros' mouth was there—gasping into it, distracting—demanding, the water trickling down his back—hands, running up his arms—

What the hell. Squall shoved Shiva farther down in his subconscious, wondering whether it would even do anything—he knew it had been a colossal mistake to lend Laguna that GF, because now she wouldn't leave him alone, and whether these were memories of Laguna's she'd consumed and brought back to him or concoctions of her own, he didn't know and didn't care (Quistis would write a paper on this if she knew). For now he tried to tamp down on the static in his brain, breathing in a slow ordered pattern and not-thinking. Tomorrow he'd find some kind of training range or a Cry monster or even a damn open field and summon them both, properly, and maybe that would please them enough to shut them up for a while.

Stupid Guardians. Cerberus grumbled affectionately in his direction and it made him think of Rinoa, the way she'd try to buffer away his bad moods with charm and cutesy cheer, and Shiva threw Laguna at him again—Squall stood up and went over to his console, to go through all of his mail for the fourth time. Maybe he would finally reply to one of Zell's pleas for help.

It wasn't like he was going to sleep, tonight.

_________________________________

Ellone settled in on the train easily, her small frame fitting snug and mostly comfortable into the seat; she curled up, a little, as much as the space would let her, and rested her forehead against the glass of the window, gazing outside. The windowpane was cool and there were wisps of fog rising around the Esthar train station, like ghosts hissing from concrete. She let her eyes go soft, focused on nothing, and simply breathed.

She loved traveling, and she loved it for all the reasons a little girl from a town like Winhill would love it — seeing the world, the big bright city, learning experiences and photographic tableaus — but to Ellone it was more, also: traveling itself hushed the murmurs in her mind, loosening her connection to the interweaving cobwebs of time.

It could have been the motion of traveling itself, the forward velocity pinning her into the frame of reference of now, the movement of so much mass over so much distance making it impossible for her powers to latch on to any past other than her own. It could have been the publicness of travel: she preferred to travel with people, because large crowds were so overwhelming her mind could disconnect, flickering from one light faded memory to the next in a way more like daydreaming than past-seeing. So many people had been on this train, sat in this seat: the memories the fabric and floor had of them all were blurred, a faint wash of color against a calming gray backdrop.

It could have been the simple case of being surrounded by metal, overworked and overhandled to the point where memories slipped from it, like rain off the shield of one of the knights Uncle Laguna had played so long ago. Ellone thought of the White SeeD ship, the soothing feeling of bobbing on the sea, metal-hull and water both too malleable and unalive to hold anything of time other than their own existence. Her dreams on the Whyt often hadn't been pleasant, but they had always been clean, her own, untarnished by connecting unless she had deliberately summoned it up into her brain and her fingers.

Whatever it was, she loved the feeling, because for a few hours as the train rolled across the sea and land and sky she could pretend she was just another girl with bad dreams. It had never been easy to control and had become less so since Time Compression; Ellone thought, darkly, that one could only tangle one's fingers in the fabric-threads of time itself so many times before one started to unravel.

She barely noticed as the train pulled out of the station and started its journey to Timber.

_________________________________

The sheets were cool and crisp on his stomach as those hands, rough and strong and familiar (but that isn't Rinoa), kneaded the tensions from his lower back, knuckle by knuckle pressing into sore muscles and remnant aches. The touch slipped from firm pressure into ghostly brushes, an anticipatory claiming along his skin: down his spine, even lighter on his ass — and then back to the knot right in the middle of his back, forcefully prying it into restfulness.

(What the hell?)

A groan escaped his lips, tempted out not just by the release of that cramp but the slow warm building of another tension below him, Kiros' hands now running up his back, now down his legs, expectant pressure growing between them. He was already half-hard, pressing into the mattress beneath him, not uncomfortably — yet — but enough that his hips hitched as Kiros' fingers teased slowly up the inside of his leg.

"Tease." His voice was half-muffled by the pillow.

Kiros chuckled behind him. "I can go on with the massage, if you want." His voice was low, husky-soft, and Laguna's hips hitched at the sound of it again, wanting. He felt the touch of Kiros' mouth at the base of his spine, and then again in the middle — harder, there, almost a bite; Laguna arched into the mattress. Kiros worked his way up, and Laguna turned his head clumsily — I always feel like such a clown — and caught his lips, dark-smooth. The kiss was the same: smooth, slipping right into the growing urge between them, Kiros stretched across his back, the full heat of him, a harder heat now pressing into Laguna's leg.

(...They aren't really going to...)

"There's something else you could massage," Laguna suggested, and Kiros barked laughter at that, sharp and amused.

"You have the worst pillow talk," he replied, and Laguna heard the sound of the small bottle of oil. "It's ridiculously endearing. Now," and Kiros' hand slipped beneath him, hard slick warmth tightening around his cock, caught between him and the mattress at a delightfully appropriate angle. "Is this what you were thinking?"

(This is a dream (this is the worst dream ever.) and I'm going to wake up soon; it's all right.)

"Well," he managed to choke out, as Kiros' fingers moved, distractingly; "actually, no, it wasn't — but you can continue doing this for quite a while... no — oh — complaints here..."

(...of course not.)

"Something else," Kiros said, and his voice was as warm and wet with it as his fingers —and as ruthless, as they twisted around Laguna's length almost teasingly, and how was he so nimble with his hand caught between Laguna's hips and a hotel mattress, body still pressed hot and hard against Laguna's back?

(That isn't nimble, Rinoa does it all the time when (I don't care, I want to wake up))

"Something else," Kiros mumbled, his hand slipping from Laguna's cock and running, warm-slick, over the curve of his asscheek before teasing, hot and light, against his inner thigh.

(...(fuck.))

One slick finger pressed against him — not in, just teasing, pressure right where he wanted more pressure and ((oh my god)) he moaned, trying to sound encouraging (he sounds like a moomba in heat), unable to focus on anything other than that slow movement — Kiros chuckled, the sound deep and rolling and going directly to the base of his spine, hot heat and Kiros' finger gently pressing inside, oh (oh). (He wanted to breathe, he wanted to breathe but his body wasn't doing it, he wanted away, wake up wakeup—) "Yes," and it was mumbled into the pillow, half in his throat and half a breathy gasp that wasn't a sound (and half him wanting to pant and panic, urging his brain, his body, to respond, to do something, and getting only this languid melting in response, alien and good, no—).

"Well then," Kiros breathed, and Laguna didn't even know why they tried to make conversation; he'd already lost track of it — what conversation? — (oh my god, even in bed he is a moron) — that finger slid out of him, slick and fast and before he could gasp at it (he wanted to gulp in breath) Kiros was pressing inside of him (what? (WHAT?!)) hard and stretching, slow stretching pressure, so slow (not slow enough, no, please, fuck, keep going) — Laguna gasped at it now: it's really tight tonight — (...I've never done this! Oh, god) — the feeling of being filled, slowly, completely, exquisite slickness (this should have echoed in his fingertips and for a breathlessly congruent moment it did—) he clenched his hands in the sheet (— and then it slid away as he wanted to tense and scream and got only—); sensation, sliding, tingling, waves of heat as the initial pressure subsided into nothing but pleasure: hot, thick, threatening to engulf him—

Squall woke up—

—face down in his pillow, his hand wrapped around his own cock, hard: hard, so fucking hard it didn't even— his hand was on autopilot; one stroke, two, and his hips shuddered as it left him in one long slow dirtied hiss, pleasure spiking white behind his eyelids. He emptied himself into the mattress, into the sheets, cool and—

"Fuck!" He sat upright, horrified, throwing himself off the bed in a sudden panic of — of what, he didn't know, because — it was a dream, he realized, slowly, soothingly and emptily, the thought dripping over him tepid-cold, as no one appeared in the bed behind him; no one appeared, taking him from behind and— "Fuck," he whispered again, standing naked in the middle of his guest room in Esthar. Alone.

Half relieved... and half— empty.

Squall shuddered, and buried his face in his palms.