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He doesn’t quite know what they’ve gotten into, but he dares not say he is scared.
At first, he isn’t sure anything will happen, but then Rinoa says “trust me”, and he does. She tells him she’s done this a couple times before, back when she was sixteen in Timber, in the summer of Seifer. And Squall can’t help but feel a twinge of jealousy when she mentions her ex-lover’s name, even as she assures him that it’s ancient history.
He attempts to quiet his anxiety, takes a couple of deep breaths, in through the nose, out through the mouth. After all he’s been through in his nineteen years, it feels ridiculous to be worried about some tiny little thing with a smiley face printed on it. He tries to assure himself that nothing will go wrong—he is with her, they are in her dad’s backyard, and no one else is around. Rinoa insists this is what being a dumb teenager is all about; doing stupid things for stupid reasons just because you could.
He swallows.
“Just stay close to me,” she says, and the irony is not lost on him. He nods.
The grass is cool beneath them, and the night sky looks like velvet. Ambient hip hop plays softly from a portable speaker that’s connected to her phone, glittering notes against heavier beats, a piano sample from a song he recognizes but cannot name. Rinoa is stretched out next to him, arms overhead, toes pointed below, and from this angle, she looks like an expanse all her own, filling his field of view. Her skin is milk in the moonlight.
“I can’t believe you’ve talked me into this,” he says and reaches up for her hand. Her fingers lace through his as if it were instinct as she brings their arms back down to her side.
“Me either,” she giggles. “Have you done this before?”
“No,” he says.
Squall remembers being sixteen—apathetic, nihilistic. He had craved any sort of escape from Garden, from the dorm that felt like a prison, the whispers of his classmates, and the torment from the one she had once loved. He remembers one reckless night in the training centre, all high on adrenaline, the ribbons of blood and the wounds that turned to scars, all just to figure out whether or not he wanted to die.
Sixteen evolved into a singular goal, to graduate and become a SeeD. But in turn, SeeD was just something he was supposed to do; a cookie-cutter path carved out for him by a system he didn't design. It didn’t fill the void. Nothing did until she came into view.
“Do you think it’s even gonna work?” he asks. “Maybe we should do another, just to be sure?”
“It just takes time,” Rinoa replies cooly. “You’ll know.”
“Okay.”
He turns his gaze back up to the sky and connects constellations together: Pisces, Andromeda, Ursa Minor. There are no shooting stars in the sky tonight, but the moon hangs low and full, like the belly of a woman expecting. The barest hint of a breeze weaves between them, snaking through the threads of his black t-shirt, brushing against his skin. Rinoa shivers slightly and he tightens his grip around her hand.
“Cold?”
“A bit. I’m gonna get a sweater,” she says and stands up. “Do you need anything?”
“I’m ok.”
“Alright, I’ll be back soon.”
He hears her footsteps fade away, the sound of the patio door opening, sandals being kicked off. Her phone is still playing music. This is not a hip hop song; it’s light and airy and easy, romantic vocals breathing along the sound of electronic drums. The notes seem to draw on a little longer, and the beat melds with the bassline as if they are one and the same. He identifies the chords with ease: E minor, B minor, A, repeat indefinitely.
Music is one of the few things in life that he gets . If he listens close, he can hear the beat in his own pulse. The hedges lining the edges of the yard seem to sway in perfect time. He takes four counts to inhale, four counts to exhale.
Another deep breath comes in, and this time it’s filled with sage and lavender, the smell of summer nights. It reminds him of childhood; Matron’s flower beds lining the walk up to the orphanage, so resilient in the face of the harsh Centran heat. He closes his eyes and tries to go back there, back to when he was four, at the beginning of his memory. Back to a time when life wasn’t so complicated, and all he had to worry about was doing his chores and eating all his supper.
Sometimes he finds himself longing for that time, a secret want that he cannot define. He does not quite understand why; it’s not like he remembers being a happy child. Perhaps it is the ability to shirk off his obligations that he craves the most. Because even though Rinoa has shown him what it feels like to be loved, he still can’t find a way to completely lift the burdens that weigh so heavily on his shoulders.
A siren goes off in the distance and he comes crashing back down to earth. He decides to sit up and is suddenly lightheaded, the rush of blood almost dizzying. Tiny specks litter his peripheral vision. His stomach makes a violent flip and for a second, he thinks he might puke. He swallows, hard , pushing the bile back down, and he tries to remember how to breathe, and he wonders if everything felt this tight just a few minutes ago, and he feels himself start to sweat that cold kind of sweat that lets him know something isn’t quite right.
Squall looks up and his vision starts to shake. The stars look like a rabid meteor shower and for a moment he thinks the sky might actually be falling. His next breath is more of a gasp. Everything becomes suddenly overwhelming, euphoria and panic burrowing parallel paths in his brain. His jaw tightens and his teeth clench together. He does not know what to make of this self-inflicted lack of control.
It takes two more breaths and sixteen counts before the world settles back into focus, but it is not quite the same as it was before. Everything feels different, feels like more , somehow. He didn’t know what to expect coming into this, and he’s still not quite sure. It almost feels like calling upon a guardian, but nothing is there. He wonders where Rinoa is, and if she is also on this elevator ride to nowhere.
His stomach makes another protest that he manages to just barely keep down. He tries to remember his SeeD training to help calm himself, but everything is a jumble in his head. He debates calling out for Rinoa. She has been gone for what feels like forever, and he doesn’t know if he should be worried or not. He reminds himself that she has done this before; she knows what it’s supposed to feel like.
It takes twenty-five minutes, or maybe an hour, or maybe thirty seconds for her to finally return, baggy sweater on with blankets and water in tow, and Squall is almost certain that he’s never felt this grateful for anyone’s arrival in his whole life.
“How are you feeling?” she asks, a lopsided grin gracing her lips.
His eyes look to her, but he can’t quite keep his focus. “I don’t know.”
“It’s a lot at first,” she says softly. “Don’t worry.”
He tries not to, but it’s all just so fucking much. And it’s nothing like he expected—not like getting stoned on the beach with Irvine, not like being drunk, not like adrenaline, not like…
“Here, have some water.” She hands him a bottle and he shakily accepts.
He struggles at first; his jaw feels tight and it’s hard to swallow. He manages to get a bit down and hands the water back to Rinoa, who seems virtually unfazed. She sets the bottle on the grass and then gets up to spread one of the blankets out for them to sit on. He is not used to this, being taken care of by someone else—it feels like a far away memory, and he worries that it is all fleeting.
Rinoa sprawls out and motions for him to join her. His limbs are awkward, tense and yet not, as he half-crawls onto the plush blanket with all the grace of a toddler, and he notes the difference in texture as his hands roam from the grass to quilted cotton. He collapses beside her, all breath, darting eyes, and he wonders why he has agreed to this. What could she possibly enjoy about being in such a state, all its discomfort and the complete lack of ability to do anything about it?
But then she moves a little closer, and suddenly he can feel her heartbeat melting into his skin, and she is so warm, and her hair smells like strawberry shampoo, and everything evaporates into a pleasant nothingness. He wraps his clumsy arms around her, and he is part of the swell in her lungs, her breath draping lazily around his neck with each exhale. His skin prickles as her fingertips move up and down his collarbone, airy and light. He is pretty sure her touch has never felt quite like this before.
Nothing has felt quite like this before.
His eyes settle on nothing, sight only scramble, but it doesn’t matter. The music fills the air around them, the echo of guitar and the ghost of a voice. Drums, and then the easing of piano. He likes it. Each note comes through like a secret, like it was all written just for him, just for this exact moment.
“This is good,” he whispers against a smile.
“Huh?” Rinoa looks over to him, uncertain. He can tell she is not wholly herself, her words bulky on her tongue, not a slur, but not quite normal either.
“This song,” he says. “It’s good.”
She laughs softly, “Everything is good right now.”
He kisses her then, and for the briefest of moments, he feels himself relax. She kisses him back, and he feels her hand reach up to rest on his cheek, rough from two days without a shave. It feels foreign and familiar all at once. She pulls away and he looks into her eyes and sees only truth, uninhibited, unafraid. He wonders if she sees the same in his. This is the most honest he has ever felt.
A blur. He lies back down and runs his hands through his hair, remembering in the moment how Matron used to do that when he was small. He lets that same smell of sage tow his thoughts toward his childhood once more, and he can almost hear the sound of kids laughing, and the ocean against the low tide sand. For so long, his childhood was a world away, and yet now...
When he was little, his world was his sister, the only family he’d ever known. And that world felt safe and small as long as she was around. She would tell him about his parents; stories of how they fell in love, stories of how Laguna made her laugh, stories of how Raine was always cooking wonderful, warm things. She would teach him how to read and write, because his father always loved to read and write, and she knew that meant he’d be good at it, too. And she would keep him safe, making sure bullies like Seifer stayed at bay, and that there were never any monsters under his bed before he went to sleep.
“Squall…?” Rinoa’s voice brings him back to the present, almost startling.
“Hmm?” His voice sounds half like someone else’s.
“Are you still here?”
His mind is wiped to blank canvas, landing on go-back-to-start, and he can’t remember what he was thinking about. He feels himself step back into the elevator to nowhere, up ten more floors and infinity to go. The stars keep rolling and the hedges look like women clawing at the fenceline, trying to escape. He digs his fingers into the grass, clutching blades as he wonders how high he could possibly get.
“Squall?”
“This is...a lot.”
She gets up and reaches out her hand. “Let’s walk.”
He lets her pull him up, and for a moment, he wonders if he still knows how. He stumbles slightly as he learns to balance on a new plane. It takes a couple deep breaths to recalibrate, and he feels himself hanging onto her exactly the way she hung onto him so many times before. His eyes try to stare down at his feet, but he can’t muster up the ability to keep his vision clear. Everything is frantic, untamable.
“Don’t overthink it,” she tells him. “You’re okay. Everything’s okay.”
“I’m okay,” he repeats.
They start to trace a path along the perimeter of the yard, past the clawing women, down to towering oaks and broad limbs, back up toward the house, the lights and the excess, and back around again. He starts to feel himself settle back into himself just a little bit, growing more accustomed to this heightened world with each step. Rinoa is his anchor. He knows she will not let him float away.
“I love you,” he hears himself blurt out.
“I love you, too,” she says back, without hesitation, and it feels like the first time she said it to him all over again. His skin rises in goosebumps and explodes with warmth. He squeezes her hand and feels hers respond in turn.
They continue their laps around the yard, and Squall feels his inhibitions dissolve away, instead replaced with childlike curiosity. He has never thought himself to be so open before, but it feels natural in this state, and he wonders if she feels the same. He dares a glance over to her, and notes her hooded eyes and that same lopsided grin painting her features. Does he also look this way? Does he even care? Did Seifer react the same way the first time she did this with him?
“No,” he says before he can stop himself.
“ ‘No’ what?” Rinoa asks.
“I…” He halts in place. He wants to think of something else to say, anything , but he has only truth spilling from his lips. “I was just...wondering what this would have been like with Seifer.”
“Oh, Squall.” His name sounds ethereal. She pauses for a moment, before saying, “It was...different, you know? Fun, for sure...but he was not you.”
He lets out a half-laugh. “I can’t tell if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.”
Rinoa shakes her head. “I didn’t know I was waiting for you until I met you. Fun happens with anyone. This...this is something more than that. You’re more than that.”
He smiles. “Thank you.”
She starts their pace forward once more, this time heading back towards the blanket and the speaker, the music getting bolder as they draw nearer. She plops herself down, reaching out in every direction, X-marks-the-spot, her hair a silken mess strewn out across the fabric and threading through grass. He sits down next to her and grabs the bottle of water, drinking cautiously as to not upset his stomach once more.
Another song comes on—this one he knows —and he feels himself sway ever-so-slightly in time, like a metronome. Synth weaves in with air, bass building the foundation upon which lighter notes land. He thinks he can see the wavelengths of sound, in the trees, in the grass, up against the velvet and curving along expectant moon. The lyrics spill into the atmosphere, and he starts to recall from memory.
“‘ There’s no place I’d rather be… ’”
He hears Rinoa rustle beside him. “Did you…,” she starts. “Did you just sing that?”
He laughs, “I guess I did.”
“I didn’t know you could sing.” He looks over to see her beaming. She jokes, “You’re supposed to be bland and predictable. How did you manage to hide that one from me?”
He shrugs. “There’s a lot you still don’t know about me.”
She turns in a vain attempt to meet his gaze. “Care to share any more?”
“What do you want to know?”
Rinoa tries to appear thoughtful, which she only half-achieves in her stupor. He pushes an errant strand of hair away from her face, feels the soft skin beneath his fingertips. She concentrates for a moment, eyes closing with his touch. “When I’m put on the spot, it’s hard to think of a specific thing to ask.” She sounds distant. “It’s hard to think of anything when I’m like this.”
“Tell me about it. I am...,” he breathes. “...I don’t know what I am, actually. This is just so fucking insane.”
She giggles and he swears the stars brighten. “Me either. But on nights like these,” she drifts off, her voice falling quiet before continuing, “maybe not knowing what you are is okay.”
His heart drops.
They never talk about her power.
To acknowledge it is to give it life.
Rinoa is not ready to be a sorceress. Squall doesn’t know if she’ll ever be ready. So long as their secret is safe, he is hopeful that she will be safe, too, but the fear lies only a metre below the surface at most, ready to rise at a moment’s notice—a shark’s fin against calm water.
No more than a handful of people know the full extent of what happened two summers ago, and if he has anything to say about it, no one else ever will. The official record is littered with vague explanations and falsehoods, the truth sealed and signed away by the Headmaster, his father, and himself.
“Let’s not think about that,” she cuts through the pause. “I can’t...I can’t go there. Not now.”
“Definitely not now,” he agrees, giving a small nod, eager to change the subject. “How about this...another thing you might not know about me is that I like to write.”
“Oh?” she asks. Her voice is laced with airy relief as her focus shifts.
“Yeah,” he says. “After Selphie said we should start keeping journals back in Trabia. I started then. I’m glad I did. It’s been nice to keep those memories close.”
Rinoa sits up then to meet his eye level. “And you’re probably a natural.”
“Ha. I dunno about that.”
She gives him a small nudge. “Do you think you have anything in common with him ?”
Squall pushes a few strands of hair away from his own face. “Honestly…” He pauses to check that he is still sitting on the ground. The high comes in like rising tide, rolling, the consuming ebb and flow, waves crashing on the shore. It is impossible to keep at bay; he can’t shut it out, can’t push it down. He stammers, “I, um…”
“You alright?” she asks, and her voice sounds genuine, a preserver to draw him from the undertow. He grasps onto it.
“Yeah, I’m just…” He takes a slow, deep breath to reset himself. “What was the question…?”
“Do you have anything in common with Laguna?”
“Right.” He shrugs, letting himself slump into his shoulders slightly, before continuing, “I mean, I think so. I think I probably share a lot in common with him, actually. I just don’t wanna believe it sometimes.”
“Like what?”
Squall thinks back to when Laguna first told him. He had called for Squall to come to the Presidential Palace alone, going so far as to book a private flight from Balamb to Esthar. And Squall was pretty sure then he knew what was to come. Kiros and Ward had been pane-glass transparent, dropping not-so-subtle hints along the way. He remembered how he had tried to steel himself for the moment, but when the words finally landed, truth naked before him, he could not handle it. Then it was the hurt and the tears, his raspy voice yelling ‘why didn’t you come get me when you had the chance’ at the man before him, emotions of a boy so much more raw and real than he had ever imagined.
“Squall…?” Rinoa’s voice brings him back to the present, almost startling.
“Sorry,” he manages as he settles back into his body. “I… It’s hard, you know? Meeting your father at seventeen is...hard. But weird too. He’s obviously into writing. He’s got a bit of musical talent. But then other people have pointed out things like, how we take our coffee the same way, or how we both make a lot of the same facial expressions.”
“Hmm.” She rests her head into his lap and directs her scattered gaze to his. “Well I can tell you, it’s probably better to gain a dad late than lose a dad early.”
“Maybe.”
“Whatever.” She laughs then, warm and easy, and it sounds like comfort.
Squall doesn’t tell her how he once practiced the name, when he wrote Squall Loire in his journal one night, or how he said it into the mirror, trying it on to see if it fit. But it felt like a suit that was tailored just a bit too tight; something that he might fit into later, but not right now. He knows his father has been trying. He started receiving birthday cards, holiday cards, phone calls just to see how he was doing, attention that he was not used to. At first, he thought it annoying, but then he started to grow accustomed to it, the concept of family finally becoming real, tangible.
One day, he might try on the word dad , but not right now.
Squall lies down, head clearing the blanket and weighing half into the grass. The sky feels overwhelming, a yawning expanse ready to consume the infinitesimal, and he shrinks into his insignificance. Fathers and sons, lovers and rivals, hopes and fears, everything he knows in this world counts for only a single note on an endless scale. How can time seem so endless in this state and yet his whole life be no more than a blip against the universe?
Perhaps, it does not matter. He tries not to dwell on it. Rinoa knows all too well of his worries, how he often complains about not knowing what to do with himself in a post-SeeD world, how he worries about the future. This high feels both terrifying and wonderful at once, all forced perspective, imposing a manifestation of the present he would not allow himself to experience before now.
Twitching moon. The birth of a new swell, and he is adrift. The empty eyes of a god he doesn’t believe in, darting back and forth. Elevator on the rise, no plateau.
He feels her curl in next to him once more, warm.
One-thousandth floor.
Her smile against his neck.
One-thousand and one.
One-thousand and two.