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Gefälschte – Squall/Laguna – Chocobo Down – NC-17
castiel
sumthinlikhuman wrote in ff_exchange
Title: Gefälschte
For: Chocobo Down
Medium: Fic
Request(s): Squall and Laguna. Gen or Slash, any rating.
Fandom(s): FFVIII
Characters/Pairings: Squall/Laguna, hints of Kiros/Laguna and Laguna/Raine
Rating/Warnings: rated NWS (ie, NC-17) for strong language, incest and homosexuality in general
Feedback: GIVE IT TO ME HARD.
Spoilers: none.
Word Count: 1658
Summary: He looks like her. I shouldn’t be thinking like this.


Notes: Inspired by the fact that I’ve kinda fallen out of the Final Fantasy fandom in general, and I might as well return to my roots, ya know? Not that Squguna is my roots, but you know what I mean.

Post-game, because they don’t really have time for something like this in game. I’ve never written this pairing before, so excuse my rampant, uh, bad.


He looks like her. It’s in the slope of his nose and the curvature of his neck, and the way he cradles his chin in the palm of his hand while he stares at the wine in the glass suspended perilously from his fingers. His skin is pale, flushed on his high cheekbones (hers); his eyes are mulish and introverted (like she was).

I shouldn’t be thinking like this.

“It’s unusual for you to come calling. Something on your mind?”

He doesn’t normally talk when he comes. The few times he has, I’ve half wondered if he were about to do something suicidal; half the time, he is. I remember being his age, being that gung-ho and hellbent on making some sort of difference—we’re different though, because he actually can. He can take the world around him and shape it into what he wants it to become. With a few words (and a few men) he can make the world better. And what can I do? I can sit in an office and sign papers and try to keep from falling asleep under the drone of men old enough to be my grandfather.

And, fancy that, he doesn’t say anything. He sits there with his wine on my couch and I think of all the times I’d lounged there like that, and Kiros had leaned against the counter or the wall and talked about how much we’ve changed. I don’t want to be that man, to speak of everything that’s different now. What’s changed? She’s gone, and here’s this man—this child, because how can I call him a man when he’s barely twenty? Times have changed; my homeland is free and the place I grew up is free, and the place I lived for so long and loved it dead and buried in the past. Here’s this kid, who brought this change; I could speak of the past, and what would it mean to him, from a time of flux and flow?

His throat is long and white and flexes as he drinks his wine all in one go. His lips are rosy. A dribble of liquid goes down the corner of his mouth. I want to lick it up—those are her bow lips and that is her fair complexion, and I could see the freckles on his nose, if I could just sit on the couch and stop thinking like this. Stop wishing I’d lost him and not her.

“Kiros’s out tonight?”

When he does talk, he rarely asks about Kiros. I’ve told him stories. I know he knows. I wonder if he thinks differently. I wonder if he’s disgusted when he leaves, if he looks at Kiros with contempt; I remember how Raine had, those first weeks-months-years before she knew that there wasn’t going to be anything different between any of us.

“He’s in Trabia. Trade agreement.”

He looks like he’s about to ask, ‘Shouldn’t that be you?’, but I have to run a country or something, and I suppose he understands delegation. He looks like he’s about to say, ‘I wonder if he’ll see my friend,’ but just sits there and stares at his empty wine glass.

His fingers are chilly under mine when I take the glass and refill it. I sit on the couch when I return with the wine. He continues to slouch. I think of telling him, ‘You’d be taller than me, if you’d just sit and stand up straight,’ but it’s too late for me to be a father. I’m not even sure if I qualify as a friend. His hands shake, fingers curl around the cup of the glass. He stares at the dark liquid, and licks a bead of it from the edge of the lip.

I bite my lip, and he sees.

Normally, he doesn’t come to talk. But I always hope that this will be the time that he does, the time when all he wants to do is sit and watch a movie or listen to music and ask me about life in the army or about his mother. I wish he was a child, and resent my own behavior for it. Kiros would never put up with this; he’d come in and make us talk and smile when we finally parted whys out of sheer exasperation of each other. ‘You’re too much alike,’ he’d say, and be lying. Because I’m nothing like this kid; this kid is like she was, and nothing like me, except that he’s a stubborn ass and I’ve been told I am too for too long to forget that maybe it is the truth.

I hope he wants to talk, and hope against hope that maybe he’ll just get drunk and pass out. Either one is safer than this. Either one would be a saving grace.

But he knows his limits, and two glasses of Shiraz is enough to get him pleasantly dislocated from his reservations and crawling across the couch at me with fire dancing in his eyes.

---

The first time it happened was shortly after that Almasy kid kicked the bucket. Squall showed up on Esthar’s doorstep, and actually said something about how he had every right to get into the country because he’s the goddamn President’s son.

He drank two glasses of wine, and snuck off to the guest bedroom we’d given him for his stay when he was done. Kiros stayed half the night. I thought it was Kiros, back for whatever reason, and barely even woke up when the bed shifted and creaked and somebody warm and comfortable climbed under the sheets with me.

He just laid there a while, his breath all soft and ragged, and then he was very close and very hot and his breath was very loud.

I dumped him in the hall and told him I’d call security on his ass the next time he tried something like that.

---

Six months later, he threatened to have me shot if he saw me near Balamb Garden or if he heard reports of me speaking to any SeeD officer I hadn’t officially commissioned. I invited him back to Esthar, and—in private communique—told him I’d keep the Shiraz on ice.

---

Kiros told me he’d kill me himself if he caught wind of anything untoward happening between us.

‘He’s the Garden Commander,’ he told me, ‘And you’re the president.’

‘Is that all?’, I asked.

He slapped me. ‘He’s your son,’ was exactly what I needed to hear, but some part of me still didn’t care. My son? I barely knew he existed after I’d gotten the letter from Winhill. I was no father, and he was no son. What were we?

---

The Shiraz was on ice, every time, and he’d lick that bead of condensation or that drop of wine from the lip of the glass, and I’d want to fuck him.

He never let me.

‘You’re an old man now,’ he’d say and his breath would be all ragged and hurried and his face wouldn’t be pale like hers any more. He’d be flushed and harried looking, and I’d remember looking across the room in the soldier’s barracks and seeing myself in the mirror. In his eyes, in his gaping mouth and flitting tongue, I could see myself.

---

“What do you want?”

He stares at me, over his shoulder and under his lashes, and doesn’t say anything. He looks frail, naked and under the moonlight. There are scares all over his shoulders, and I know they’re on his arms and legs too, where I can’t see them now or when we’re fucking. I can taste them on my tongue, feel them under my fingertips. I remember scars that aren’t my own, and he knows mine even if he can’t even admit to half of his.

“Why do this?”

He swallows and stares at his hands. One rises slowly, and a finger slips between his teeth. He gnaws at the cuticle until I pull his hand away from his mouth and wonder why I’m a better jealous idiot than I am a concerned father.

Sick bastard. I’m a better pervert than I am anything else. I drop his hand and just stare at the sheets. The room still smells of sex. The air is stuffy and disgusting. He stares at his clothes, piled around the room carelessly, tangled with mine. He doesn’t look at me, and I wonder if he even knows what he’s doing or why he’s doing or what he’s doing to me.

“Get out.”

“Are you going to call security?” He’s asked it before. I’ve always lied. I’m tired and angry now; I snap and shove him off the bed and wonder what modesty I’m trying to save by keeping the sheet around my waist.

“If it’d get it into your stupid head that this isn’t a good thing, yeah!”

“And what’re you going to tell them when they show up?” His voice never rises. He never looks at me.

I throw a pack of cigarettes at him, because it’s all I’ve got to throw at him. He bats it aside and grabs his pants.

He’s nothing like her.

---

“What do you want?”

He hasn’t slept in days, but the fire is there. He isn’t drunk and he isn’t angry and he isn’t anything, except for that blank, tired face and those fiery, sleepy eyes.

“Why do this?”

“Are you going to call security?”

I let him in. There’s no Shiraz to put on ice. Kiros threw it all out and told all the staff that I wasn’t allowed the order it any more. He doesn’t sit, just slouches at the door and looks so tired and little and young.

I give him coffee instead.

His lips are cold and thin and chapped. He doesn’t know what to do with them. I tilt his head and right the kiss.

He’s just like her.

  • 1
Oh. Ooohhhhhhhhhhh. <3

This is very bitter Laguna, and I love it! Fantastic job.

There are not many stories of bitter Laguna, and I think there should be more. Life has kinda screwed him over, after all. And plus, it's always the people who are smiling all the time who have the worst problems.

AND SQUALL HAD TO GET HIS EMO FROM SOMEWHERE

eeeeeeeeeeee! That was wonderful, thank you so much. Such a lovely conflicted Laguna and the whole thing sharp edges all over that somehow keep fitting together. Just wonderful.

Laguna is the easiest character in FF8 for me to write--and characters like him in other fandoms. I think this is because he is just like me actually quite crazy!

I take it were you the one who came up with this prompt?

Recced, with much love! I hope you are okay with how I described this story — it's so harsh and broken, which is so how I want it. I see the darkness here as good and effective — well-done wrongness is rare and I love it here ♥

AHAHA Th-thank you so much :'D I can't remember the last time I got rec'd for anything, this is really surprising and awesome and confusing and wonderful. I'm glad you like it, aaaah.

  • 1
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