"You were never lost, darling, you've just been sleepwalking your entire life. And now you're waking up."
Hope Estheim waits.
And waits.
And waits.
(It never gets any easier.)
(The child with the carbuncle doll, waiting for the commute bus together with him in the rain: "onii-san, what are you waiting for?")
He presses a hand wondrously to his chest and thinks, how miraculous and lovely it is that I still exist, that I can walk past these dark streets unarmed and uncaring when they are empty. He kisses spring flowers and summer leaves and sleeps fondly under the endless sun, truly.
Yet something's missing in a way more painful than things had been missing in the Ark and he lets his mind drift back there, piece together shield and armor and a young woman's slightly forlorn but utterly determined face. Another halfhearted search on the laptop. Nothing. It's as if she's with Lumina again or somewhere swallowed by chaos, even though deep in his subconscious he knows she's no longer in danger – she's finally free, and she's happy.
(But why is there this dull ache and why is it making him space out, stare just a minute too long at absolutely everything? Why wouldn't he be happy that she is happy?)
He doesn't find their death records, but he doesn't find their birth or marriage records, either; his own existence is a mystery. He's certain that his parents have also been reborn, but did he not only forsake the chance to once again be their son, but also their chance to be together in this life? Bartholomew would hate him.
(Nora would probably just look at him in that same don't-worry-child-I-still-love-you-and-it-will-always-be-okay kind of way, minutes before she fades forever from his existence.)
Sometimes the lights from the streets and the shops on the way home's just a bit too bright for his reading-worn retinas and driving at night bleeds edges of rose on his vision, but he dials up the ambiance radio station and just lets the sound of flowing water proliferate. The digital signals are just as good as him at pretending to be the beautiful and settled kind of alive.
(He is not haunted.)
God rages, charging the two deities of the world searing with energy and cursing her, cursing her for not submitting, cursing her for not being his, cursing her for being human and betraying him; he watches, and tells himself – God is a villain, he's stolen my voice, he's not me, I've spent nearly two centuries fighting against him. Yet Bhunivelze turns inwards with those knowing eyes and he freezes, tastes the bitterness of the lie. He does want. He does fear. And he has been bitter, more than once (more times than he's proud to count).
"You were even less pure before I remolded you," God sneers, and somehow that's harder to deny than nearly everything else he's said.
(All he's ever wanted was to protect her, he repeats, and each time it seems to mean a little less.)
Even the moon hurts him when it catches him off guard: he remembers the ruins of a ringed planet, and all the brave explorers and noble souls who had perished on it. As much as he'll never allow himself to forget that period of his life (their names, their faces, their bravery in the face of a kind of annihilation he couldn't explain) he prays wholeheartedly that they won't remember anything.
(There's still so much to do in this world, things that he's sure will be done better this time round.)
The sign in front of the impeccably decorated café reads:
I have found you in smiles from strangers
In sounds of the rain
and in the deja vu of perfumes.
(He flees into thunder and lightning with an unopened umbrella and two bags of groceries.)
Eventually he finds her, a name nestled between those of Serah Farron and Snow Villiers that seems to be emanating contentedness and belonging, and he knows before he asks that he won't be able to find her, not when she doesn't apparently want to be found. There's almost a sick kind of relief in his bones as he leans back and adds another sugar cube to black coffee:
You'll invite me to your wedding eventually, won't you, Claire-san?
(And the smile doesn't hesitate as it touches his lips, and it's perfectly okay if you don't.)
His heart skips two beats when he sees the postcard, short and direct but beautiful on the flipside, and he turns it over to read it multiple times before putting it down to let himself breathe. There's a place that we can go, he thinks, envisioning the peaceful fields, the blossoms' reflections in the water. They can pass a bottle of wine back and forth until the sweetness drowns out the confusion and the night is empty.
Are you ready for that? God's memories inquire, crystal-polished and mirror-bright with just the implicit threat of their guilt, shame and nightmares, and he stands up wounded and flawed in the mirage of late afternoon, reaching for a pen from the drawer that has been locked away.
There are some things that you just do.
His prose is going to be crude; sincerity matters most here, he guesses, so it'll do.
(Yours Faithfully, Hope.)
He almost startles when he hears the train arrive; I'll pick you up at the station, he has written, but it hasn't felt real before this moment, all of the flying and driving and waiting. He's done it all in some kind of daze, almost believing himself to be in a dream, one that he's a little afraid to wake up from; it's as if he's fourteen again, hurting on Gran Pulse, sleeping quietly with his brand and listening to the stars under the trees.
(I'll ask for help earlier next time, he has said then.)
She's recognized him before he recognized her, and she's in front of him before he knows it, all agility and grace and a gentle carefreeness that he can't put words to. There's a softness in her eyes that destroys all the barriers he has halfhearted planned to put up.
"Hope?" Her voice rings, warm and caring and (he convinces himself) so, so real, so he throws his arms around her, buries his head on her shoulders. There's something about the way that she doesn't force, doesn't disappear, doesn't scorn that just sends his internal dials haywire and memories going off the roof, and just for this moment it overwhelms. When he finally lets go, there's a glint of something new and very concerned in her sky blue eyes.
"Are you alright, Hope?"
He nods vigorously – perhaps just a bit too vigorously – so she offers a hand.
They lay side-by-side on the grass, with the sun just about to fall, and he finally resists the urge to flinch when she reaches to thread her fingers with his. They're turned towards each other, her other hand softly brushing strands of silver hair from his face, and he yearns to just suspend this moment in time, this sweetness and trust and unassuming truth. But then she bumps his forehead back with a little smile that's just a bit sad and his breath catches.
"You don't look that comfortable with this, Hope," she says, and there's a wistfulness in her voice that hurts more than anything, "should I give you a bit more space?"
No, please no, he wants to say, never, this is everything I've ever dreamed of and more, yet he knows it has been those very dreams that has poisoned these moments and caused him to withdraw into himself, so he closes his eyes and goes for an attempt to be honest. "Light… Claire," he begins, staring frankly at her blue eyes and rose-colored hair, waiting for her to correct him.
"Light."
"Light," he tries again, tentative, "I'm sorry that I'm acting like this. I'm… still trying to get over some things that had happened, since I finally got all of my memories back, after Bhunivelze. I don't want my feelings for you to be distorted, or to not acknowledge what I've done –" He thinks he hears her stiffen ever so slightly and suck in a breath, so he hurries on, guiltier than ever. "I'm sorry, I probably should have waited, given myself more time –"
"No," she interrupts, and this time she's squeezing his hand, letting the trust flood into him and chase the darkness away, "It's okay. And I'm glad you feel it's okay to tell me about all of it, too." A small pause. "I have my own demons, too, you know. Some parts of why I didn't seek you out right away. We'll get over them together, you and I."
He presses his head closer to her. "This is embarrassing," he complains softly, but he can already feel a weight starting to depart his chest, allowing him to gasp and breathe again. Which reminds him – it's only fair – to squeeze her hand back. "I'm supposed to be all older and mature now, and look at me, still dependent on you like I always was."
He hears a chuckle in her voice as she responds. "Just so you know, Serah's told me it's starting to sound like the other way now."
"You've got to fill me in on those details."
"You first." It would seem that she'll never cease to be obstinate.
After Aoede, he had considered changing his name; the fact that potentially millions of people remembered the name Hope Estheim and connected his failures to them didn't exactly make him comfortable, and he'd been sure that he only wanted to work as a minor unaffiliated researcher, not bringing his potentially tainted intellect to anything more. He'd submitted an application and mailed it out, but now he wasn't sure.
Grinning, he filled out another form to cancel the previous application, and glanced at the clock. Noting the time, he folded up the piece of paper and poked his head out into the other room.
"Light! It's six thirty in the morning! Rise and shine." She mumbles and makes a few incoherent noises of complaint – he only catches the words 'scientist,' 'no sleep' and 'coffee'. "Your coffee's on the nightstand. You're the one who was fussing about the trip today."
He will mail out the new form. Claire will take care of her amazing bed hair. They will both still have issues – but he has faith that they will be able to love through them.