[FFXIII-2] Anonymous (Part 3 out of 4 ) 11128 words

[shamera]

Title: Anonymous
Fandom: Final Fantasy XIII-2
Character/Pairing(s): ...Hope and IT'S A SECRET
Rating: PG
Warning: Wordy. I just rewrote Hope's life, part the third.
Summary: Hope's got a secret admirer who only leaves presents on Valentine's Day.




He kept the ring.

For study. Hope knew, of course, that the resources of the Academy wasn’t meant to be spent on personal trivialities (despite how his co-workers encouraged him to use their equipment to find out more about this secret Valentine, and even volunteered their own off-time to help him in his search — even his father had left non-subtle hints about his willingness to hire a top-notch investigator if Hope was unwilling to expend his own time and the efforts of the Academy). This meant he had to search for clues on his own off-time.

When he managed to get a few minutes each day. If he did, actually. Hope usually forgot about the ring by the time he could catch a few more hours of sleep, or spend a day catching up on paperwork.

It had absolutely nothing to do with how fascinated he was by the reflective golden shine twisted into elaborate knots and tinged with complex geometrical shapes (it looked like some sort of computer chip, really, and ensured he handled it with extra care), or the inlay of crystal dust. He had a vague suspicion that he almost wanted to test out, because he had never seen material like this before, but Hope was far too afraid that his theory would, or wouldn’t, pan out.

A promise we’ll meet again.

It didn’t help that he had met a good amount of people in the past year, especially thanks to his job.

These theories, though, veered far from... just the normal people he had met for his job. Thanks to his recent acceptance of paradoxes and alternate timelines... it could be anyone.

But Hope had a vague suspicion...

Nothing concrete.

Still, it was at his father’s urging that Hope finally gave in and agreed that perhaps (just maybe!) he was curious about knowing who had been sent the gifts. He had his doubts about it being the same person, especially since it would soon be twenty years if that was the case (and who gave anonymous Valentine’s gifts for twenty years without revealing themselves?), and just how old would the sender be to have sent the gifts for twenty years?

“Finally,” Bartholomew intoned, as if Hope hadn’t been interested in knowing at all the past twenty years. His father looked more amused than anything else at Hope’s reluctant agreement. “Do you understand how hard it was to not actually look for this person?”

“Why would you want to look?” Hope was genuinely surprised. It was his mystery, not his father’s, after all.

“Your mom debated hiring someone to find that person for a while, you know.” Bartholomew admitted, his voice gentle and nostalgic in the way it always was when he spoke of his wife. “She couldn’t bear the idea of you being hurt, or that someone might be stalking you.”

Of course it came to that. Hope felt his face warm, remembering how that word had been tossed around before when he was a child. He cupped his hands around the mug of coffee and ducked his head, hoping that no one in the small cafe was looking in their direction. Due to the both of them being as busy as they were, their arrangement to have breakfast several times a week became a quick meeting in a coffee shop, Bartholomew looking on disapprovingly as Hope waved away the breakfast items for nothing more than a mug of black coffee (lately with an extra shot or two of espresso).

"She never said anything about it." That's what he remembered: his mother being just as excited as he was over the gifts. Bit then, he had never thought further into it. Maybe she had been a little worried, or maybe he was glossing over his own memories. He did remember several years where he had neglected to inform her of the presents: perhaps it had been a sort of intuition on his part, of him latching on to his mother’s unease somehow.

His father waved it off. "She didn't want to worry you."

It put everything in a new perspective. Suddenly, Hope wondered what else he had missed. What else he had never caught on to because he had been so engrossed in his own problems back then (and subsequently, what he wasn’t catching on to now since he might have been... a bit engrossed with his projects at work)?

And suddenly, he wondered if he should actively seek the gifter. If the person had been waiting for that, and was disappointed year after year due to Hope’s lack of curiosity from that matter or tame obedience to the orders of not looking for said person. It would have been a misunderstanding, since Hope had always been curious — but had never sought the person out due to preconceptions on how the gifter would reveal themselves when they so choose. Maybe they were both waiting on something.

He thought back to the ring. It was rather ridiculous, wasn’t it? It fascinated him because of the mystery it represented, and yet who else could say the same thing? The sender knew him well enough to know what would keep his attention, enough for him to keep a ring from a person he had never met (or at least didn’t know he met). It was crazy. It should be crazy.

“I always thought the person would just come forward.” Hope admitted to his father, feeling sheepish and young. That was what all the anonymous gifters did while he had been in school. Anonymous gifts and notes never stayed anonymous for long; several days at the most. (Not unless the gift was a bad one, and Hope didn’t think badly of any of his gifts.) His... his was going on twenty years. “I assumed the person would understand that I wanted to know.”

Bartholomew’s eyes flickered to the yellow kerchief wrapped around his son’s wrist, voice tinged with amusement. “Indeed. Should we share suspicions are to whom it might be, or will you keep that — ahh. So you do have suspicions.”

There were times when Hope cursed his pale skin, and it’s propensity to show the slightest of embarrassments with a deep red. It didn’t help that he hadn’t managed to keep many secrets from his father, if at all. “...I may have theories.”

“You would know best.” Bartholomew agreed. “Since you’re the only one who meets with the people you do — unless you count Miss Zaidelle. It’s a shame.”

It had been a running disappointment for his father, Hope knew, that he had never been interested in Alyssa. But Bartholomew had never blamed Hope for that, nor confronted him about it in more than the random comment inquiring about whether there was anyone of... significance in his life yet.

The answer was always no. Until the future could be insured, it would be hard for Hope to concentrate on anything else. Maybe that was why he hadn’t quite mustered the right amount of curiosity to find out about his anonymous gifter in the past several years. Even now, he didn’t feel like he should take that much attention away from his projects.

“If she has theories about the matter, she hasn’t brought it up to me.” She had tried; but Hope didn’t feel comfortable talking about it with her. He didn’t feel comfortable talking about it with anyone, really. And as much as Alyssa was normally overly enthusiastic, she knew when to back off from subjects. After all, she had subjects of her own that she never wanted brought up.

His father sighed and set down his utensils. “Hope. I think it’s time we found out who this person is. You can’t tell me that you’re not considering this courtship seriously. It’s... unorthodox, I’ll admit, but it’s certainly caught your attention. And it started long before the events of the Fall, so it has nothing to do with that.”

Hope felt his face heat up uncomfortably. "What makes you say I'm considering it?"

Bartholomew gave him a pointed look. "Haven’t you kept the gift?"

It was pointless to ask him which one, as Hope had kept all of them (with the exception of the perishables), and it was easy enough to surmise the point: the latest of the gifts, with the most meaning. Of course his father meant the ring, but Hope had a good reason to keep that even without sentimental, or 'romantic', value.

"Of course." The was no real need to justify that decision. Anything else would have been foolish.

Bartholomew smiled. "Good. I worry enough about you to add whether there will be someone in your future."

"Dad..."

"I'm getting old, you know. When I told you that years ago, I don't just mean my retirement." Bartholomew reached to take off his glasses in order to clean it, the frame having left light marks on the side of his face that emphasized the grey patches in his hair. Hope fidgeted, never knowing what to do with himself when his father spoke that way. He could sit through Academy meetings well enough, but... As if on cue, Bartholomew looked up and smiled at his son in reassurance. "I'm proud of the man you've become, Hope. I know your mother would have been as well, and it doesn't matter what you ended up doing. But you've done amazing things, and I know that what Nora would have wanted more than accomplishments is to see you happy. That's what she wanted most in the world for you."

While not as fresh, the wound caused by the subject still felt sore, and Hope shifted uncomfortably. He didn’t want to talk about what-if, and what his mom would have wanted. Wasn’t it enough that he had given up the plan to save her, even if the means was tantalizingly close now?

“You’re not that old, dad.”

“Humor me.” Bartholomew’s tone was light; could have been mistaken for a joke if not for the thin layer of steel in his voice that made Hope sit up to pay attention. It was the same tone that Hope used to dread hearing as a child, mostly because it made him feel guilty without knowing why. Now, though, he understood that it was just the tone his father took when he was serious about a subject.

“I...” Hope faltered. “I’ve met plenty of people in the past year. But if you count the last twenty years..."

Logically, it meant that the gifter would, potentially, be plenty older than him. It meant that the person would be someone who used to live in Palumpolum or have at least visited the city, added the the fact that Hope would have never met the person until the past year. That would limit the amount of people, but...

The studies of the past decade threw logic out the window quite neatly.

He took a drink of his coffee, savoring the warmth and bitterness on his tongue. It was a welcome taste, an acquired one after countless nights of adding far too much sugar to the coffee, and then eventually needing the caffeine too much to get to the sugar. Such, he thought, was the way of coffee. Readily available to those in need of sleepless nights, whether it was because of deadlines or because of nightmares. Both had been valid reasons for his burgeoning addiction to the substance.

"But then again," he said, "they could be lying."

Bartholomew’s voice was deceptively calm. “Does this mean I’ve lived long enough to see you engaged?”

“It’s not an engagement ring.”

His father chuckled, unmindful of the annoyed whining tone in Hope’s voice, expressed rarer and rarer as the years went on. “I think it’s high time I became a grandfather, don’t you?”

Hope didn’t dignify that with a response (or rather, he was too busy attempting to hide his face behind his hands in the most dignified manner possible and ignore his father’s amusement).

Honestly. He kept the last gift to study. Hope wasn’t impulsive enough to get engaged to a person he didn’t quite know, even if it would be someone who had been in his life for twenty years now. It would be unwise, and rude, to toss the ring.

The endless teasing might have been getting a little bit on his nerves.

Bartholomew just continued to chuckle at Hope’s mortified expression, letting the subject drop for the time being.


—


Thoughts of hunting down the anonymous gifter was pushed aside quickly enough when Alyssa proposed the idea of building Augusta Tower. What came next was an intense year of meetings and proposals; counter-proposals and funding and constant reassurances to disgruntled board members regarding the safety of the project to mankind.

It was chafing and felt counter-productive to everything Hope had been doing so far, but there was little else to follow up on. Augusta Tower was a valid plan, and a good one despite his own misgivings. So long as the project was constantly monitored and controlled, the fal’Cie that they intended to build would be nothing like original fal’Cie. All they needed was the power and magic provided to keep Cocoon afloat, and it would only be the first of many projects that they would put into motion the next five hundred years.

It was best, after all, to have more back-ups than necessary when it came to something like this.

And for the back-ups to be initiated, they would have to succeed in the construction of Augusta Tower: all plans for the survival of Cocoon and Gran Pulse were to be stored in its computer systems… not only the plans for an artificial fal’Cie, but buffering nets and any other ideas that the Academy scientists could draw out and submit to the processing cores. The artificial intelligence they were developing would store the data and even contribute its own ideas once it was finished.

From there it would be a sure method of ensuring both worlds’ survival in five hundred years.

And, Hope often thought to himself, the artificial fal’Cie project could be scrapped at any time should a better idea come into fruition. All they really needed was the artificial intelligence.

At night, he continued dreaming about timelines that never happened, fleeting glimpses of what might have been or what should have been. He was never certain. He was never certain of what occurred, either. Sometimes his dreams took on a darker tone, of pain and death.

All he remembered were the emotions, and even then it was for mere seconds after he woke.

He was twenty five and uncertain of his own existence or place in the world.

Or perhaps that wasn’t the correct phrasing for what he felt. He knew what he was doing, or was attempting to do, and understood implicitly that it was where he belonged — working in the background, in the foreground, while his friends were out in the real battle. But the thing was, he wasn’t always sure of reality when he woke up. He didn’t always know what he had already done, or what he was going to do.

It didn’t take much deduction to understand that the timelines were starting to falter, and that perhaps he was feeling the effects of it, being indirectly related to happenings.

“What if… what if what we’re doing now has no bearing on the future?” Hope once asked Alyssa after having felt the confusion of deja vu whilst helping program an experimental program that he really shouldn’t know how to program. It had been several nights of sleeplessness that had lowered his defenses enough to ask, and he quickly learned not to bring the subject up again. “What if everything we’re doing now just gets erased in the timeline?”

He shouldn’t have said those words. Hope was supposed to be the pillar of confidence and stability, after all, and the dark expression on his assistant’s (and, a little bit, friend) face was so unlike the Alyssa Zaidelle he knew that the man quickly changed the subject, asking for her help on a code that he already knew how to write.

Doubt nagged at him constantly, but he learned long ago to bypass that feeling. He had taken responsibility for the project — the only reason that the board of directors allowed it to progress.

For better or worse, Hope meant to progress until he found a solid and reliable solution to humanity’s imminent demise. There would be no time for outside thoughts.

The series of presents lay forgotten that year in a plain white box in a corner of his room despite his earlier, and first, real intention on finding the person behind the events.


—


“I’m surprised you have the time to have a sit down lunch with me, Director Estheim.”

The teasing tone was not unwelcome as Hope settled himself onto the soft seats of the cafe he usually had breakfast with his father, tugging uncomfortably on the lapels of his casual (or at least casual to him) grey jacket sitting slightly large atop a hooded sweater and dark pants for once not tucked neatly into work boots but rather hanging over a pair of old sneakers he hadn’t pulled out since before he became a director.

“I thought you told me specifically not to come as Director Estheim.” Hope grumbled lightly, distinctly awkward in his state of dress.

Rydgea laughed loudly, drawing the attention of several patrons around him even as Hope ducked his head and wished that he had thought to worn a hat or something that might hide his distinctive hair should anyone look too close. He figured that the state of dress would already discourage the notion of who he was so that he might be overlooked, but then again, despite being rather good at not drawing attention to himself when he wasn’t trying to, Rydgea was a different story.

The past decade had been good for the Guardian Corps officer, whose only sign of age were the laugh lines around his eyes and greying at the temples. With his hair cut shorter than during his days on Cocoon, he looked the very definition of a man who had lived well — was still living life at large. Even his posture was disarming, an arm slung casually over the cushioned bench and an ankle over one knee, grinning over the cup of steaming coffee on the table between them at Hope.

In contrast, Hope was sure he came across as closed off and stiff if anyone compared them.

“I did, didn’t I?” The brunet said with an unrepentant grin. “I didn’t expect you’d actually do it. You must want this present of yours pretty badly.”

Hope glared, feeling the petulant teenager once again under Rydgea’s pleased expression. He forced himself not to glance at the red box and ribbon peeking out from the man’s coat pocket, mentally berating himself for the trip to New Nautilus where, afterward, his transport had broken down between the roads in the middle of nowhere for hours, resulting in a delay that made him miss the last shuttle home for Valentine’s Day entirely.

Added to that misfortune was his father’s call the day before when Bartholomew had informed Hope in an apologetic tone that he had an emergency meeting with the board during the day, so he had asked Rydgea to sign for the present when it got there.

This, of course, resulted in the extremely unfavorable interest that the soldier developed in Hope’s series of anonymous presents, an interest in which Bartholomew had no doubt made no move to discourage but instead provided the man with more information about it than Hope would have been willing to depart with.

A small, childish part of his brain wanted to sulk and accuse his father of betraying him.

It was just a series of unfortunate events, Hope tried to assure himself. The trip to New Nautilus had been in the planning for several weeks now, a new venture by the Academy to involve itself a little more in the affairs of the public as more and more important members were being consulted on matters of state and public affairs, and Hope had been quietly informed that there may perhaps in the near future be more of a fusion between the Academy and the political offices of state.

As such, he had been the one sent out to oversee the grand unveiling of the New Nautilus Auditorium, staying long enough for the opening concert where famous singer Elida Karmic had been performing. It was a task he could in no way deny, seeing as he had managed to get back on a tentative speaking basis with Elida mere months ago, the two of them having fallen out for about ten years before Elida finally emailed him with an invitation once to one of her concerts.

(Hope had to decline that first time, due to the date coinciding with an important meeting he had for the New Cocoon Project far away, but he had all but promised to attend the next concert so long as he wasn’t in a life or death situation or didn’t have the fate of humanity resting upon his words and powers of persuasion.

Elida had written back that they must all be doomed if the fate of mankind rested upon his articulation and non existent charisma. That prompted a stilted correspondence between the two of them, neither bringing up Kai or the events of the Fall in their words.

It didn’t mean everything was better between the two of them, but it had been a large step in the right direction.)

The deal was, Rydgea had told him over the holovid, barely able to contain his snickering, that Hope actually take the afternoon off and have lunch with him — as Hope Estheim, and not the Director of Academy Research and leader of Team Alpha — because despite everything, Rydgea had been one of the few people who had stuck around to watch Hope grow up and he wasn’t altogether too happy about how Hope’s workaholic tendencies had taken over in the past year.

“This is shaping up to be alarmingly comparable to blackmail.” Hope observed sullenly, only lightening up slightly as a waitress came by and asked him what he would like to drink. There was no point in letting others see just how upset he was at what Rydgea was holding hostage, after all.

“Humor me. Or you could think of it as payback — you never told me you had a secret admirer!”

“It isn’t relevant information.” Hope bit back the urge to point out: you never asked.

“Don’t be like that.” And there it was, the grin that Hope had learnt meant nothing but embarrassment for him. Rydgea was, if nothing else, a brutally effective babysitter in those first few years after the Fall. “Fine, fine. Talk to me, then. What has the esteemed Director Estheim been up to lately?”

It was a broader question, although Hope had a feeling that Rydgea wasn’t going to let the topic go that easily. The waitress that came back with a smile and a warm mug of coffee, settling it down before Hope before telling him softly that she would come back in a few minutes for his lunch order.

“Not much.” Hope answered cautiously, although his own thoughts contradicted that statement. Ever since he had abandoned the Augusta Tower project (due to reasons he hadn’t understood well enough himself, but much to the relief of the other board members), he had been scrambling to find a replacement. The announcement of the New Cocoon project had taken place merely three months after he stopped the construction for Augusta Tower, and even now he was scrambling to draw up the plans and seek council from architects and engineers for a feasible method of building an entire planet and getting it into the air should disaster occur.

The past several months had been hectic enough that Hope couldn’t remember the last time he had gotten a full night’s sleep. But he was alright with that — at least they were doing something, were heading somewhere.

He cupped his hands around the mug of coffee and brought it up to his face, breathing in the steam appreciatively. “Everything’s going well.”

“And outside of work?” Rygdea prompted.

Hope frowned.

Figuring that he wasn’t going to get a response unless he clarified, the soldier continued, “Your social life, Hope. Hobbies. Friends. What’s going on with you that doesn’t have to do with that project of yours?”

“I just came from New Nautilus.” Hope said slowly. He understood the implications — that he had nothing going on for him outside of the New Cocoon project, but that simply wasn’t true. He had plenty of other projects to occupy his time when he was stuck or frustrated, and more than enough that the Academy had him do. He travelled, he studied, and he micromanaged. He spoke to many people, consulted, and generally dabbed fingers in too many projects to count. “I needn’t remind you I just came back from a concert.”

Just because he had been sent by the Academy, and he had been there to meet and reconnect with an old friend made it… well, better than just attending a concert, correct?

There may have been a flash of resentment that he was twenty five years old, successful in his field, and still being told what he should do by someone who was essentially (to Hope, anyway) his ex-babysitter.

The statement made Rydgea sigh. “That’s not what I meant — it was a business trip, wasn’t it?”

Hope didn’t see how that mattered, and didn’t respond.

“Kid, you gotta go to one of those fun places for fun one of these days. With your friends. Maybe with a girlfriend or something. Who’s that assistant of yours, anyway? The cute blond with —”

“But then how would I put it all on company expenses?” Hope cut in, figuring that it would do better to joke about things he didn’t normally joke about to get Rydgea off his case. He was just here for the gift, not to be regaled on how he should be settling down and focusing on things other than work by now.

As predicted, the older man laughed heartily at that statement after half a moment of stunned silence. “Well, you do have a point there. Even if I can tell you’re just trying to change the subject. If you really didn’t want to spend the money on a date, you know that either me or your father would gladly pay up, right? Hell, I’ve got more money riding on whether you’d actually manage to chat up a girl than you could spend on a date.”

The implications that Rydgea was betting on his love life made Hope scowl deeply. It was worse to know that there must be someone he was betting against, as well.

“Don’t suppose I could bribe you with this gift to go on a blind date?” The man asked hopefully, reaching down to tap his fingers on the red covered parcel as his grin widening at Hope’s flat look. “Damn. Didn’t think so. Knew I should have set you on on this lunch date.”

“If you do, I will never go on lunch dates with you again.” Hope promised, and then paused for extra emphasis. “Ever.”

“Harsh.” Rydgea intoned. He didn’t look like he believed Hope at all. “Does this mean I can’t bring a nice girl along as my own date?”

“Wouldn’t that make me the, ah, ‘third wheel’?”

“Would not wanting to be the third wheel make you bring your own date?”

“No.”

The soldier chuckled, and raised a hand in defeat. “I just need to know, though… is this the reason you’re not settled down yet? I mean, are you waiting for this person to reveal herself? If you make an announcement, I’m sure your admirer will reveal herself.”

Something felt off with Rydgea’s statement, but Hope didn’t correct him on that. “That’s none of your business.”

The brusqueness of it made the older man snicker. “Well, it’s good to know you’re still the same kid underneath.”

Lunch continued on that vein, with the ex-military officer wheedling at Hope every few seconds while Hope stoically endured and remembered the teenage irritation he used to feel toward the man when Rydgea had stopped over to chat with his father and ended up inserting himself as a close family friend for the white-haired boy.

Hope didn’t understand the man’s hidden disapproval of his life — it wasn’t as if Rydgea had settled down himself, being as busy as he was with government affairs despite his complaints and statements of imminent retirement. He wasn’t all that old, after all, and the budding society could use all the help it could get. Time for… other concerns would be found later.

Not to mention, Hope enjoyed his work. It was purposeful, and he certainly didn’t feel like he was missing anything. If anything, he was missing familiar people in his life, and he was working on getting them back. He didn’t understand why his father and Rydgea found it concerning that he didn’t seek extracurriculars that didn’t have to do with work.

It was perhaps the amount of effort that Hope put into getting his gift from Rydgea that made the feel of thick red ribbon between his fingers all the more satisfying later on when he went home, setting the small box reverently upon his desk and brushing his fingers lightly over the velvet. He didn’t have much time before he planned on returning to the Academy to finish the reports he had due before the end of the week, since he had only taken the afternoon off.

A light tug and the ribbon came smoothly from its bow, the once knotted areas dented and crinkled to add texture when Hope brushed over it absentmindedly. It was with a decidedly anxious breath that he lifted the lid of the box, wondering (hoping, perhaps) for a further clue to the identity the this one constant in his life.

He didn’t know what he had been expecting, but the usual expensive chocolates hadn’t been it.

Hope let out the breath he hadn’t known he was holding, unable to help the curl of disappointment knotting its way down his spine. He thought — well, he wasn’t sure. The previous gift (a ring!) had to have meant something, right? At the same time, how was any gift supposed to top the last?

(Perhaps the gift of knowledge to the gifter’s anonymity would top it.)

He shifted through the chocolates, unwrapping just one of them to savor before he found a note at the very bottom of the box, the same inscribed gold lettering on thick parchment.

‘Patience.’

Hope scowled at the note, sensing the taunting humor behind the words. Of course he was patient. Half of his job at the Academy was to be patient, to wait for others, to wait for situations to diffuse, to sort things out — things that took time — and…

He set the note back in the box with a set upon exhale. Of course he would continue to be patient for the gifter to reveal themselves. He had been patient enough to endure Rydgea’s teasing, and he would be patient for however long it took to iron out the timelines and to fix whatever it would take in order to keep the world safe.

He’d be patient enough to wait for Serah and Noel, to help bring Lightning back, and to save Fang and Vanille from their crystal sleep.

Hope would just have to be more patient.


—


The call had been unexpected. Bartholomew Estheim rested these days, often claiming that he was enjoying his retirement and he could damn well sleep his days away if he so wanted to no matter how worried Hope was over what his father would get up to when he had too much time on his hands (which had never happened before so Hope figured he had real reason to worry about a scenario which could potentially prove catastrophic… and Bartholomew had laughed long and hard at his son’s over exaggeration).

Hearing his father over the phone demand in a low voice that Hope meet him at the hospital had been startling — frightening, until Rydgea had called him and said everything was currently alright and his father was just over-reacting.

Still, he had been met at the door of the hospital (and how did that happen? He was fairly certain all visitors were to check in at the front desk) by a team of doctors who had addressed him by title and escorted him up several stories while passing him datapads to sign off and asking him questions on his health.

Hope saw Rydgea waiting for them, casually dressed, just as one of the doctors asked him if he would step a certain way so they could get an MRI scan —

“What’s going on?” Hope demanded, feeling fed up with the half information he was being given. The familiar face meant that he could actually drop the terse politeness, even if he had to ignore the group of doctors in order to do so. It had been over half a year since he had last seen Rydgea, and the man looked… older. Older than he should have looked for half a year of broken contact, face dark with an oncoming beard and his hair hastily tied at the nape of his neck. In contrast this time, Hope was dressed sharper even than the group of overworked doctors and their sweaters and comfort shoes.

“Nothing!” Rydgea protested, as if trying to placate Hope’s glare. “Your dad’s just being a huge worrywort, and he wants you to get checked out since he might have found this, uh, little thing he has is genetic and you might have inherited —”

At that point, the team of doctors had already herded Hope into a separate room even as they were followed by Rydgea who was attempting to explain the situation in sentences halted frequently as the doctors explained in more detail.

Bartholomew Estheim had been feeling under the weather recently (which was information Hope already knew), and had eventually given in to being checked by doctors when he started having difficulty swallowing his food. Basic scans found dysarthria, and further scans found brain tumors.

Cerebellar hemangioblastoma. Rare, luckily benign, and often unnoticed for many years, but a hereditary condition if caused by Hippel-Lindau disease, which they were still testing his father for. While doctors had wanted him to stay for further scans, Bartholomew’s first act when he learned enough about it was to call Hope in for a check up. He wanted to make sure his son was safe from his condition.

“So it basically starts in your twenties,” Rydgea was parroting from what he learned, eying Hope intensely. “You start getting bad headaches, get dizzy, loss of feeling in certain parts of your body… none of that ringing a bell?”

“I feel fine.” Hope protested, although now there was nervousness over the headaches he had been getting. But those were normal, weren’t they? No one had batted an eye over the coffee he consumed or the painkillers he sometimes took. It was something every employee of the Academy took from time to time, especially with upcoming deadlines.

“We’ll see about that.” One of the doctors promised ominously, and Hope drew back with wide eyes as the woman held up a hospital gown for him, as if expecting him to strip in a room full of people.

“So your dad’s fine right now.” Rydgea assured him. “The tumors they found are inoperable, but hell, he’s had them for years and it hasn’t done anything bad, so… he’s basically only in here for what he checked in for.”

Head swimming with that information, Hope barely had the voice to order everyone out so he could actually get changed as the doctors wanted. He may have studied a broad spectrum of sciences, but physiology had fallen into the background despite an once avid interest in it due to other priorities. He was more comfortable about machines, around programs that could still boot even after several mistakes made in the coding, so long as you find the mistakes later on and corrected it.

Biology wasn’t his specialty… nowhere near it, in fact. Once upon a time, Hope may have entertained the thought of pursuing a medical career, but other priorities had come up. Not to mention how he had been spoiled in a manner by magic, in not having to know the exact workings of cells and internal organs in order to heal them. Injuries were easy to repair due to the body already knowing what to do — potions did nothing but speed up the healing process of the body, after all, at such a rate that it was near miraculous.

But pre-existing conditions…

It was the reason why illnesses were so feared. It wasn’t something which could be drowned with a potion, and things that occurred naturally in the body (or unnaturally) baffled doctors still. There were illnesses which could turn a potion into a potentially fatal concoction as it used the body against itself.

It was… it was…

Hope took a moment to breathe, closing his eyes and steadying himself as he brought up the calculations he had been working on earlier that morning to mind. There were still pages of reports and updates he had to look into, stacks of grants he had to read over and sign, and the schematics of a prototype cryo-chamber which would, if successful, allow one to preserve items within so well that the hypothesis was that even the most delicate items would survive hundreds of years later thanks to the implementation of immense gravity.

Hope had his doubts on that one, but he had yet to go over the full report.

There was a quiet knock on the door seconds later, and Hope shimmied into the hospital gown (which was little more than a sheet and he really had to talk to people about assigning better clothing for those staying in a hospital) quickly before the door opened to reveal his father on the other side, looking thin but healthy still with a head full of greying hair.

(It was a joke Rydgea made all the time, that the more Bartholomew aged, the more father and son finally looked alike in coloring.)

“Hope.” Bartholomew Estheim greeted, voice strong and not at all sounding like someone who had just been confined to the hospital for an indeterminate amount of time. While the elder was dressed in the same gown that Hope was despairing over, he had also managed to cover the majority of it with a long beige coat, making himself look more dignified.

“Dad,” Hope greeted, still feeling like he was stumbling over his own words even at twenty-six years old. Words got easier with time and with practice, but there were still too many situations where he had no idea what he could say to make anything better. As a child, Hope had learned to stay quiet if he had nothing good to say, if only because he had seen just how his mother worried when he did say something negative, when he did rant and rave about something.

A habit, it seemed, that was hard to overcome.

The elder Estheim sighed lightly, looking just as lost as his son. “I’m sorry for calling you out without warning…”

“I would have come this quickly anyway.” Hope interjected, words rushing over each other in his haste to reassure his father. Just hearing that Bartholomew was in the hospital…Well, Hope had lost enough people. He wasn’t ready to have what little he had left taken away from him without a fight from his side. The mere thought of it left a heavy feeling in his heart. Hope faltered, and then attempted a smile. “How are you feeling?”

“Same as I always do.” His father grumbled, looking a little irritated. Bartholomew sighed, and then raised a hand to his temple, looking distracted. “I should let you get to the doctors. They’ll probably want to take up the rest of your day.”

“Dad.” Hope called out before Bartholomew could turn and walk away. For all that he could understand talking to other scientists and such, Hope floundered when it came to speaking with a personal touch. He stumbled over words when it came to the rare things that managed to find its way under his skin and worm themselves into his heart as weaknesses. People could do that, and Hope found in his recent years that he didn’t like it. That didn’t mean, however, that he was willing to give up on those weaknesses. “I’m glad you’re okay. Just… stay… okay?”

It was a far cry from his normal articulation, but nothing about this situation felt normal to Hope. Normal was discussing schematics, discussing politics; talking about projects and laws and deadlines — all of that was normal. This change of pace, atmosphere, and settling was throwing Hope off completely.

He couldn’t, just couldn’t, lose someone else. Not again.

The words, or perhaps the tone, made Bartholomew hesitate before the man stepped into the room and walked up to his son, both hands resting on the sides of Hope’s neck right under his jaw. It was a gesture the elder hadn’t made since Hope was a teenager, and especially not when he finally caught up with his father’s height.

“Don’t worry about me.” Bartholomew said, and then smiled at Hope. “I may be old, but I’m not going away anytime soon. You just focus on yourself, and your own life, you hear me?”

“You’re not old.” Hope protested automatically.

“Old enough to see my son grow up into a man I couldn’t be more proud of.” His father replied, and Hope found himself frozen at what seemed like the finality of those words. The older man took a moment to study Hope carefully, expression unreadable. “I wish Nora could see you now. I can only imagine her joy.”

Hope squirmed a bit, and then huffed a breath of laughter nervously. “What, like this?” He tugged at the edge of the hospital gown, feeling his cheeks warm at the reminder. “Seems a bit embarrassing.”

“You’re right, she’d never let us live it down.” Bartholomew chuckled. “She would probably sneak pictures when neither of us are looking to commemorate this father-son bonding experience.”

Hope smiled, feeling that familiar tinge of pain at the mention of his mother, softened now over a decade after her death. He doubted he would ever be able to think upon her without missing her enough that his heart constricted tightly for several moments, but the pain of grief had faded into a distant sadness. It was good to think about her now, about her laughter and the things she found amusing; about the way she would support them and admonish him if he ever lost confidence in himself. Nora Estheim had been a force to be reckoned with, and even now so long after her death, Hope could remember his fear as a young child when he angered her. Even now, her lessons shaped who he was, and how he reacted to things.

Even now, Bartholomew would look away when he thought upon her, and Hope pretended not to notice the shine in his father’s eyes.

“Are you sure everything's okay?” Hope asked, attempting to keep the topic change as blithe as possible. “You sound alright, at least.”

Bartholomew waved him off, stepped back. “I’m fine. Rydgea was panicking over nothing. I’ve got all the scans done and there’s nothing at all wrong with me that hasn’t been there for years already. It’s you I’m worried about.”

Hope wondered if he should mention the headaches that had been more frequent as of late, but then dismissed it. Stress-induced headaches were normal, especially for him. Bringing that up would only be inviting distress, especially right before the doctors were to look at him anyway. If there was something wrong, they would find it whether or not he decided to mention the headaches.

“Okay.” Hope finally accepted, fingers twisting together before himself in a childish gesture he had never outgrown. He managed to minimize the habit in recent years, but it was a motion of comfort whenever he had to do without his gloves. A way to hold onto something.

He twisted his lips into what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

“Don’t worry,” he told his father. “I’m just fine.”

He was always okay.


—


Bartholomew Estheim passed away fifty-seven hours after being admitted to the hospital.

Reports stated an aneurysm, a blood clot in his brain which burst some time during his sleep. At the very worst, he might have felt a discomforting headache while dreaming, but it was most likely he hadn’t felt anything at all. Ultimately the most peaceful way to go.

The truth of the matter was that the aneurysm was mere assumption, and none of the doctors could understand what triggered his death. He had been getting headaches, yes, and his trouble swallowing hadn’t gone away, but there hadn’t been any signs of swelling or blood clots. No one could agree whether his death was triggered by his condition or whether it was something else entirely.

Hope stayed in the hospital another two days after that, undergoing scan after scan at Rydgea’s insistence.

The doctors couldn’t find anything wrong in the end, and Hope insisted on being released.

(Then again, the doctors couldn’t find anything wrong with his father either.)

The day after he was released from the hospital, Hope attended the funeral he arranged for his father those long hours without enough to occupy his mind while in the hospital. It was a small, simple affair — less than a dozen people, the majority of that politicians who came because it was expected of them, because Bartholomew had once played his hand in creating the government that now stood. Hope knew all of them by name, knew their families and their viewpoints on all current political subjects as well as what could and couldn’t be mentioned before each of them. In short, he didn’t know them at all.

There were only three whom he held an actual connection to, and Rydgea was busy greeting and chatting solemnly with various politicians in efforts to give Hope some peace and quiet. Alyssa kept shooting him concerned looks, but did what she could to smile and chat up the politicians as well, swaying their attention with information about the latest ongoing projects at the Academy.

Hope was grateful to both of them. He didn’t think he would do a very good job smiling and speaking at that moment. He couldn’t seem to break his gaze with the blue crystals of Lake Bresha underneath them where he just moments ago scattered his father’s ashes.

Nora Estheim’s body had never been recovered, but now maybe (finally) the two of them could be together again.

“What are you going to do?” Came the soft, lilting question from beside him. “You should take some time away from work.”

Hope didn’t respond for a long moment. The crystal of Lake Bresha was smooth, unblemished even after all these years and all the excavations the Academy dug to try and find the buried victims of the Purge. “...Is that what you did?”

Elida shrugged, the movement causing the material of her sleek black dress to flow like water across her shoulders. She crossed her legs at the ankles and drew them under the seat, black heeled boots clicking softly against the metal platform they were sitting on even as her grip on his hand tightened and loosened rhythmically.

“Yeah,” she admitted under her breath, the both of them listening to the murmurs of conversation around them. The small crowd had yet to recognize her, thanks to the thick black layered veil she wore over her face and hair, revealing only painted red lips set against pale skin. “That’s what I did. Back then. I took a year off school, wandered around… found some distant relatives. Went where I wanted, did what I wanted. It was all pretty easy back then in the chaos after the Fall. Too much going on for people to care about a teenage girl wandering around by herself.”

She took a long breath, and interlaced her fingers with his. Hope wondered why, especially as the both of them were wearing gloves. The comfort of touch was far too distant.

“I was really angry back then.” Elida admitted. “At everything… I guess. At my relatives for not caring enough to recognize me before I walked away. At the authorities for putting the good of others before the pain of a little girl. At my parents, at Kai… But especially at you.”

Hope didn’t bother to respond. He already knew this.

“I was so sure I lost everything back then. The world had literally just been torn from me. My family, my future… I felt like I had been… robbed of the most important things. Everything I thought I was, stolen. It didn’t matter if everyone else was feeling the same way, because I felt it. No one else mattered back then.” Her grip tightened to an almost painful strength. “It was weeks before my relatives thought to look for me. Months before they found me.”

“I’m sorry.” Hope intoned hollowly.

Elida shook her head. “That’s not what I’m — that’s not the point I wanted to make. Hope. You’re my friend… you know? No matter how much and how long I wished I never met you. Look around you. You used to complain to me that your dad never paid attention to the important things, that he was always only ever concerned about his work. Do you remember? We used to be on the phone for hours.”

For the first time that day, Hope felt a surge of irritation. What would Elida know? Bartholomew Estheim was the forefront in everything after the fall of Cocoon. Science, education, politics… he was involved in the rebuilding of cities, in all the forward thinking they managed to achieve in the past decade, in —

He was a good father, and Hope felt ashamed to think upon the time when he once thought otherwise.

“Look around you.” Elida echoed. “I don’t want this to happen to you.”

His temper flared a brief moment. “I’m not sick.”

“And that’s not what I’m talking about.” Elida’s red, red lips pulled back into a snarl of frustration, reminding Hope of their younger days when she had been so prone to fits of shouting. “You’re so smart, Hope, but if you keep doing this you’re going to end up just like you father. Right back here, at the end of your days, with only a handful of people who care enough to show up, and less who actually know who you are.”

The words made Hope snap his teeth together, his jaw clenched so tightly he was sure the muscles would soon break bone.

Elida looked away from him, turning her head to watch the others at the makeshift funeral. Hope wondered if he should shake off her hand, but then thought better of it. Better to endure the touch than be childish enough as to throw a tantrum over it. Instead, he turned his attention back to the crystalline waves.

Elida’s lips thinned in thought. “I used to wish I didn’t know you. I used to wish we never laughed together, never shared lunches together; that I’d never gone over to your house or treasured the presents you used to give me. I wished we were never friends so that I could truly, properly, hate you. That’s what everyone at school did after, you know. Hate you. I once smacked a boy in the face in high school because he called you a monster in front of me.”

Hope kept his eyes focused on the shimmering blue. “...Why?”

There was the sound of a distinctly unfeminine snort. “Actually? Because he insulted your mom, called her all sorts of names.” She paused. “And then said that you should never have been born. He said that, and I just — I was so mad. I was mad at you for being the topic of his conversation, but I was furious at him for even daring to say something like that.”

Hope felt his lips twitch upward. Her fury was such a familiar concept he almost felt like they were back in grade school again.

“It took me ten years to stop blaming you.” Elida confessed quietly. “Or at least, stop blaming you enough to… I don’t know. Function. Talk to you. Even now, I don’t know if I can honestly say that I didn’t think it was your fault. I might never be able to say it as long as I live. I know — I understand — that the end result was something the fal’Cie orchestrated, but… Hope. I never hated you, but I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forgive you. Even though logically I know it’s not your fault.”

“What are you trying to say?” Hope’s words felt clipped, and he couldn’t help it. He had none of his usual patience today, none of his graceful aplomb. It wasn’t a conversation he expected her to bring up, today of all days on his father’s funeral.

Elida turned back toward him, and he could feel her gaze burning his skin without having to see her eyes. “People hold on to hate for a long time. Even knowing the truth, I kept my blame and my anger for ten years. How long do you think it will take for the general populace to stop resenting you? Another ten years? Twenty? How long before some crazy person filled with grief and hate turn his sights on you? I’ve talked to a lot of fans… the younger ones, the kids, they think you’re amazing, Hope. But their parents…”

She trailed off, but Hope didn’t have to hear to rest to understand.

“So long as you stay in the limelight,” she told him, “so long as you remain exposed and those parents have to keep hearing good things about you from their kids, from the public… the more that resentment will grow.”

She squeezed his hand one more time, and then slipped her fingers from his grasp, moving to stand up and walk away.

“Take a break from work,” she told him once more. “Don’t make me attend your funeral.”


—


It was snowing in Academia the day Hope signed the approval for the gravity well. A further discussion with the team of engineers estimated the time of completion to be in approximately five months.

“Are you sure?” Alyssa asked him, blue eyes tinted with concern even as she hugged a stack of datapads to her chest. “It’s nothing more than a theory — there’s no way we can get plausible test results unless Serah and Noel manage to come back and bring us some proof from the future that the gravity well even works…”

“They won’t have to.” Hope told her, his attention mostly caught by the proposals he was reading through at the same time. He could choose to brush her off or comfort her about the project, the words on the tip of his tongue… but he stopped short. Of all people, Alyssa had been the one who stayed with him the past several years with unwavering faith and dedication. Despite a few rough years in the beginning where he doubted they would ever be able to come to an agreement about anything at all, they now functioned as a cohesive team. It anyone deserved the truth, she did.

He looked up from his reports, blinking several times to adjust to the darkness of the room in contrast to the glowing screens. Alyssa waited patiently for him, by now used to his behaviors.

“I plan on testing it myself.” He told her. “I’ve already submitted the files, and there has to be people in the future to keep the New Cocoon Project on track. Our projections estimate that the Thirteenth Ark will reappear in approximately 400AF, and…”

He trailed off, clearing his throat nervously at Alyssa’s incredulous expression.

“I plan to continue my work there.”

His assistant gaped at him for a moment, her grip on the datapads slackening to a point where he wondered if he should take them from her to avoid an accident. The option was taken from him, however, when Alyssa regained her composure quickly enough and stood up straighter, wiping the surprise from her face and her eyes glinting at him in stern determination.

“We don’t know if that device will be able to take a person to the future,” she told him, her mouth a line of disapproval. “We don’t know if it can only take — objects. It could very well kill whoever enters it.”

“Then I’ve got five months to ensure that doesn’t happen.” Hope told her calmly. Alyssa should know him well enough by now to understand she wouldn’t be able to change his mind, not when he’s already decided on something.

For a moment, she was frozen, standing above his workstation with her arms full of datapads, looking for all the world like a beautiful statue frozen in time. The dim green lightning of the holograms made her skin look sickly pale, made her something more or less than human, made her seem eternal in this room of fluttering technology. For a moment, Hope wondered what she was thinking to be standing so still. It was unlike Alyssa, who always had extra energy to spare and an enthusiasm that could not be curbed.

“We.” She emphasized, and then leaned over his workstation to jab a finger at him. “We’re going to make sure that doesn’t happen. If you’re going to be dumb enough to do this, then I’m going with you. You’re going to need someone to keep you grounded before you drown in your work.”

Hope leaned back, eyes wide. He had been prepared for her protests, for her dismay and disapproval, had been prepared for tears and a tantrum and her eventual acceptance when he confided that he’d written a letter of recommendation to the board for her promotion. He expected any and all of that, really.

Yet here she was, surprising him yet again.

Hope felt the breath catch in his chest as she continued to glare at him expectantly, still leaning precariously over his workstation. “Alyssa…”

At his intonation of her name, Alyssa’s tense demeanor relaxed, softened, until her glare was reduced to a stiffening of her jaw and sad eyes which turned away from him a moment later. “You’re not the only one with no one else left, you know. You’re all I’ve got…” Her voice faded to nothing more than a whisper. “Even if you don’t think the same.”

It was an awkward, sudden realization like a knife through his heart. Alyssa Zaidelle had been a constant in his peripherals for nearly seven years now, and Hope never quite thought of her beyond the annoyance at her proximity and a blossoming pride for her intelligence and diligence as an Academy employee. She was always there, always that person reminding him of upcoming deadlines and that food and sleep existed all in the same sentence. Always at his elbow, always there to field questions or share the burden of a task-heavy project.

Alyssa was…

Hope swallowed heavily. For all of that, he never truly noticed her; had brushed off her attention as distractions. Why was it only now that he noticed? Seeing her now, small in her sadness, made him realize that he missed a vital part of the last several years.

“I’m sorry.” The words were heavy like failure, like a rock thrown out into sea and disappearing under dark waves as nothing more than a ripple in the abyss. His apology would make no difference — he still missed the obvious signs, and now… well, she was far too ingrained in his mind as his assistant for him to think otherwise. Maybe given time, if he could just develop the interest… but no. It wasn’t there at all. She had to already know.

Alyssa jerked at the words and then scowled, pulling back. That dark expression lasted only a brief moment she replaced it with her usual smile, so much emptier now that Hope knew it to be nothing more than her usual mask.

“Don’t worry about it!” And her voice was chipper; fake. “We’ve got a lot of work to get started on if you really think the gravity well is the way! Don’t you worry, Director Hope, I’m going to get all of this sorted out. There won’t be even the hint of danger with this project after I’m done with it.”

She flashed him a wide smile, her lips stretched taut across her face, before giving a cheerful single fingered salute from her forehead and heading off as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

He spent the rest of the day in a daze, going through his work with a clinical detachment as he tried not to think upon interpersonal relationships at all. He smiled at co-workers when appropriate, encouraged where he could, and wondered all the while just how long Alyssa had been doing the same, except far more genuine than him.

It wasn’t until he found himself staring at his shadow on the door of his apartment after he was chased home by co-workers (by Alyssa, who always made sure he had enough rest to not collapse), watching his breath mist in the air as the faint shadows of falling snow ghosted across his vision, that he allowed himself to feel his world collapse around him.

Had it been a little more than a week ago, Hope would have called his father to fill his evening with Bartholomew’s snickering at his son because ‘you’ve finally figured it out? After all this time?’ He would have endured hours of embarrassment before his father would finally — finally say something, some advice, on what Hope should do.

Hope closed his eyes, breathing out slowly as he rested his forehead against the cold metal door for a moment. Just a moment.

It was the cold that finally pulled him back to reality, and Hope finally pulled back with a shudder and dug through his pockets with shivering fingers for his cardkey, scanning it quickly before stepping into the warmth of the place he called home.

The door slid closed behind him with a quiet hiss, and Hope was left soundless for the second time in the day.

Every inch of every surface not the floor was filled with clear glass vases half filled with water, and topped with white flowers of every kind. Atop tables, counters, dressers, and shelves. Lilies, carnations, roses, baby’s breath, chrysanthemums, alstromerias, and — there must have been dozens of flowers Hope didn’t know the names of, had never seen before, all gathered in one place. The scents were overwhelming.

All of them, all the vases, were carefully wrapped in red velvet ribbons tied into bows.

He stood at the entranceway wide-eyed for a long time, before leaning his weight against the closed door, sliding down slowly to sit on the ground and just take in the sight.

“...It must be Valentine’s.” He murmured to himself, an elbow coming to rest atop his knee as a hand covered his mouth in thought. He had forgotten all about it in the midst of all the things going on the past two weeks. Twenty one years of anonymous presents, and Hope wondered if that was the reason he felt absolutely no concern in knowing that his apartment had been broken into, despite Elida’s warnings just the past week.

And then he wondered if this was the reason he never noticed Alyssa’s interest; had just brushed off her attentions. This. This one constant and captivation, the one thing he found to be true and expected in his life, already occupying the role of romantic interest despite having no name or face to go along with it.

With a pang, Hope realized he would be leaving even this one constant behind when the gravity well was done.

He thought about the ring he still kept in his box of knickknacks, about the snowglobes and the books and science kits and components he had been given over the years. He thought about the kerchief he still wore on his wrist, with him all this time.

“Sorry.” He murmured into his glove, and then laughed in depreciation. It would be the third time that week he apologized to someone only to have the word lose all meaning because it just wasn’t good enough. He wished he could say it in person, though. It was the very least his Valentine deserved.

He wanted to tell them that the flowers were beautiful. That it looked absolutely magical, especially considering the week he just had. He wanted to thank them and — and what? He didn’t know, didn’t understand. Maybe he really had waited for this anonymous Valentine to reveal themselves all these years.

He reached up from where he was sitting to tug gently at one of the red ribbons, undoing the bow as the soft velvet slid down the glass to him.

Elida was right, though. His father had been the one to shelter him from every hurt he could in the years after the Fall, and no matter what he did, no matter how much acceptance he gained at the Academy, it wasn’t going to be enough for the general populace. In the end, Hope was going to be targeted, was going to have his own ashes spread somewhere while a small handful of people watched on. If he stayed here, he was going to amount to no more than a blip in history.

At the very least, with the gravity well, he would be able to continue the New Cocoon Project. He could at least ensure humanity’s survival, even if no one acknowledged it. At the very least, he would be able to change something.

In order to change the future, he'd have to give up the last constant of his life.

“Sorry.” He repeated, his lips pressed against the red, red ribbon. “I guess we’re never going to meet, after all.”

(But maybe he wouldn't lose everything. If nothing else, even as friends, he still had Alyssa.)




End part 3.