P-gio - P.Gio

I just really like this blurry shot of him in the trailer. 🎭

I wrote this in honor of the nights I spent in the dark, just the moon and myself. (And the occasional cat that would join me)

Hope Estheim stood at the edge of Bodhum's sea, the salty air breezing across his face and sleepy twilight waves lapping at his feet doing less to relax him than he remembered it able. While disappointed, this was not a recent or unexpected development.

The latest attempt sat alarmingly low on the list of things he's made to help calm his thoughts, consumed by a certain ex-soldier, and he was running out of known comforts. That looming blankness making up the rest of the page evoked a barely restrained panic that only one solution may truly put his stress to an end.

All Hope wanted to do was pull Lightning Farron close and confess his long-harbored feelings for her. Feelings that had taken too many sleepless nights to come to terms with. Adoration turned crush, and evolved into something which confined him in misery.

Now that he wasn't a puny, stuttering, short-stack and possessed the ability to tell her without making a fool of himself, it's the one thing he's thought about most for the last two years. Despite the impulse nearly driving him out of his mind, he always cowered from the opportunity to reach out and try.

Understandably so. First off: this was Lightning. The chances of him ending up with a bloodied nose if she didn't reciprocate these feelings were high. Secondly, and the more paralyzing, making the first move might cause irreparable damage to what they have at present.

The bond with Lightning that he's managed to achieve wasn't grown in a day. It was slow going and they'd had to overcome many adversities before getting to where they are. Laughing together, confiding in each other, supporting each other and trusting one another wholeheartedly, that was a blessing he'd climbed mountains for.

He cherished being with her and the others more than anything else in the world, their shared trials at the start of their journey as l'Cie formed an unshakable fellowship between a group who otherwise would've parted ways with a sneer, and that bond only strengthened as time went on.

What if this is what strains it? Breaks it, even. Especially with the rosen-haired warrior.

The threat of destroying his current relationship with her just to quell this longing has trapped the young Director in a petrified stalemate. No matter what; he cannot lose her. He knows he could never recover if he did. In honest, while he loved everyone in their found-family, Hope considered Lightning his best friend, and she the same. He should be happy with that, shouldn't he? That should be enough for him, right?

His sea-green eyes closed tightly in despair, chin tucking toward his collar in a bid to protect himself from the brunt of the truth as he realized... it wasn't. It never would be. Not with the incessant pressure in his chest when he's next to her, or the burning desire to get closer. Not while his hands itched to hold her, to touch her and thread through her delicate pink hair. When the struggle to hide how much he cares for her, how much he always has, was so near to ruining him; what they have now was already over.

The sickness of it all was beginning break the cement hardened onto his lips. For his own sake, his suffering would be bitten behind them no longer. Lightning would know by next they met, she had to, before it killed him.

The darkening tides were up past his ankles now, the surface of the water at his skin trembling to show his failure in keeping that panic at bay. Another affliction his throat had become too tight to swallow down.

Suddenly he felt fourteen all over again, small, weak and breakable, watching and waiting for the impact of his fragile world crashing onto him. And just like back then, Hope Estheim was so deathly afraid.

I am not meant for casual love. I was born for soul consuming love and obsession.

A crunch beneath his boot stopped Pinocchio in his tracks, his curious gaze dropping down to see a small bloodied music box, a note or two of its chime playing as it was disturbed. The lid lay open, a mirror inside reflecting the edges of the clouds above, tinted in a multitude of dusky oranges and yellows during the last remains of daylight.

To the right stood a shelf full of similar music boxes lined together under a sign detailing how many tickets each would cost to own. Some were decorated with images of happy clowns, their strange colored hair and exaggerated faces a symbol of the eccentric entertainment the park offered. Others bore images of dogs and cats, graceful ballerinas and daring gymnasts.

This was just one of many collections of prizes he’d come across since entering the park. The further he’d explored, the more the upset from his previous battle with the Stalkers distanced from him.

He bent at the knees and grabbed the box he’d stepped on, slow to notice its frail condition, so willed an uncommon gentleness to his legion arm when a piece broke off and returned to the ground. The lid fell shut with a snap as the puppet held it up close to inspect, a pleased lift in his spirit when it revealed to sport a cat design. What a shame for the tabby’s face to be hidden by splatters of red though..

To rectify that disheartening find, he tugged the edge of his sleeve over the pad of his palm and gingerly wiped away what he could, none will notice the additional stain among copious amounts of blood covering his clothes anyhow, fresh and wet in a manner he attempted to believe didn’t bother him.

Dwelling on discomfort he’d prefer to rid himself of wouldn’t do, if for nothing else than a refusal to let it steal a second of passing leisure he seldom earned.

He worked his brain to remember how to make the song play. Lady Antonia once played a music box in her study for him, promising to locate sheet music she’d stashed away in a drawer somewhere to later teach him the piano rendition. He weaved through the memory until the part came where she’d turned a tiny crank in a circle, then shifted the trinket to repeat the motion himself.

His hand stilled at the empty hole where the crank should be, and his eyes flicked back to his feet, scanning for the missing piece in pebbles of gravel stone. Regrettably, it had either traveled too far or kept a strong wish to remain hidden. Pinocchio’s shoulders slumped just a bit.

Another, more intact box on the shelf could be chosen, but some part of him was reluctant to abandon the one he held. It was damaged, yes, and the white paint still clung to a faint shade of red, but it was resilient too. The puppet admired the devices eagerness to play when his shoe had stressed it, determined to incite joy despite the misfortune faced, and the striped cat on the lid didn’t seem affected by what it had been through either, pawing gleefully at a purple ball of yarn.

He did spare a thought that the sense he was meant to meet this specific one tread on irrationality, only a fleeting acknowledgement however, not enough to prevent him swiping a crank from one of the shelved trinkets and slotting it into the vacant space.

It clicked in perfectly, as if it were the original. He gave it a few delicate turns, his eyes sliding closed to listen while the song played out in full. There was no familiarity in what he heard, but the jolly tune claimed a spot for itself among the songs he’d come to enjoy the most. He turned it again to listen once more, then another when the notes tapered to an end.

The sky above grew darker as the warmth of sunset began to weaken, taking on a somber blue hue. Strings of lights on the distant Ferris wheel flickered with an effort to illuminate the oncoming nightfall, yet pitifully failed as a result of the destruction done to them, fading to a dull glow that did little to accomplish their purpose or going out completely and blending in with the rest of the dying day.

Pinocchio fantasized about what the park might’ve been like before the puppets tore the city to ruin, he’d only come to life after their attack was well into effect. But even with the carnage that marred the area it was clear it had once been beautiful, a place where one could be carefree and adventurous, take in the extravagant sights and try their hand at playing games for the chance of a memento to take home. Inwardly, he hoped when his task was completed and each attraction repaired he could visit again, to see for himself if the beauty his imagination conjured possessed any accuracy. 🎭🦋

// If you're interested in the song I had in mind, there's a video on YouTube by mrspuick titled: Porcelain Roses on a Music Box-plays "Everything is beautiful"