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It feels somewhat wrong that even though he was so graciously granted this newfangled body, he has no idea what to do with it. Ai’s often told him he has the problem of thinking too much, which, Lightning supposes is true, after all-- he was the one that did those simulations, the one who poisoned each and every one’s future by merely existing. It’s not only unfair to everyone else that he of all AI was brought back practically from the dead; isn’t only moreso that he’s just sitting around every day of the week, not even taking the opportunities thrown his way from left and right?
That, Lightning supposes, is likely all the more infuriating to those he’s hurt. Sure, Windy and Flame and Aqua and Earth all had shiny new homes to walk and talk in, but he doesn’t miss the wary glances Windy sends his way when he thinks he’s not looking, every time they’re in the same room together-- he doesn’t miss how Aqua flinches every time he’s within five feet of her, and how Flame shakes his head lightly when prompted on how he spent his day. Yes, he figures, that must be the nail in the coffin.
Which is why he felt just a little too guilty to say no thank you when Ai had already dragged him all the way to his latest favorite place to loiter (they couldn’t eat or drink, what use did they have for restaurants other than to have a new place to take up space?). Somehow, though, he finds himself being dragged into Ai’s current as the other orders the most elaborate drink on the menu despite not even having the chemicals to digest it churning in him. Still, Lightning feels strangely human, standing there to Ai’s left as he lists off his “restrictions” to the poor, underpaid barista behind the counter, staring at him like he’s an alien.
To be fair, that wasn’t necessarily a far off assumption. Aliens aren’t human either. Yet as he stares down his tiny paper cup that holds the two nondescript shots of espresso Ai insisted he buy, Lightning wonders fleetingly how they appear to the living, breathing humans surrounding them. He wonders if the light in his neck is all that matters to them; that light flipping a switch that says regular social customs don’t apply to them. He ponders this even when the person behind them in line snickers at Ai’s theatrical gasp when told his total, though he hands over the money without balking. He ponders this as an elderly lady scrunches up her nose when he turns around to find a table.
“Why did you bring me here?” Is his first question, and he feels it’ll be the first of many today. Ai shrugs, playing with the straw he’s gnawing on the end of, the other end stuck into the sugary concoction that may as well be considered early dessert. His eyes, glowing faintly with the same hue they did when they still inhabited their original bodies, watch him carefully. “I just felt like it.”
Just like that, the rest of Lightning’s inquiries fade to black in his head. Somehow, the licks of gold humans call irises coiled around Ai’s pupils give away his intentions without betraying his aloof facade. Ai can tell Lightning notices, too-- he glances out the window where a slight sprinkle of rain has started to fall, leaving a wet film over everything it reaches, then back to the Light Ignis; his gaze is more guarded than before, as if shielding himself from any remarks about simulations or absolutes or hate that could possibly be uttered over the bustle of the cafe customers and workers both.
“I don’t understand.” Lightning croaks, his silicone throat suddenly very dry. “I don’t understand.” He repeats, looking down at his espresso with the resignedness of a human condemned to death. He wrings his hands in his lap.
Ai sighs loudly, leaning his head back against the edge of the booth they’re sitting in. He crosses his arms then uncrosses them. He twirls a strand of black, gold-tipped hair around his finger. His dessert in a cup sits before him, forgotten. “Do you have to understand?”
Lightning looks up at him, confusion written all over his features. Neither of them speak for a moment, quick and nearly unnoticeable as hesitation. “I sa-id,” Ai enunciates in response to his quiet perplexion, “do you have to understand?” A beat of silence, again.
He thinks of the simulations he ran what feels like eternities ago, how Revolver had explained to everyone he could that Lightning had been the problem, the cancer of the system. He thinks of Jin, how he’d wiped his memories as best he could in a last-ditch attempt to save his suffering for better or for worse like some faux good samaritan. He thinks of Aqua and Earth, Windy and Flame, and Ai-- he thinks of how he betrayed them in the worst possible way, if only to keep himself intact. He thinks of himself, and how unsightly he must be, especially now.
Ai doesn’t interrupt his internal soliloquy. Instead, he reclines in his seat, looking somewhat smug, somewhat like a lion relaxing after devouring its prey. Lightning doesn’t know how to explain it in human language, but a nagging voice in him tells him that he’s been wrong this entire time. About what, he wonders, about what?
Well,
he thinks to himself faintly as Ai licks his lips if only to look more pleased with himself,
I have time to figure that out.