Work Text:
Yor Forger smooths out her work uniform and inserts the final pins into the bun she braided. Sunlight trickles through her bedroom window, making the gold ornaments fixed into her headband and her earrings shimmer as she angles her body left and right. Her reflection in the mirror returns a pleased smile. While everything has remained the same of her usual work appearance, today, she is able to stand a little taller, a little prouder.
The family trip to Frigis, though far from what she had expected, was also everything she didn’t know she wanted. Aside from getting mixed up with the military, she felt she had grown closer to Anya and Loid in ways that were reminiscent of her own childhood ‘ootings.’ Despite rumors of an impending war, her mother and father had always said it was important to keep living life and finding reasons to smile through it all. So, she and Yuri had their fair share of family trips, even with danger looming on the horizon. Looking back, those family trips are some of her most cherished memories.
In five, ten, or however many years—perhaps even in a future where she is no longer a part of this family—she hopes that Anya and Loid can look back adoringly on their time in Frigis.
“Umm…minus the part where we all could have been killed, of course,” Yor mutters quickly to herself.
The statement brings forth an unpleasant memory of the object she had to sacrifice. She touches her mouth, missing the slick feel of the oil that hydrated and plumped her lips, the faint taste of strawberry daiquiri. There was never an ulterior motive to the gift. Loid simply noted that she needed a new lipstick because of the little lie she told and that the nude color he selected suited her well.
Loid Forger is an amazing, thoughtful, sophisticated, intelligent, faithful husband. There’s a host of other adjectives with which she can describe him, but each one would only color her blush deeper and spike her pulse further.
So she hastily grabs her leather tote bag and makes her way to the kitchen, where the smell of fresh eggs, pancakes, and coffee greets her.
“Yor. Good morning. Did you sleep well? I know we had quite the adventure over the weekend,” Loid says, setting down his newspaper. He pushes the plate of delicious breakfast and a mug of steaming coffee toward the empty seat across from him. “Oh, the bus came for Anya already. School starts early today because of the cooking contest.”
"I did, thank you," Yor replies, feeling a sudden warmth overtake her as she sits down, despite her thin layer of uniform. She hasn't even touched the coffee, and the extended silence from the radiator indicates that the heat isn't currently on. “Ah, sorry! I lost track of time. I wanted to wish her good luck!”
“That’s alright. We didn’t want to wake you. It seemed like you were really tired last night. Besides, Anya said you had already wished her good luck when you tucked her into bed last night. Thank you, Yor. You really saved the day.”
“Me?”
Loid nods, leaning forward over the table. “Well, yes. It was your idea that we track down the ingredients so the chef can make the meremere for us. I think Anya learned a lot. Let’s hope she remembers.”
“She was so excited,” Yor comments, cutting little pieces of the eggs and pancakes with her fork and knife in an effort to calm her nerves. The food is delectable, but that’s no surprise. She’s sure that if Loid wanted to, he could open his own restaurant, and it would rival the best of the best. “And the meremere…well, I’ve never quite had anything like it before.” They still managed to get to the chef in the end, and he graciously made the coveted dessert for them, just like he'd promised.
Loid smiles fondly. “I could make it for you, if you want. I memorized the recipe.”
Of course he did.
“Sure, I would love that actually.” Yor smiles back, because it’s so hard not to sometimes in his presence, like now, when the morning glow casts a halo around him, accentuating the golden highlights of his hair and the clarity of his eyes, the color of the bluest sky. It’s a beautiful sight, much like the day itself.
At what feels like a minute's conclusion, she shyly averts her eyes and brings the coffee to her lips, gripping the mug tightly with both hands. She focuses on the sweetness of the liquid but could still sense Loid’s gaze on her.
Feeling self-conscious, she sets the mug on the table and wipes away at her mouth with a napkin. This only makes Loid laugh and heightens her anxiety. She dabs her lips faster.
“No, don’t worry. There’s nothing there,” he reassures.
“Oh.” She drops the napkin, feeling silly all of a sudden. “Sorry, your cooking is amazing and I guess I’m pretty hungry this morning.”
“Nothing to be sorry for. I was just thinking how nicely the lipstick from Frigis complemented your features.” Loid touches the back of his neck, and something like a shy grin graces his lips like a fleeting phantom. “Was it to your liking?”
“I-I really loved it, but—I ended up using it to save us all! To take down some super soldier called Type F. You should have seen the way he disintegrated, like my burnt toasts, she wants to proudly say—I…umm…ended up misplacing it,” she declares remorsefully instead. It was a beautiful item, the tube sleek and shiny and sparkling with rhinestones. More importantly, it was a present from her husband, a momento from their first trip as a family.
“Ah, I’m not surprised given our ordeal. I’ll get you another one,” Loid says, understandingly, as always. “We can go shopping, and you can pick one out.”
A part of her mourns that it won't be the same one from Frigis, because she really did love it and had intended to cherish it for all her days, but she's grateful nonetheless for the kind offer from her kind husband.
“Thank you so much.” Over the months, she learned it was much easier to start accepting Loid's generosity. He wouldn't have it any other way, anyway. Still, heat gathers at her cheeks. She decides she better go before color blooms. “I'll be heading out now. Thank you for breakfast. I…”
Loid grins easily, already rising from his seat to collect the plates and mugs. “I got it. My shift starts later at the hospital today, so I’ll clean up.”
After he sets the tableware into the sink, he meets her by the front door, her coat and bag draped over his arm as she hastily puts on her boots. He helps her into the coat and slips her leather bag over her shoulder.
“Have a good day, Yor.”
“Thanks, you too,” she says in a rush, halfway tilted at the door.
“Oh, and Yor?” Loid mutters slowly, the cadence stretching out the seconds and stilling her pounding heart for a moment. He cages her against the doorframe, the mist of his breath weaving with her exhale as she turns to meet the soft look in his eyes. She clutches the strap of her bag tightly when he promises her, “There’s no one else.” His words fan the flames, but from where they originate, she doesn’t know, only that the heat travels up her chest, awakening her heartbeats into overdrive, and settles hot in her head. Yor gently touches her ear. There's a ringing somewhere, interspersed with the steam that's surely shooting out from either side of her head.
It’s the telephone, she realizes distantly, dazed.
“I'll get that. See you later,” Loid says, fixing the collar of her coat with the utmost care.
She nods wordlessly, pretending she actually registered what he just said, before willing her feet to move. Each step feels like a buoyant dance, and she all but skips down the hall.
“Forger residence.”
“You bastard. How did I know you were gonna pick up at your home? I’m in—”
“Franky?” Twilight shuts his eyes. He completely forgot that Franky was probably waiting for him in—
“Frigis.”
The next bout of seconds sees Franky cursing over the line, with choice words punctuating the clattering of teeth in the cold. When he manages to stop to catch his breath, Twilight cuts in. “Sorry, but everything got resolved.”
“So you no longer need this blasted cherry liqueur that I busted my ass trying to get to you?”
“Actually,” Twilight says, remembering how much Yor liked the meremere, “I still want it. I’ll collect it at the tobacco shop when you’re back.” He figures he would also explain the whole story to Franky in person. His informant, somehow, was always the last to know.
Franky unleashes another verbal barrage. In the midst of it, Twilight glances over at the picture frames resting on the entryway table. They appear a bit dusty, which is unacceptable. He picks up the one capturing the fabricated moment of him and Yor sharing a hug. There’s not a sliver of real emotion in the photo, yet seeing it now evokes something from within.
“Franky,” he interrupts. “I know this is hardly the ideal time to ask, but since you’re in Frigis, could I trouble you with a request?”
Another family trip. To a warm region this time. Yor is excited, but even more so for Anya, who already started packing despite just learning about the trip a few hours ago.
She picks up a picture that Anya painstakingly drew, making out the figures of the family of four splashing in the water under a sun with sunglasses and a smiling mouth. In the picture, her daughter stands between her and Loid, holding their hands while Bond floats above the horizon line, blending with the clouds and high waves. She can't wait to teach Anya how to swim. It can't be harder than teaching Yuri in her younger years. Her brother excelled at many things, but swimming was not one of them.
Anya emerges from her room holding a backpack stuffed to the brim, black sunglasses slipping off her nose. She pushes them back. “Mama, you're not packing?”
Yor laughs, taking the picture in her hands to the fridge and putting it up with two magnets. “It's still early. We have plenty of time, dear.” She walks back to Anya and examines the backpack. “You sure packed a lot. Are you sure your papa will be okay with this?” She remembers that Loid wasn't too thrilled with all the extra stuff Anya tried to bring last time and even made her empty out most of the contents.
“I brought all the stuff to play spy with Mama again. Mama, can you check and do the approving? And tell Papa it's okay? I think he will say yes if you say yes.”
Oh, we have a sly one.
“And why do you think your papa will say yes if I say yes?” Yor challenges, biting down a giggle. Anya is too adorable sometimes. She kneels before the child, gently removing the sunglasses from her face and tucking it into the side pocket of the bag.
“Because, Papa wants to make you happy. If you're happy, then all is okay. He doesn't want you to worry,” Anya says, all confident and knowing. Then, she pauses, overbright eyes challenging Yor right back. “Mama, you are happy, right?”
The sentiment, though she can never truly confirm whether factual or not, touches her deeply. The question, casual and innocent, stings her eyes with emotion. “Oh Anya, I am so happy.” More than you and your papa will ever know.
Anya stares on, seemingly searching. Finally, she nods and smiles, satisfied with whatever she found. “I believe Mama.”
“And as for your request, I'll see what I can do. Check back in with me when it's closer to the trip, okay?” Yor replies with a wink.
“Okay!” Anya cheers. She tries to wink back but ends up blinking rapidly.
Yor cannot contain her giggle this time as she ruffles Anya’s hair. “Speaking of your papa, he should be back soon. We’ll show him your lovely picture, okay?”
Right on cue, the sound of keys reaches the front door, the lock and knob turning thereafter. Loid walks in, carrying a paper bag full of items. He stepped out for a bit after dinner, claiming that he had to go pick up something from Franky. Was it…groceries?
“Papa! Did you buy me peanuts?” Anya asks excitedly, dashing to her father and dragging her backpack with her.
“No, not today,” Loid says, setting the bag on the kitchen counter before crouching down to meet Anya’s curious gaze. “What’s all this?” he asks, pointing to the backpack, specifically to where Director Chimera’s arm falls out.
“It’s for our next trip.”
Loid frowns and sternly says, “I’m not so sure about that—”
“Mama said she will check to see if it’s okay!”
“Oh…” Surprise flickers across his handsome face, and then his tone softens with his look. “Well, sure then…if that’s what Yor said.”
Yor walks over and picks up the backpack, placing it on one of the chairs at the dining table. “No promises, of course.” She winks again at Anya, who rapidly blinks back.
Loid chuckles—deciding it was best to not inquire further—and moves to the counter, taking out the contents from the bag. Yor recognizes some of the items. The final object that Loid produces from the bag is a bottle of cherry liqueur.
Oh, they’re ingredients for meremere!
Loid, perceptive as always, must have noticed her realization. “Since you like it so much, I thought maybe we could make it again. You still have room for dessert, right? Plus, I thought it would be fun for Anya to make it too, since the cooking contest was unfortunately canceled today.”
Her husband never ceases to amaze her. “Loid, that’s so thoughtful of you. Yes, let’s do this! Anya, how does meremere for dessert sound?”
Anya jumps up and down, both with excitement and to catch a glimpse of all the items laid out on the counter. “Yay! Meremere! Chef Anya will make the best meremere!”
“Meremere it is for dessert then,” Loid confirms.
Yor grabs the aprons—one for herself, one for Loid, and a child-sized one for Anya—while Loid hangs up his coat. As he does, she notices his hand searching for something in the interior pocket. Of course she doesn’t think anything of it, but her husband always did have a habit of catching her off guard.
“Before I forget,” he announces, fingertips brushing against hers as he sneaks up behind her to help tie the back knot of her apron, “I have something for you, Yor.”
When she turns around, she’s met by a familiar tube of lipstick between his fingers. Shiny with glistening rhinestones, exactly like the one—
“From Frigis?” she breathes out as her mind tries to wrap around just how this was possible. Did he really run out, locate a plane, fly to Frigis, and return with everything necessary to make meremere or dessert, all in the house he was gone? As unlikely as it seems, Yor wouldn't be surprised if Loid actually managed to do all that.
Loid shakes his head with a smile, as if he were reading her thoughts. “It just so happened that Franky was there. He was the one who called this morning, and when I found out he was in Frigis, I asked if he could pick one up for me since you lost yours,” Loid explains, carefully transferring the lipstick to her palm.
She slowly closes her fingers over the lipstick. It’s quite heavy for its size, but the true weight she feels is the overwhelming joy and gratitude swelling within her. “Thank you! I hope Franky didn’t go out of his way.”
A sheepish grin spreads across Loid’s face, making him look all boyish at the moment. “It’s alright. He’s been well compensated for his troubles.”
Anya stops jumping and pushes herself up from her toes. “Put it on, Mama! I wanna see! Papa wants to see, too.”
“Anya—” Loid starts, sternness returning to his voice. But then he sighs, resigning to his own admission. “I do.”
“Oh…sure.” Yor feels as flustered as she did the first time Loid gifted her the lipstick, although for entirely different reasons. She felt almost ill then, her heart plummeting all the way to her feet as her mind rationalized her colleagues’ perspective on gifts and their connections to infidelity. She was so convinced Loid was preparing to launch her out of the family like a speeding cannonball, zooming over Frigis, beyond Berlint, and landing somewhere in Westalis, a place as dark and desolate as her life once was as a Briar .
But now, well, a part of her still fears rejection. So, she thinks about Loid’s vow. It resembles a lie, because it sounds too good to be true. Even so, she has to believe it, that it could be the spark she had always yearned for, the one that would ignite new beginnings.
She pulls off the cap and twists the tube, bringing forth a stick that’s a deep hue of wine—of bloodshed. Oh, it’s a different color. She presses the new color to her lips, gently gliding the stick across the bottom and then carefully along the curves of the Cupid’s bow.
Apparently not carefully enough, for Loid extends a palm, gently thumbing away the excess that fell out of line.
“H-how does it look?” Yor asks, attempting to mask the effect of his touch, which kindles a tempest of sensations beneath her skin. She’s certain she’s failing miserably.
And Anya confirms that. “Mama’s turning so red, like Second Son. Must be new to flirting.”
Bested by a young child.
Loid retracts his hand, as if he had unintentionally caused offense, and slowly steps back to admire. She observes the intense focus in his contemplation, the narrowing of his eyes as he assesses the result. “It suits you…but perhaps a different you? Forgive me. I’m hardly making any sense.” He clears his throat. “I suppose what I’m trying to convey is that your beauty is multifaceted. This particular color would complement your black dresses wonderfully, or any darker colors, or…any colors, really. Sorry, I’m rambling,” he concludes softly.
It’s rare for her perfect husband to falter in his speech; it’s endearing. “Thank you, Loid.”
Yor presses her lips together, savoring the sweetness of the coating. There’s a sense of familiarity to the taste. Turning the lipstick tube upside down, she notices the name of the color, or perhaps it’s the flavor, in small print: Cherry Liqueur.
“Cherry Liqueur. How lovely,” she laughs, showing Loid the label.
He joins her laughter, the sound like honey trickling down, warm and delightful. It’s ephemeral though, like all his moments of elation. His brows suddenly knit in tension, an angry storm gathering in his eyes, directed at Anya. “Wait a minute, young lady. What do you mean red like Second Son? What exactly are you doing to Damian? Are you getting along with him? Are you upsetting him? You mustn’t jeopardize the friendship schem—his friendship.”
Anya pats her papa’s knee, the way she would with Bond’s head. “You worry too much, Papa.”
“Loid, come look at the picture Anya drew when you went out.” Yor points to the fridge, and when Loid has focused his attention fully on the picture, she sneaks a wink at Anya, who successfully winks back this time. They manage to defuse the heat.
“It’s quite detailed. Good job, Anya. Maybe we can work on some shadowing, start adding dimension?” Loid says, all to himself, as he stands with a hand on his hip, turning his head side to side in critique.
Anya slips into her apron with Yor’s help, and they have both started bringing the ingredients to the dining table, giggling quietly to each other as they sneak away from the kitchen island soundlessly like little spies.
“Hurry up, Papa! I wanna make some meremere,” Anya calls from the chair she’s perched upon at the dining table.
“Right, right. Sorry,” Loid says. He puts on his own apron and brings over some bowls, utensils, and the bottle of cherry liqueur.
During the baking session, Yor mostly watches while Loid supervises. Anya says it’s because she wants to show off her cooking skills—“ Definitely not because we’re scared of Mama being anywhere food! ”—and Loid wanted to see how well Anya would have fared on her own today.
It’s nearly ten at night when Anya finishes, sleeves stained and face covered with powder. They gather around the table, each holding a fork, eager to taste the finished dish. Bond joins them as well, though only as an observer. Loid takes the first bite, and Yor can tell from the pride glowing on his face that Anya did well.
This gives Anya the confidence she sought to taste the very first dessert she makes, and it doesn't disappoint. “This is so good! Anya did so good!” she says, mouth full, chewing.
Loid smiles and takes another bite of the meremere. “Yes, Anya! You did very well.”
Yor slips a piece of the meremere into her mouth. It's flawless. Knowing that if the cooking contest had happened, her daughter would have won a Stella, they toast with cheers and drinks—a glass of apple juice for Anya and for herself and Loid, an exquisite cocktail crafted by Loid using the remaining cherry liqueur.
After clearing the table and helping Anya get ready for bed, Yor quietly returns to the kitchen. Loid is at the sink, washing the dishes. She stands by the kitchen island, her gaze wandering to the striking features of his handsome face. The flawless, chiseled slope of his side profile. The velvety texture of his skin. His cheek–a pale canvas, where she suddenly feels the urge to paint with a kiss, like how a real wife would kiss her husband.
She tells herself it’s the alcohol that’s making her feel all silly, but the truth is she’s thought about it for some time now. Kissing Loid. Even if it’s just a harmless peck on the cheek.
She hastily turns around, spinning away her musings, when Loid finishes and wipes his hand on a dish towel.
“Yor, it’s late. Everything alright?”
“Oh, yes,” she answers, her back still turned to him. “Just came out to see if you needed any help.”
“Ah, I’m fine. Thank you though.”
Her heartbeats pound in her ears, so much so that she doesn’t even hear Loid walking up right next to her. “It really does look good on you, Yor,” he says, with a kind smile she can hear.
Her cheeks flush with embarrassment. He must think her foolish—keeping the lipstick on even after showering and changing into an unflattering old nightgown held together by a crumpled bow. “Thanks,” she chokes out.
“Are you going to bed?”
“Yes, soon. I’m just going to…uh, get a glass of water.” Out of nowhere, her throat grows parched.
Loid frowns, concerned. “Are you alright? The cocktail wasn’t too strong for you, was it?”
“It was perfect. Just a little thirsty, that’s all.”
He nods, the tension in his face visibly receding. “Well, alright. Good night, Yor. Sweet dreams.”
“Good night, Loid.”
She walks toward the cupboard to get a mug and can feel Loid turn his head to watch her a few seconds longer before he makes his way to his room. She releases the breath she holds once she hears his bedroom door click shut. She fills her mug and takes a long gulp of water. And then another.
Her thirst is satisfied, yet restlessness lingers. Sighing, she retrieves the feather duster and approaches the photo frames, wondering if she could one day be of any greater use beyond cleaning and tidying. She intended to dust the frames, noticing that they had accumulated some particles around the edges.
It surprises her to find them already spotless.
She lifts the photo of her and Loid, the one of them clutching each other. Her chest swells with a wistful ache, longing to feel a fragment of the artificial affection. To bask herself in the warmth of Loid's protective fold, steep herself in the radiance of their smiles as mirth spills from the contours of the ruse. The alcohol fuels her courage to do what she can never in reality. She kisses her husband.
A good night kiss, she happily thinks.
Over the next two days, Twilight finds traces of Cherry Liqueur throughout the apartment: on Yor’s face towel, a mug in the kitchen, a half-bitten apple on the counter, the fur on Bond’s head, Anya’s face, the collar of his white shirt fresh out of the laundry. They're all subtle smudges, hardly perceivable to others, but his observant eye catches them all.
He doesn't think much of it—probably an accidental brush here and there—other then Yor must really love her new lipstick.
But the crimson mark on his cheek in the photo where he and Yor are embracing each other leaves him stumped. His mental gears spin relentlessly, culminating in exactly seventy-seven explanations.
The one that makes the most sense is this: it must be a show for Yuri! Yes, that’s certainly it.
“Really, Papa?” Anya looks up from her drawing, a questioning brow raised, mouth in a hard line. She’s clearly displeased about something.
“Really what?” Twilight asks, folding his arms.
Alarm flashes in Anya’s eyes as her fingers clench tightly around a red crayon. “Umm…really? We’re…having hamburger steak, again ?”
Twilight frowns, stepping away from the photo frames. He moves to the living room table, where crayons are sprawled and papers are scattered. “What’s wrong with that? I thought you love hamburger steaks.”
“I do, but I’m a little bored, after having it two times already,” she says, though somewhat unconvincingly.
“Alright. I’ll keep that in mind.” He takes a seat in the armchair and leans forward to study Anya’s new drawing. It’s of the whole family at the dining table, with a slice of meremere in the center. All the figures are smiling, but Yor has the biggest and brightest one, with a wide upward red curve for her mouth. “This is the celebration from the other night, right? After you made the meremere?”
Anya nods, signing off her name at the bottom corner. It’s rather illegible, but she’s putting in the effort at least. “Yes, Papa. Do you like it?”
“I do,” he says, and it’s true. “Would you like me to hang it on the fridge? We’ll show Yor when she gets home.” He glances at the clock. “She should be home in a few minutes. I should start setting the table.”
The hamburger steaks are ready, just keeping warm in the pan. The salad is done, and the dinner rolls are baked to perfection. He considers what beverages will pair well with tonight’s dinner. Anya will likely want juice again, and perhaps some wine for him and Yor will suffice.
“Yes, please help me hang this up to show Mama,” Anya says, handing him the drawing. “Oh, and Papa? Can Anya ask for an ooting?
He takes a sharp breath, always uncertain on where Anya's requests may lead. “Where to?”
“Can we go take some new family photos after dinner?” she asks, eyes betraying the earnesty in her little voice.
"Why? We already have them," he remarks, gesturing wildly toward the photo frames—"See?"—as if this is the first time Anya has seen them.
Anya looks, and then looks away, silently pushing the crayons aimlessly around the table, watching them roll from one side to the other. “But some of them are not even real.”
Yes, that’s correct, like the ones with just me and Yor. I had to get them manipulated, knowing Yor wouldn't feel comfortable actually engaging in those poses.
"But most of them are," he defends, wincing inwardly at the way desperation strains in his statement. Why is he even debating with a child anyway? As the adult, he should have the final say.
“They're old news,” Anya chides, sighing loudly in exasperation, almost theatrically. “Even the new family photos we took with Bond, all of us smiling.”
Twilight gives it more thought and thinks Anya could be on to something. Maybe they really should put up some new photos. Maybe that's why Yor felt the need to embellish one in her own way. Yuri must have privately questioned his sister or made additional side comments, grave enough to inspire Yor to do what she did. After all, he does have a tendency to show up invited, sometimes conveniently when Twilight isn’t home.
The decision comes easily to him, rationale sound. He must do what he can to alleviate Yor's burden, without further delay. It shouldn't even have come to this. His carelessness has made him a lamentable partner, and that surely won't do.
“I'll call to see if we can make an appointment for tonight, after dinner.”
Yor doesn't know why she's suddenly nervous about taking some family photos. She was surprised when Loid casually mentioned to her during dinner that he made an appointment to visit the local photographer afterward for new photos. In fact he insisted, with Anya's enthusiastic support.
Her fingers tremble, dragging a wayward line of lipstick across her tightly pressed mouth. When she swipes away at the imperfection, she's reminded of Loid's thumb, the way the callused pad gently and confidently bristled her skin, alighting a trail of tingles and merciless warmth despite his effortlessly composed demeanor. Would he still remain so collected if she were to caress his cheek with a kiss, leaving behind a whisper of her desire?
She plays with the fantasy in her head, only to sharply jolt back to reality by a knock on her door. Her heart beats uneasily as her imagination slips away like a wisp of smoke.
“Mama? Are you almost done looking pretty?” Anya asks from the other side of her bedroom door.
“I’ll be right out, Anya,” she answers, casting a final look at herself in the mirror, at the long navy dress that wraps around her like a second skin, its neckline dipping just enough to tease. She’s pleased with the way it accentuates her figure—striking, as Loid once commented—and the way the satin shimmers like a midnight sea each time the moonlight brushes it in the midst of her half-twirls.
Yor finds her purse and the cream cardigan to cover her shoulders and bare arms. A touch of modesty for her guise as a mother, and perhaps armor to deflect her own shyness from her husband. She was never good with receiving compliments.
Loid looks absolutely dapper in his three-piece suit, Anya darling in her sparkling tea party dress, Bond dashing with a smart bow around his neck. They’re waiting for her in the living room, all donned in shades of navy, and Yor, despite the immense challenge, convinces herself with the aid of leftover wine that she too blends well into this picture-perfect family, completing the harmonious ensemble as the final puzzle piece.
“Yor,” Loid says, sounding a little breathless in her hazy state. “You look stunning.”
She swallows hard, the comeback floating and lost somewhere between her heart and tongue. She raises the glass to her lips again and is about to take another swig, only for Loid to delicately extract the glass from her hand at the stem. “You’ll ruin the lipstick,” he murmurs with a low chuckle, his touch light and comforting as his presence.
“Oh,” is all she can say, intoxication fogging her mind in blissful confusion.
After Anya points out that it’s the third time Twilight has asked Yor for her permission to hold her as they walk down the cobblestone path to the photo studio, he finally stops himself from asking a fourth time. Instead, he tightens his grip across Yor’s shoulders, pulling her close to him as she occasionally sways into his bicep while his other hand latches on Bond’s leash.
The walk takes a little longer than anticipated, but it’s enjoyable nonetheless, to be able to stroll down the streets and weave in seamlessly with other families and their dogs. He catches all their furtive glances and whispers, attributing them to his lovely wife by his side and his proud daughter who leads on with a confident march, her furry companion matching her strong steps with his head held high.
Whether it’s exhaustion or the effects of inebriation, Yor eventually feels comfortable enough to rest her head on his shoulder. The friction causes the pins to loosen from the bun. He catches all the pins in his palm as the long length of her hair unfurls like a black waterfall, running cool and smooth over his wrist.
“I’ll fix it,” Yor mutters sleepily.
“Don’t worry about it.” His hand disappears behind the curtain of her dark hair to embrace her once more after slipping the pins into her coat pocket. “It looks nice like this. Plus, your hair is usually up in all our photos.”
She hums, perhaps in agreement, and then that’s that.
When they pause to wait for a streetlight to turn, Yor looks up at him, eyes wide and scintillating despite being shrouded with sleep. “Do you like it?” she questions, bringing a palm to her heart.
“Y-yes,” he finds himself saying, almost immediately. He assumes she’s referring to having her hair down, but if that isn’t the case, he thinks his answer would be the same anyway.
Therefore, he doesn’t feel the need to clarify.
The photo session goes by quickly, almost all a blur. Maybe because it’s growing late into the night and the photographer is tired, maybe she’s a little out of it from all the wine she downed, or maybe she’s anxiously bracing for what is inevitably coming next.
It’s as if Anya reads her mind when she steps aside with Bond, stating that it’s now her mama and papa’s moment in front of the camera. Together. Alone.
Yor remembers that she couldn't bring herself to do it the first time they visited the photo studio. To pose intimately beside a stranger, skin against skin, pretending to look all lost in a love she didn’t feel. It felt impossible. It was mere days that she knew him at the time and pretending was never her forte. Loid had fully understood her unease and ended up finding ways to cleverly fabricate some of the photos to feign intimacy.
The photographer asks them to wrap their arms around each other, lean their heads in, lock eyes, and some other iterations of what a husband and wife in love would normally do, like—“Maybe give your husband a kiss on his cheek. Don’t forget to relax your facial muscles. Soft. I need softness!”
Though she doesn’t love Loid, not yet anyway, there’s an undeniable attraction.
Probably one-sided, she laments. She doesn’t mean to frown, and she certainly doesn’t mean to worry her husband who has the uncanny ability to both placate and provoke her with his gaze. It’s the latter this time, her heartbeats striking sharply as a stiletto to the head. If only she could stamp down her nerves just as easily.
There’s an unmistakable longing in his eyes, but as the seconds drag on with inaction on her end, he smiles softly and whispers, “It’s okay. We don’t have to, if you don’t want to.”
She recalls those words. Truthfully, she had felt a slight urge to kiss Loid even then, despite the oddity of doing so with an outsider watching, especially since that outsider was Yuri. Though she’s never engaged in anything akin to a kiss, she had always imagined her first time to be in seclusion, caged in the warmth of her lover, suspended somewhere in the night or darkness, within the shadow of the Thorn Princess from whom she’d draw the confidence to reciprocate passion with equal fervor.
This—in front of Anya, Bond, the photographer—is so far removed from her ideal. Yet, the Thorn Princess knows, better than Yor, better than anyone, that the ideal moment comes unprecedented, and one must strike decisively when the opportunity presents itself, for there may not be another. While this principle applies to matters of combat, Yor realizes it may not be too different from matters of the heart.
And right now, her heart, more than anything, yearns for Loid Forger. Her other half—unabashed and unapologetic—awakens inside her, urging her on. To grasp Loid’s wrist with both her hands. Rise on her toes. Close her eyes to will the world around her to stop as she stains his cheek with her lips, imprinting their shape on his smooth skin. The flash of the camera flickers behind her eyelids, forever sealing this moment in time. Forever sure to haunt her for days to come.
When she lowers herself and opens her eyes, she hears Anya gasping and sees from her periphery a smile splitting the girl's face, her small hands covering Bond’s eyes. Loid is perfectly serene, expression impenetrable, demeanor as unyielding as ice.
That’s really all she remembers as her vision begins to darken and fade, probably from morbid embarrassment, she thinks.
“Mama fainted from a kiss? I didn’t know that could happen,” Anya says, giggling as she struggles with Bond’s leash on their way home.
“Are you managing to hold onto Bond?” Twilight asks. Even if Anya wasn’t, there’s little he can do to assist as he cradles an unconscious Yor in his arms.
“I’ll be fine, Papa. Now, back to my question,” Anya demands cheekily.
“Yor is just tired. She also probably had a little too much to drink,” he supplies nonchalantly.
“So it’s not because of the kiss?”
He can’t claim absolute certainty, nor can he relate. Yet, he feels a blush creeping up his neck and warming his ears. He looks down at Yor, deep in her slumber, a faint silver trail of drool slipping from the corner of her mouth. Cherry Liqueur has mostly faded from her lips, transferring onto the front of his suit from what remained after the generous amount stamped on his cheek, where her phantom kiss still lingers. He hasn’t had the chance to wipe it off yet, nor does he feel a great urge to do so. Yor’s well-being is his priority.
“Not sure. But let’s not bring this up to Yor, okay?” There’s a good chance that she won’t remember any of this come morning.
“Won’t Mama see the photos and remember?”
“Well, maybe. But let’s not make a big deal out of it.”
“Okay,” Anya agrees. Twilight doesn’t like the little smirk he sees or the mischievous twinkle in her eyes. “When can we pick up the photos, Papa?”
“Tomorrow. I’ll get them after work."
Yor stirs intermittently in her sleep, whispering something inaudible. At one point, he tilts his down in an attempt to discern her indistinct words, lips hovering near her forehead. He can’t really make out what she’s saying, even when he’s close enough to to catch the faint scent of cherry liqueur on her lips, in the wisps of her breaths.
But when he tenderly presses a kiss to her forehead, tension dissipates. She falls still, content, her head lolling against his chest. The most tranquil smile adorns her lovely face, half-covered in shadows, all the way home.
“I approve! Though I think it’s still a little too early to pack for the trip, I'll let you off the hook,” Yor says, handing Anya’s backpack back to her. It’s stuffed with her toys, Director Chimera, two bags of peanuts, a hat, clothing, and a water gun. She doesn’t tell Anya that she snuck a workbook and a pencil all the way to the bottom of the sack. She has to play fair for Loid’s sake, too.
“Thank you, Mama! I can’t wait for our next trip!” Anya cries, throwing her arms around Yor’s neck.
“Me too,” Yor says, returning the hug, mindful to be as gentle as possible.
“I also can’t wait to see the pictures we took!”
"Your papa should be home soon with them." She pulls away from Anya and moves to the entryway table, rearranging the frames to make space for the new additions. That's when she sees it—a crimson smear, shaped like her mouth, imprinted on the glass, perfectly aligned with Loid's cheek.
A numbing chill runs through her veins as she vaguely recalls admiring the photo the other night before she allowed her affection to surface in solitude. It was the only way to express the crush she harbored without facing the fear of judgment and rejection.
Her hand sweeps through her hair, a surge of panic rising as she contemplates the possibility that Loid might have caught sight of it and, and—
The front door unlocks with the twist of a key, knob next. Loid emerges, holding a small box in one hand and wearing a pleasant smile so captivating that she nearly forgets about her crisis. “I’m home! I have the photos.”
“I wanna see! I wanna see!” Anya says, already clearing the living table, swiping papers and crayons to the side. She then plops herself into her little pink chair, hands folded in anticipation. “Open the box, Papa.”
Bond trots out of Anya's room and sits by her, evidently wanting to see the photos as well.
Yor quietly sits on the couch, overwhelmed by a wave of dread. She remembers walking to the photo studio last night, feeling drowsy and tipsy but somehow managing to still make it there. They all took photos, of course they did, but the details are hazy. Then they all went home—although she can’t recall the journey back at all—and she woke up in the morning, still in her dress and cardigan. She must have been so exhausted that she passed out without even changing.
It feels like pieces are still missing, scattered like dreams forgotten.
Weight dips onto the seat beside her. “Yor?” Loid says firmly. “What’s wrong?”
“N-nothing,” she answers, shaking her head and forcing a grin. “Just eager to see how the photos turned out.”
Anya looks at Loid, and he looks back at his daughter. There’s a knowing exchange between them, that much she realizes.
“Right,” Loid responds, clearing his throat. He sets the box on the table, cuts the tape with the sharp edge of a key.
As he parts the flaps of the box, Yor notices that the photos are already framed, a thoughtful gesture from the studio. There are four frames in total, and each one that Loid extracts is more captivating than the last—one featuring a starry night backdrop, another showcasing a stunning chaise lounge, a third capturing all crinkling eyes and mesmerizing smiles, and the final one—
“Oh…” she breathes, stunned, as she touches the edge of the frame, Loid’s grip on the other end.
It all comes rushing back to her. How she desperately gripped his wrist, tip-toed to reach his cheek, where she, or rather the Thorn Princess, bestowed a kiss. Though, she remembers a far more different reaction from Loid than the one she sees in the photo, which must have been timed right with the camera’s flash.
His mouth hangs open in startling shock, eyes widened with disbelief like he was just attacked. There’s not a single trace of “softness” that the photographer requested. Although Loid swiftly regained composure thereafter, it wasn’t quick enough to evade the precision of the snapshot capturing the candid moment.
She can feel his tension through his grasp on the frame, hers rivaling in intensity. They look up at each other, and it suddenly feels like she's being scrutinized by Yuri once again, except across from them is Anya, much smaller in stature but somehow much more relentless than her brother.
Anya peers over the table, grinning wildly at the upside down photo. “Papa looks like he's about to faint like Mama did last night. Was the kiss bad like Mama's cooking?”
“No!” Loid exclaims, loud and bold, while she finds her own voice disappearing from shame as she whispers, “Wait, I fainted?”
“Papa carried you home,” Anya says, casually fluffing the dog's fur. “And I got to hold Bond's leash, like a big girl.”
Yor falls limply against the backrest, pulling the photo in her hand with her, drained of color and energy. She wouldn’t be surprised if she’s as white as Bond at the moment. “I’m sorry to have troubled you both,” she murmurs.
“It was no trouble at all,” Loid states firmly, his palm finding the top of her hand. “I’m sorry—forgive me for the mishap with the photo. I assure you it’s not because the kiss was inadequate in any way.”
She’s unable to find her voice. Luckily, Anya steps in, relaying Yor’s thoughts with a forwardness that Yor could never muster: “So it was a nice kiss, Papa? You liked it?”
Loid suppresses a choke, then a cough. Eventually, whether he’s lying or not, he responds with a straight face, “Yes and yes.”
Yor’s breath catches in her throat. Loid must have sensed her about to flinch, for he presses his palm down on her hand with a reassuring squeeze. “But it seems like this won’t be a convincing photo for your brother, and for that, I apologize.”
She looks at the photo, then at Loid, then thinks about Yuri. She can’t make the connection. “For…Yuri? What do you mean?”
Confusion gradually dawns in his eyes, a rare expression on her husband’s usually composed face. “Well, I saw that you had kissed the other photo of us. And well, I assumed it was because he had said something to you—”
“No!” Yor blurts out, too quickly, without thinking it through. And now, there’s no way she can recover. She sinks deeper into her seat, hoping to disappear entirely. The thought of being catapulted to Westalis doesn’t sound too bad right about now.
She can see his mind working, and can almost hear the click in his thoughts. “Oh,” he says, his palm growing hotter. Or maybe it’s her own skin.
They can’t bear to look at each other, turning instead to their daughter to save the day.
And save the day, she does, pumping a fist into the air. “How about we start packing for our next trip?”
“Great idea!” Yor and Loid exclaim together, springing to their feet from the couch. The contact of their hands disconnects, both welcoming and infuriating to Yor.
“I thought you said it was still too early, Mama,” Anya replies wickedly.
Yor emits a forced, high-pitched laugh. “W-what? It’s never too early to pack for a family trip!”
“That’s right,” Loid adds resolutely. “Procrastination is the thief of time.”
“Well, I’m already done!” Anya says proudly, patting her overflowing backpack. “And Mama did the approving already!”
“Let me get started,” Yor yells, dashing madly for her room, firmly clutching the photo as she contemplates its burial spot.
“Mama, wait!” Anya yells back.
Yor pauses, swivels on her heels.
Anya flashes a sly smile and follows it with a perfect, slow wink. “Don’t forget to bring your new lipstick.”