Chapter Text
Contrary to popular belief, – the humming, and the gossips of those who perceived a grieving child in an obscure, and unempathetic lens – Loid Forger is not, absolutely, completely, most definitely, not a dramatic. Not a thespian of some sort, pandering to the throes of dramaturgy; certainly not a mask upon mask upon mask; not of woes upon woes pillaged amongst cerulean skies, and bright smiles; not a monologue of all dread and travesty; nor a teenager with flowers for tongue, and purple for teeth.
He is not emotional – simply could not be. In fact, he would call himself, ever, so reverently as reverent as he could be, a realist. Someone who sees the quaint quotidian simply for what it is – mundane, and grey, and every day. Like the lacquer of the watercolor pallet his mother had once gifted him when he was a mere child – awash with greying flecks of color, seamlessly mingling themselves into another, as life would when drowned out with whatever is brought upon itself, may it be a careless brush or too much water.
A vague depiction of what it used to be, molded so carelessly by itself that it barely held any color. Like the water where the brushes sit – murky, and filled with a clouded replica of each color exercised, and tried on – an exorcism of some sorts to rid of technicolor, and to birth a monochromatic mess that is a little bit of green, leaning more onto grey, and black, and mold.
Like the skies right after his mother’s death, and the pallor of his father’s sometimes when he wants to forget the blue in those eyes that are always, almost a certain type of grey. Life is, as always, and has been since he can remember, a water colored array of messes barely anything distinguishable at all – all times, most times, like today, staring above skies that are more teal than admiral, awash with nimbus clouds charged with precipitation and lightning.
Whatever comes today is always the same – the same hue, the same gait, the same cadence, save for the times when he is seated beside her, where sometimes, some days are red, and her eyes, and roses. The pink of her smile, and the blush on her cheeks, and maybe the raven in hair if he stares too long – a red above the grey in the watercolor, but Loid has come to know that despite it, above it, it’s always, almost tinged with grey as though it never quite wants to change.
He breathes out a sigh – an exhale that’s riddled in the cavities of his chest, plumes, if you will, of whatever pent up emotion that he denies quite vehemently so, even when the emotion is grey and obvious. He clings onto the straps of his leather, and weathered backpack, and trudges his way, without any merriness, from the dorms to the open field, where it feels like a war most times – avoiding landmines that is small talk, fanfare, and comments about the weather or something else: a forgotten homework, a rumored assassin saving the bullied from its assailants, a midnight ghost dancing above the weathered tiles of the Wisdom Tower, or how many ways one can earn a stella, be it a ritual or a mythical activity.
Whatever it is for today, it is all confetti, and white noise, and Loid, as best as he can, and as short as his fuse, weaves his way through it like a thread through a needle – always caught in the throngs no matter how practiced he does it. He sees it – the moonlight eyes, and the unkind curve of his mouth – and equally, it sees him just the same. Like a prey sought through the viridian bushes, and towering trees, fixated on, and approached in quick successions as though they have time for whatever this is for today.
It reminds Loid of owls, though he cannot quite say if there is wisdom sometimes in the riddles he speaks, zeroing in on its prey even through the obscurities, ever so determined in whatever it is it wants to perceive. He doesn’t know why it’s always him try as he might to evade the attention, but it is, as always, and more often than not, in the oddest times of the day – never a pattern, never a schedule, just whenever he sees it fit.
The imperial scholar cape makes him more ominous, the crease of his brows bridging this conclusion, and the unmoving curve of his mouth. The billowing wind does not help either, and so does the resounding thunder coming after a quick flash of lightning. Loid scrutinizes what little path he has in between students hurrying before the rain falls, and the bell sounds, and he ducks, and tries to flee – somewhere where it’s not riddles, or whatever phrase it is for today that’s different from those he has heard yesterday, and the days after that.
He steps into the crowd, and smiles as best as he can to those who have spared him their good mornings, and cuts off what pleasantries there are with a curt nod. The exit is quite small, but he weaves himself through it, and just like all times, he doesn’t make it. His eyes are a spotlight, big as they are, figure, however willowy, a petrifying thing as a juncture.
Loid stops in his tracks before he can make another stride, jailed by this odd couple he can never quite understand. He looks, like a prey desperate for an escape, from left to right, right to left, and when he deems that he has no energy to continue chase, he relents. His shoulders tense right up to his ears, and he tries, as best as he can, to polish whatever smile he can come up with, if it is, a smile at all.
“You are going to be hit by lightning,” Donovan Desmond says just as the wind blows something awful – a paid actor of some sorts that accompanies the look the boy is giving him.
If someone else were to hear the exchange, they would have deemed it a threat, but Loid Forger never does, never truly takes whatever statement the classmate comes up with at face value. They are always riddles, or some sort of phrase, or theory – always said so carelessly without further context nor follow up. He never did truly figure out what it had meant, but it always unnerved him – a stain of a thought that lingers, an unsolved puzzle piece that always presents itself. He had tried asking about it once, but the opportunity to question such peculiarity never presents itself. The boy is as elusive as the context of these random statements, and always backed up by his girlfriend’s own whims that brings a question on its own.
Like right now as he watches Melinda pull a card from a deck she is hiding underneath the sleeve of her uniform. She is sunshine whereas the other is a hailstorm in the middle of spring – a bright smile, and eagerness as she flashes him the card she has randomly picked up.
“Death,” she says as though whatever Donovan had said isn’t ominous enough. Loid makes a noise that’s more confusion than disgruntlement, and she takes it as a sign to elaborate further. “You will die.”
“Excuse me?”
Melinda flusters as she always does when she misreads a card, and then she is picking another, then another and flashes him all two. “The Three of Swords, and the Five of Wands,” she adds, and then, “be careful of being stabbed, and flagging?”
Loid blinks at her, and he doesn’t really know if she is trying to comfort him, or make it less… distasteful. But whatever effort she has been trying to make is lost to him as he opts to shake his head, and side step, and away from this odd couple, who always, always, provides more question than any answer to the questions they have asked themselves.
From beside him, like an entity that always shows up in times like these, Sylvia slings an arm around his shoulder, and leans closer to his ear: “I think you should listen to them.”
It’s at these times that Loid wonders if the rumors about her espionage is true, and the lone bolt sitting amongst her vast stellas on her illustrious cape bears as much weight as the implication. She always comes out of nowhere, and knowledgeable, too.
But regardless, Loid rolls his eyes as they make it to Cecil Hall. “Don’t encourage them,” he says, even when, he knows, without encouragement, they will continue on with their riddles and their phrases and their cards.
A penchant it seems for the dramatics, which makes his distaste for it proof that he is, contrary to popular belief, not one.
The classroom is a cacophony of another bout of whispers and discussions, and at the crux of it, Sylvia and Loid part as they depart to their respective seat assignments. Hemlock Jones drones on, and on, and on about his distaste for small talk, a monologuing that sounds Shakespearean in that way he describes isolation, and how it helped him earn his stellas.
Loid briefly wonders if the student knows that his constant monologuing is an actual cry for attention, a subtle (not really) nudge to a performance waiting for an applause – a contrast to the belief he carries with a dignified stride. He has the mind to let him know, if only to quiet the usual sentences he speaks to absolutely no one, and yet, everyone. But, Loid decides to bite his tongue, knowing an exchange of words can mean a duel, and he does not have the energy to debate on something that mostly annoys him more than anything.
He will get a taste of his medicine some time, he thinks – he hopes – as he clambers the rest of the steps, and situates himself right next to where the grey dulls into a quiet hush of red.
She has her hair down today, held together by a knitted headband that’s petal pink, and intricate – fairly brand new in comparison to the white that she favors. Not, of course, that he keeps track of her headwear, but it’s easy to notice, especially when she smiles the way she does each morning – a brightness on its own rivalling the sun. Loid returns the smile her way, musters the best one he can, and it eases something within him just a little as he meets the red of her eyes that looks sharper today, if not brighter.
“Good morning,” she says, and it tastes somewhat of honey, chasing away the bitterness of the coffee he would opt to have for breakfast – the tone of it touching something within him inexplicably.
He tilts his head this way, loose bangs falling above his hair – a languidness he chooses to be in, or rather, wants to be in when he’s in front of her. He’s not sure why he does it – the need to impress, the desire to appear that seeing her creates a stark difference in his day to day, but he does it without question. There is something about Yor Briar that eases the tension within himself, a knot loosening from its tight hold, a thorn easing; which he had then, attributed to his admiration for her kindness, and her ability to remain somehow quaint, and unblemished despite bearing the weight of an imperial scholar.
“Good morning,” he finally returns, and it’s the only set of words they exchange, apart from his occasional questions that is, really, made as an excuse considering how diligent he is with notetaking.
She smiles brighter this way, a capability he finds completely astonishing in a sense, before she turns to the chalk board just as their professor comes in. The noise quiets, and for a moment, all Loid hears is how his heart frantically beats against his ribcage, and his cyclical thoughts of going through ways to advance a conversation that is not an excuse about a homework missed, or a point misunderstood.
And of course, as all days go, the red becomes one with the grey in this watercolored life, as quickly as the bell resounds, and announces a recess, and all questions he wanted to ask her are ashes. The word lunch is at the tip of his tongue, waiting to be said, but before he can come up with words to accompany it, she is already a retreating figure somewhere in the halls. Considering her habits, she would not be around the cafeteria, nor would she be at the side where imperial scholars usually eat – things he found out based on mere observation than anything else (or so he tells himself).
Loid Forger casts it aside, a thought for later, a streak of bad luck he wears heavier than the four bolts adorning his uniform. He walks, bereft, into the halls, and contemplates searching for her as well as searching for his extensive vernacular that goes along with asking her out for lunch without scaring her away like a cat. There had been rumors of her affliction for affection – rejections turned down by her running to the opposite side flustered, or a student sent sideways after asking the wrong set of questions with a touch that is too physical.
He brushes on the stella he earned for being the top one when it comes to classical languages, and wonders where the rest of his vocabulary went. Down the drain it seems, whenever he is in the presence of Yor Briar. Something about her makes him feel nervous when he would usually be someone who never, really, usually cares or feels, or so, he tells himself. It’s the way she looks, and smiles at him – as though she knows some part of him he doesn’t quite know yet, which is ridiculous, truly, considering they have only shared two words on a day to day basis, not even enough sentences to consider a paragraph.
Loid sighs, and it’s an exhale that’s bones deep as he accepts his defeat, and meanders through the halls. He supposes he can think about it later when there is nothing else to think about – the same nights after classes as per usual.
The halls are empty at this time of the day, at the very least, for another thirty minutes, and Loid resolves himself with the quiet. Occasionally, he would glance over at the clearing, trying to find something to latch onto, or maybe hoping he would catch a glimpse of Yor somewhere. And, like a misplaced harrowing, that’s when he hears it – a sly remark stated as though asking to be heard, a voice with a timber trying to make itself more than what it truly is – a poor impersonation of class, the very epitome of nepotism’s classist aura.
He turns to the sound like one would turn towards the sound of a fork’s prongs being grated on the ceramic of a plate – purely out of instinct, and distaste – and finds himself eye to eye with Murdoch Swan, the leech of a classmate from another Hall he doesn’t care to remember.
“I don’t think it’s quite polite talking about a classmate behind her back,” Loid finds himself saying, trying his best to remain civil despite the anger that he feels after catching the last sentence of Murdoch’s tirade – a dunce for an imperial scholar who bought her way through it. “Especially someone as kind as Yor Briar.”
Murdoch fixes him with a sly smile that makes his eyes smaller, more provocative even as he takes a step, then two – the boy a few inches away from him, just short beneath his chin he has to look down. Despite the difference, it seems, with his arrogance, that he is looking down at Loid than the other way around.
“Mm,” he hums, a projection of his faux affluence, entirely due to favors upon favors from his father, who never cared to exercise his son’s capability, but flashed his own wealth to get him where he is currently. The guilty speaks of the sin as though it is not his. “Think about it – she is only good at two subjects, barely hanging on with the rest, too timid, almost set the kitchen on fire, and has nothing to show for herself than brute strength. One can even say maybe she even se – “
The sentence does not quite meet its end nor its period, and meets instead, a fist colliding against a nose that is raised too high for the owner’s height. His vernacular is rendered short with a bloodied nose, and a loosened tooth, as Murdoch stumbles then collides against floorboards centuries old. There is that rain of profanities, a sputtering that’s wet, and angry, and then he is on his feet, and returning the favor like a handshake; whereas, the handshake is towards Loid Forger’s nose that has met its reprieve just a few weeks ago when he earned his fourth bolt on another fist fight.
It earns Murdoch a satisfying crack as Loid stumbles, but before he can think of earning another upper-hand, in a flash, like lightning, there is another crack – now his, and coming from his jaw than his nose. Whatever bone is holding his jowls together unhinging due to the force despite how smaller this fist was, and for a moment, he thinks maybe Loid Forger had cheated and punched him with a rock.
He never quite makes sense of it, never puts two in two together, as his vision comes to him like a vignette, then like an old film, burns through to the center – and then, the lights are out, and there is no one home.
Loid blinks – slowly at first like butterfly wings straight off chrysalis, and then faster as the puzzle forms in front of him, and there she is: Yor Briar with a fist clenched, and drenched with what blood is on Murdoch’s face when she punched him. There is a certain aura emanating from her, completely different from the softness he usually attributes to her. Wide-eyed, and completely dazed, he gazes, and gazes, and gazes, and –
“Oh,” she exclaims, and the spell breaks, and he is laughing, and laughing, and laughing because what the hell. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to – “
“ – No, you were great. Thank you, Yor,” he finds himself saying, and he has to thank Murdoch Swan, and his uncouthness for being able to find his vernacular like a dictionary finally unearthed after months of searching. “That was amazing – “
“ – That was completely inelegant,” and of course, as all days go, the odds are not in his favor, and despite the greying threatening, he finds himself colored in red, and in Yor.
Henry Henderson looks at both students in distaste, and Loid hears the faint tut he masks behind his teeth. His face is formed into a scowl as it always is (except, when he is around his wife, Martha), hands clasped behind his back.
“I expected better from you, Miss Briar,” he says as he shakes his head, and spares a glance over at Murdoch Swan whose lights are still out.
Loid watches as the teacher reaches for his coat’s pocket, and produces a tonitrus bolt. Horror, and guilt comes tenfold, and he thinks: there goes his chance with Yor Briar, stolen as quickly and as easily as it came.
“I – no, wait, Professor Henderson – it’s not her fault, it’s mine,” he says as he frantically glances over at the man, and then to Yor, who seems unfazed despite the fact that this will be her first bolt – a blemish amongst the cape, and her numerous stars aligned. “Yor defended me when Murdoch punched me,” he adds, gesturing to his bloodied nose.
“And pray tell, Mister Forger, why would Mister Swan punch you?” Professor Henderson raises a brow, ever expectant.
“He ran into my fist accidentally –“
“ – He was defending me after Murdoch made a comment about how I became an imperial scholar,” Yor says, and her voice appears to be smaller, tinged with a guilt that Loid thinks should be his. After all, she is in the precipice of earning her first bolt thanks to him.
Professor Henderson is quiet for a while, and Loid sees a hint of amusement behind his eyes as he regards the both of them, and maybe, a sense of admiration. “I believe it is quite elegant for a fellow to defend another, and I have no reason to doubt Miss Briar,” he pauses, and Loid thinks that is that, until – “However, it is still a violation, and in fact inelegant to resort to violence, which I am sure you are quite well aware of, Mister Forger; therefore, it is by my deepest regret that I bestow Miss Briar her first bolt, and you your fifth.”
Yor deflates, and there is that guilt once more marring her features as she accepts the bolt that is affixed next to her ten stellas. Loid has the mind to take hers on, but keeps quiet, knowing that the old man would not relent, and might make matters worse. He places Loid’s next, and he feels that this one is heavier than the rest he earned for similar violations, but for different contexts. Professor Henderson leaves the both of them with a lesson, and instructs the both of them to go to the infirmary to get any injuries checked, and to ask the head nurse to pick up Murdoch Swan.
The silence stretches on as they walk along, askew and thick as the walls of Eden, as they sneak glances as though stealing bread. He tries to find the words he had been graced with earlier, but couldn’t find the right one befitting the situation where guilt weighs too heavy for dragging her along the chaos. Perhaps, that is a sign – that he should stay out of her way lest he blemishes her future further than he already has.
“I’m sorry, Loid,” she says, the first one to cleave through the ice, a sideways glance that doesn’t last long as she colors herself prettily with a dark shade of red it is almost as sanguine as her eyes. “You should have just let him say those mean things.”
Loid blinks, perplexed, and the guilt weighs heavier, but so does the fury – to think that she would allow someone to make claims about her simply because they are insecure. “What – no. I’d do it again if I could. If anything, Yor, I should be the one to apologize.”
“Why?” She asks as she turns to look at him, wide red eyes truly imploring him for a justification.
Loid fights the urge to glance at the floor, and holds her gaze steady. “Because you earned a bolt because of me.”
“He punched you because you defended me – I would do it again if I could,” she tells him, and there is a frown on the onset of her brows as she fully turns to him.
Despite the guilt weighing heavily in his chest like a bolder, he chuckles – and it’s rich, and true as he shakes his head at the realization that she echoed his own words to him, and in the reverberation, he recognized that they are both stubborn about it.
“It seems like we’re at an impasse,” he remarks just as they stop by the infirmary, and he sees it – the opportunity – and decides, maybe he should take it, but how exactly is the question.
“I’d like to make it up to you,” she says, voice shy, so small. “And before you say there is nothing to apologize for, then maybe just as thanks for defending me.”
Loid turns to her completely, and a smile blooms despite the ache it produces because of a broken nose. “Okay,” he says, seemingly as if to relent, and then, “you can thank me by eating dinner together at the cafeteria?”
“I’d love to.”
And then, she’s smiling – so bright and it casts away the earlier guilt that’s eating away at him, and he decides, maybe the days aren’t as grey after all even after being struck by lightning.