Chapter Text
Spitalfields is always sprawling with people. No, seriously, the area never sleeps. In the morning it teems with jaded, disillusioned office workers who storm through doors begging to be injected with caffeine; capitalist slaves trying to make it through another fucking day like Loid himself. Then there are the shoppers, and the tourists; gallivanting around in that annoyingly happy way as free people do. And of course, the college students who are either hungover or high, or just downright hopeless; loitering daily on vandalised benches with vapes and coke and whatnots.
Come night, though, this part of town becomes a tad seedier. Just the other day a slashing incident reportedly happened about three blocks away from some law firm—Stalefields or something, he can’t remember. The junkies and the stoned litter the street, and there’s always some drunkard randomly hollering expletives or taking a piss on the pavement. Mostly Loid just shuffles to the tube with the evening herd; hands stuffed deep into his pockets. It’s not too bad as long as you blend in. And he’s a master at doing just that, because like everyone else at ten in the evening he’s knackered as fuck. Plus it’s a Friday night—which means one, the weekend is here, and two, his little sister is back from boarding school.
Once home, he tucks her in and begrudgingly acquiesces to whatever new whim she has. Like singing her to sleep, or reading her a story until she dozes off. Loid doesn’t get it, not really. His voice is usually gruff after a day of dishing out orders in the kitchen, and especially after he’d picked up the habit of smoking during lunch break, but then again Anya only has him. And he only has her. Sure he’s no father, but he’s determined to give her the best childhood she can possibly have and ensure she at least doesn’t have to fret over her three meals, because they’re each other’s family; a house of two and nothing more. He’s just grateful he’s saved up enough to rent a little cement hovel that, by all accounts, is still infinitely better than sharing a room with bed wetters in some musty orphanage out east. (It also helps that Anya’s mother–- his step-mother—left her a hefty inheritance in her will.)
“Thanks, Loid…” Anya yawns softly. “You’re my favourite brother.”
He grins, jabbing her cheek with a finger. “I’m literally the only brother you have.”
“Mm,” she responds sleepily. “The best!”
Like he said—they’re all the other has.
—
It’s not love at first sight per se, the first time they meet. That concept generally applies more to Franky—his coworker who’s obsessed with finding his soulmate and latches onto every prospective partner waltzing through the door. Yet each experience has proved itself pitifully futile. He’s still single. (And bloody annoying about it.)
In Loid’s case, it’s really less infatuation and more irritation. Having only had nothing but beans and toast all day he’s a little cranky, and he’s barely even had time to doomscroll through Twitter. Plus Franky’s Spotify account is hooked up to the speakers today, which means Blackpink or whatever they’re called is on loop, and the kitchen has been exploding with orders all day—
And fine, he’s a little bit more than cranky. Maybe cantankerous is more like it. The spillage on his apron is kind of the last straw.
Kind of.
“Oh my god,” a distinctively female voice warbles. “I’m—so, so sorry!”
“It’s ok,” Loid grunts out. Thank God it’s just his apron and not his uniform, because he hasn’t even had the time to deal with laundry this week.
“I’m so sorry,” the girl repeats. She’s wearing a pink coat that’s conspicuously clean, though at the rate she’s fidgeting one would think it was in fact speckled with lint and dirt. Loid watches, jaw agape, as she teeters suspiciously close to tears. Her mascara starts to smudge. “I’ll clean it for you, I’m so sorry! I really didn’t mean to, oh god, what do I do…”
And oh, she sounds so impossibly contrite that any anger he’d previously been mired by simply melts away.
“It’s ok. Really. It’s no big deal,” Loid placates, because it really isn’t. “I’ve got plenty of spares in the kitchen. Don’t worry about it.”
“Y-you’re sure? I can clean it and return it to you, or at least pay for your cleaning.”
The girl says it like it’s a plea and not an offer. Involuntarily Loid smiles. It’s definitely an accident, and she’s definitely nicer than the average Brit. “It’s really ok. Don’t worry about it.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah,” he grins, waving for emphasis. “Don’t mind me—I’m just going to change real quick.”
“Of course!”
Returning to the kitchen, he opts for snagging Franky’s apron—until a hand promptly swats him away.
“Oi, that’s mine!”
“I need a change.”
“Go get a spare from storage.”
“That’s two floors away, so no.”
“Don’t you know theft is a crime?”
“Don’t be petty,” Loid sighs. “I barely have time for a smoke today—much less visiting storage, of all places.”
“Maybe you’ll have more time if you stopped flirting and actually did your work.”
“Who was flirting?”
“You, duh,” Franky grunts, oddly morose as he stacks up pots and pans. “Don’t think I didn’t catch you. And how come pretty girls only ever talk to you?”
“Which one?”
“The one who looks like Jisoo,” Franky exclaims, a little too excitedly to be comprehensible.
“What?” Loid splutters, because that sounds incredibly crass even by his standards, and he’s been told off by their boss countless times for cussing like a sailor whenever stress gets the better of him. “Looks like what ?”
“Jisoo. You know, from Blackpink?”
“No?”
“Oh you uncultured swine… have you no understanding of pop culture?”
Loid rolls his eyes and snatches the apron anyway, to replace his own soiled one. “Says the guy who can’t quote Dickens to save his life.”
“Who says? It was the best of times, the worst of times…”
“What comes after?”
Franky glowers, tapping his foot pensively. “… I struck a match and blew your mind?”
“That,” Loid smirks. “Is a Taylor Swift lyric. Not Dickens.”
—
The second time they meet is at a wedding banquet. By fate or some incredible happenstance, they’re assigned to the same table—except he’s tending to the food, while she tends to the flowers; assembling them in bouquets that burst in fragrance and vibrant colour, and life . So much life. Not like he knows a great deal about flowers, but he’s not beneath appreciating beauty. And those arrangements are very pretty.
“Fancy seeing you here,” Loid teases. Yor yelps, whirling around to face him; wide-eyed and slack-jawed. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you. Those look really nice, by the way.”
“Huh? Oh! You mean these?” Yor gestures to the vase, glowing with pride. “Thank you! I’m glad you like them! And—you’re, um, the cook from last time, aren’t you? At The Erudite? The one I spilled coffee on?”
Loid grins. “That would be me, yes.”
Instantly she bows, seemingly plagued still by remorse. “I’m so sorry! I’m not usually this clumsy, I swear—“
“Hey, it’s no problem,” he cajoles. “It all worked out just fine. Like I said, I had plenty of spares. It happens.”
“Right…” she trails off, shifting from foot to foot. “Um, thanks for being so nice about the whole thing. And also—I realised I never got your name?”
“Oh, sorry about that.” He extends a hand, which she shakes firmly. A bright blush blooms across her cheeks. Somehow Loid gets the nagging feeling that she’s the kind of person who wears her heart on her sleeve. On the other hand, he’s the sort of guy who dons a thousand faces, all depending on context. He’s very adept at adapting. “I’m Loid. Loid Forger. And you?”
Yor beams. “Nice to meet you, Loid! Or again, I suppose, though hopefully without mishap this time… o-oh, right, I never introduced myself either! I’m Yor. Yor Briar.”
Loid chuckles. She’s so painfully honest it’s actually funny. Usually the girls he meets are tacked with a lot more agenda and—well, tact.
“Well, yes. I don’t foresee anything that might cause a mishap tonight.”
“I sure hope not,” she mutters glumly. “These crystal vases look really expensive… I’d hate to break anything.”
“Then I shan’t disturb you further,” he quips. Yor giggles. “I’ll leave you be. See you later.”
“See you!”
—
Later, when he catches her looking at the bride from the corridors—all wide-eyed and sprightly and flushed with excitement—he can’t help but wonder if she’s ever dreamed of getting married.
( He doesn’t, not really. Loid only has a blueprint for a failed union, and he’s always loathe to let history repeat itself.)
—
The night wraps up soon enough, like a gift. The bride and her entourage are laughing drunkenly, while her husband is flat out of the box. Piss-drunk on the floor. They probably won’t remember anything tomorrow, but this degree of intoxication is all very par for the average newlyweds in London.
(Loid will remember with great disdain, though, how the groom had admonished his wife about her calorie intake, because anymore and she won’t be able to fit nicely into her dress . As a cook he simply cannot fathom why people regard food as sin. That itself is sin. Food is meant to be enjoyed. Cherished. Not recklessly tossed into the trash. Growing up with an abundance of scarcity means he’s grown used to not wasting food, and even now it still irks him greatly whenever people do so.)
When he’s finally done cleaning and packing, Loid wanders off to the balcony in hopes of fresh air and a smoke break. It’s not like he’s addicted or anything, but there’s just something about the motley of harmful chemicals that helps him unwind. Anya doesn’t like it when he smokes, though, so he never does so at home.
It’s also there at the balcony that he spots Yor, looking terribly less… fresh. Like someone’s just rained on her parade and dampened her spirits.
Sighing, he stubs the cigarette and approaches her cautiously.
“Hey,” he calls. Yor jerks and whirls around to face him. Hastily, she cobbles together a watery smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you again.”
“You’re good,” she reassures, unusually subdued.
“... Is everything okay?” Yor nods, eyes still downcast. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah… It’s silly, really. I somehow didn’t get the memo for no freesias, and one of the guests got really upset earlier, and I just feel… kind of bad, I suppose. Thankfully it didn’t ruin the atmosphere of the wedding, but she was pretty mad when she saw the freesias on the table, and—oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to ramble. You must find this all really silly.”
Loid grimaces. Working in service always sucks when you’re faced with the Karens of the world.
“Not at all. I know what a pain customers can be. Was it an allergy or something?”
“No, not really. I think she just didn’t like it. Said it was an eyesore, and that it ruins the air for her.”
“... So she was just being a bitch, then?”
Yor gasps, scandalised. “U-um, no!”
“Well, sure sounds like it.”
“No, it’s my fault. I should’ve checked.”
“Sometimes it’s just impossible to prepare for every situation. You can’t counteract every single Karen in the wild, you know.”
For a tense moment she’s utterly silent, and then Yor finally laughs, shoulders quivering. “I guess you have a point. Thank you. And–um, for listening to me ramble on about a total stranger.”
He smiles. “No worries. I know it can be hard, dealing with customers like that.”
“Personal experience?”
“Something like that. But yes, don’t blame yourself, alright?”
“Alright,” Yor smiles in a soft, plaintive way, and he knows without asking that she’ll probably continue to berate herself well past midnight. “Thank you. I appreciate that.”
“Not at all. Were you about to head off?”
“Yes, actually. You?”
“Yeah.” Loid rolls his neck, rubbing at a budding crick. All the frying and plating is going to leave his neck permanently stuck in an odd angle someday. “I’m taking the tube. What about you?”
“Me too! U-um, shall we head off together, then? I just have to go get my stuff, but if you’re in a hurry…”
“I’m not,” he smiles. “Take your time. I can wait.”
“Okay! I’ll be quick!”
Yor is, in fact, unusually quick; re-emerging only moments later with a canvas tote and a bunch of flowers that he assumes she’s preserving for future repurposing. “Thanks for waiting!”
“I hardly waited,” Loid chuckles. “Shall we?”
“Sure!”
It’s only when he catches a glimpse of the Big Ben that Loid realises it’s almost midnight, so he leads them through an alley that he deems to be slightly less sketchy than the rest. Still, this is London, and there’s a reason why Sherlock calls it a great cesspool into which all kinds of criminals, agents and drifters are irresistibly drained—because it is . Drugs, homelessness and crime… he’s seen them all. (He’d almost been there too himself.) As a matter of fact there’s an old woman getting mugged inches away from them. Utterly enervated, and considering the fact that this is just an average night in the city, Loid is all ready to shrug it off and keep going—
At least until Yor lunges forward and kicks the mugger in question, and quite literally sends him flying and rolling into a nearby dumpster.
Battered, and ego terribly bruised, the man rises and dives for Yor. Something silver and sharp glints threateningly in the dark.
The man is armed.
Yor isn’t.
Acting purely on impulse Loid leaps for the mugger—only Yor gets to him first, fist slamming directly with his cheek. A crack echoes through the alley. Howling, the man keels over in agony. Yor steps on his wrist–she’s wearing stilettos, he notes–and snatches the old lady’s purse out of his grip to return it to her, and there’s a great deal of handshaking going on before the sirens scream and the police, unusually efficient tonight, nab the mugger and thank Yor for her services—all while Loid stares, utterly discombobulated, thinking: what the fuck?
When it’s all over Yor ambles back to his side sheepishly like she hasn’t just taken down a burly lout twice her size. A bead of sweat trickles down her cheek, but that’s really the only indication of exertion.
Other than that she’s thoroughly unfazed.
“U-um… sorry about that.”
“Holy…” Loid laughs, incredulous. “Remind me to never get on your bad side.”
“You could never! I’m sorry about that! I just learnt self-defence from my brother when I was young…”
“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” Loid continues, still bewildered and amused. Earlier on Yor had looked so… delicate, surrounded by all the flowers. Now he knows she’s definitely a force to be reckoned with. “And here I thought women needed protecting. Maybe I need protection from you.”
“N-no,” she half-yells, and Loid halts his teasing immediately, wondering if he’s gone too far. “I would never do that to you, I promise! I’m sorry you had to witness that–”
“I’m just kidding, Yor. That was truly something, and you quite literally saved someone else’s life tonight. There’s absolutely nothing to be sorry for.”
Yor sighs, suddenly looking terribly deflated, and frail–a stark contrast to the wrestling pro from just minutes ago.
“So you don’t think I’m… weird? Unladylike?”
“Why would I? Self-defence is an important skill to have. You just proved that point today.” Yor arches a brow in utter disbelief, as he steers them towards the backend exit of Camden. “What?”
“… nothing. Thanks, I guess,” she mutters glumly.
“I mean it. I think it’s admirable,” Loid grins. “How you made him eat dirt for supper in just one fell swoop. I should pay you for lessons.”
Some of her vivacity from earlier seems to return; mirth twinkling in her eyes. “Sure, if you’d like. Where are you headed to?”
“Hackney. You?”
“Oh! That’s not too far away, is it? I’m heading to Tottenham.”
“Like, the football team?”
Yor giggles. “I believe it’s called soccer. And no, I stay there. Just close to the stadium.”
Which, as he’s heard, is a pretty sketchy area… and though she’s proven herself more than capable of dealing with any potential threat, he’s still slightly worried by the prospect of her roaming the streets and walking home alone at this hour. “Right… I could send you back, if you’d like?”
“Oh no, please don’t trouble yourself! We’re going the opposite way, aren’t we?”
Loid wagers a glance at the maps plastered around the mucid, peeling walls, which really aren’t very helpful at all. This particular tube station is more labyrinth than platform, plus Google Maps never works underground, since somehow all satellite signals were conveniently obstructed by century-old cement.
“I believe so.”
“Thank you for the offer, though,” she smiles again, and Loid thinks maybe Franky has a point. She does look a bit like what’s-her-name, Jisoo or something (he only knows this because Franky had adamantly shoved a photo of said girl up his nose). “That’s very kind of you. And for today!”
“Nothing to thank me for.” His lips quirk upward at the memory. “Thanks for saving me from getting mugged.”
“You’re welcome,” Yor quips back, and they both laugh. “Anytime. I’ll see you around, then. Goodnight!” And she bows slightly before waving and pacing towards her platform just as the midnight train arrives, all while he watches her retreating silhouette with an amused sort of intrigue.
Curiously, Loid finds himself genuinely hoping to see her again.
—
The third time they meet happens to be at her workplace. Usually he has no business visiting the florist’s, but Anya had taken one look at the varicoloured array of flowers outside the shop and all but dragged him in with her tiny might. He’d obeyed, mainly because he didn’t want her to start throwing a tantrum. Dimly, Loid wonders if that means he’s spoiling her. Or maybe it’s symptomatic of some deeper issue…?
Oh, well. Not like he would know. He’s no psychiatrist, and anyway he really doesn’t get girls. Or women. Women, Loid decided, were complicated creatures that only served to confuse the hell out of men with their very existence—Yor Briar being one of them.
Maybe it’s because she’s such an aberration from the usual pissy funks pervading London.
“Oh, hi!” Yor greets cheerily as they enter the shop, bells chiming lightly overhead, and who even looks this bright on a weekday afternoon while stuck at work? “It’s you again! How are you?”
“Hey,” he greets, trying to mirror her vivacity with four hours of sleep. This week has been particularly rough; he’s had to work all kinds of odd shifts with the smattering of wedding dinners and formal events. That said, he is oddly glad to see her. Her smile is infectious, storm outside notwithstanding. The classic London doom-and-gloom recipe for seasonal depression. “I’ve been good. It’s good to see you here, too—is this where you work?”
Yor nods, and then beams as she spots Anya, who’s currently huddled into his trousers with uncharacteristic shyness. “Hi there! What’s your name?”
“Anya,” she responds after a beat. “Anya Forger!”
“It’s very nice to meet you, Anya,” Yor says, squatting down so they’re eye-to-eye. “I’m Yor.”
“Are you Loid’s girlfriend?” Anya blurts out, and though Loid knows London isn’t afflicted by earthquakes he suddenly can’t help but wish the earth would break apart and swallow him whole. “You’re so pretty!”
Yor reddens. Loid scratches his neck as he thinks of something to say to diffuse the situation. “U-um, thank you, Anya, but it’s not–”
“She’s not my girlfriend,” he mutters, nudging Anya as she emerges from behind his leg. “It’s nothing like that. We’re just… friends.”
“R-right! Yes! We’re just friends,” Yor parrots back, rising to her feet. Loid can’t help but wonder if they’re even friends at this point. Suppose he’d overstepped by calling them that instead of acquaintances?
“Just friends,” Anya echoes, seemingly in disbelief.
Puttering about the store, Yor yanks on her hair anxiously and returns with a bouquet of roses, chin tucked. She shuffles towards the cooler. “Was there something you needed help with, Loid?”
“Actually…” Loid turns to Anya, who grins up at him in a way he can only describe as outright diabolical . She’s definitely scheming, the little devil. “What?”
“Anya wants flowers!” she exclaims, prior shyness all forgotten. “Please?”
“Alright,” Loid sighs. “Which ones?”
Anya taps on her chin with a finger, before thrusting it in the direction of a vase crowded with pink cosmoses. “I like those!”
“I like those, too,” Yor smiles bashfully. “Would you like it wrapped in a bouquet?”
“Uh…” What did Anya want flowers for again?
The child in question fishes out a couple shillings from her pocket.
“Here! I have money!”
“Anya…” he sighs again. “That’s just shrapnel. You can’t buy anything with that.”
Anya deflates visibly. “Really?”
“Yes.” He really needs to teach her the concept of money, although Loid has the niggling feeling this has more to do with a fundamental lack of mathematical knowledge. “It’s okay. I’ll get it for you.”
Yor fidgets and looks around the shop, shifty and alert–like she’s trying to assess if the coast is clear.
“Wait, Yor–it’s okay—”
“Don’t worry,” she grins. “My boss isn’t around, it seems.”
“No, it’s okay, I can get it–”
With admirable speed, Yor wraps up a cosmos in shiny paper and gussies it all together with a pink ribbon. And then she squats down again to hand her handiwork to Anya, who’s now staring at her like she’s just hung the sun.
“Here you go, Anya!”
“Wow,” Anya breathes, slack-jawed in awe. “You’re amazing, pretty lady!”
Yor laughs nervously, clearly unused to receiving compliments. “It’s nothing much, really.” Then she turns to Loid, and he can’t help but mirror her grin.
Waving her latest acquisition, Anya bounces and shouts gleefully. “Anya has flowers!”
Loid huffs and rubs her on the head with exasperated fondness. “Yes, yes. Don’t forget your manners.”
“Thank you!” Anya chirps, adding a little curtsy for dramatic effect.
Yor giggles. “Your little sister is so cute! She reminds me of my younger brother–when he was younger, anyway. Now he’s in college and probably nowhere as cute.”
Loid softens. Something tells him she has a painfully acute understanding of what it’s like to be solely responsible for your younger sibling’s well-being. “Are you two close?”
“Oh, yes–very! Um, he’s actually the only family I have left, so…”
Spot-on. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to probe.”
“Oh, not at all!” Yor smiles, clasping her hands together. “What about you and Anya?”
“We’re in a similar predicament, actually.” Her eyes light with understanding, and she nods, smiling plaintively. “Thank you, by the way. I think you’ve just made Anya’s day.”
“No problem at all! Anytime, really,” she shrugs, smoothing the folds of her apron. “Consider it payment for soiling your apron the other time…”
Loid shakes his head amusedly. “I almost forgot about that until you reminded me.”
“I’m sorry!” she exclaims, gesticulating wildly. “I didn’t mean to–”
“It’s fine,” he reassures. “Really, it was no big deal. I’m over it–or, well, I wasn’t even bothered by it in the first place. But I should go,” Loid offers, just as another customer–a despairing man, all suited up but conspicuously frazzled; probably here to procure flowers at the last hour as a contrived apology of some sort–barges in. “I shouldn’t keep you from work.”
“You’re not, don’t worry! But please don’t feel obliged to stay–I’m sure you and Anya have other places to be. I’ll–um, see you around?”
“See you around,” he smiles, stretching a hand towards Anya. She skips towards him and takes it, still mesmerised by her cosmos. “Shall we get going, Anya?”
“Okay!” Anya beams, and spins around to wave at Yor. “See you!”
“See you, Anya,” Yor waves back, and his heart squeezes.
As soon as they leave the shop Anya plies him relentlessly with all sorts of questions– how did you meet, she’s so nice, is she your girlfriend , and when has Anya ever been so fascinated by romance anyway? She’s too young to even cognitively develop a proper crush, and as far as Loid knows she’s always making disgusted faces whenever Berlint in Love or Bridgerton comes on. All she cares about is Spy Wars and anime–some of which are probably highly age-inappropriate, with all the blood and gore going on. (Attack on Titan is definitely not kid-friendly.) Maybe Becky–her best friend from boarding school–isn’t such a great influence after all. It’s not what you think, Anya. Like I said–we’re just friends.
Across the road, Loid wagers a fleeting glance at the shop and wonders if he’ll ever see Yor again, but it’s needless speculation. London isn’t that small.
(Except maybe it is, after all.)
—
The fourth time they meet, it’s right outside St Paul’s.
Usually when left to his own devices lunch was a very simple, no frills affair: beans on toast, or whatever’s on sale at the nearest Tesco. All week now he’s been alternating between beans and Vegemite on toast; he’s been properly snowed under with all kinds of absurd requests since deciding to double up as a math tutor to snotty kids (backed up by disgustingly wealthy parents), because gas is fucking extortionate these days, and Loid really just doesn’t have time to contemplate things like the nutritional value of his own diet—something that seems to irk Franky to no end.
“Dude,” Franky calls, chewing gracelessly into a sandwich. “You need to stop eating trash. It’s either beans or crisps, and you’re a fucking cook , for crying out loud. Don’t you ever take a break?”
“I’m taking one now, aren’t I?” Loid bites into his own sandwich with a lot more finesse, and even he has to admit, it’s pretty bloody good. Dilieto never disappoints. “I will admit, this is a pretty decent sandwich.”
“I’m sure you could make one yourself too, if you wanted to,” Franky grumbles in retort. “Man does not survive on bread and beans alone, y'know? Or cigarettes.”
“It’s the quintessential British diet.”
“Rubbish. If we served that all day at work we’d be out of a job already.”
“It would make my job a lot easier…”
Franky scoffs. “Good thing we don’t all neglect our health like you do. What were you doing before cooking, anyway? You look a bit young to be a chef.”
“I’m twenty-five,” Loid sighs. He’s had more than a few… cougars, so to speak, ask him if he’s still a minor. “I was studying Economics for a bit. Then I dropped out.”
“Why?”
“Because college is expensive.” Loid shrugs, as if that explains everything. Not that he doesn’t see the inherent value in education, but he can’t comprehend why it has to shackle its partakers in lifelong debt either.
“Well, yeah… where were you studying at? Don’t tell me you’re an Oxbridge guy.” Loid keeps mum. “Dude, for real? Oxford?”
“It was a fluke. Anyway it was trash, and I doubt I would’ve liked working in finance anyway.”
The only reason he isn’t at Barclays or Lloyd’s is because he’d rather die than be permanently stuck in a cement hovel crunching numbers and pandering to UHNW individuals, all while strutting around in Patagonia. Also, tax here is actually insane. Forty-five fucking percent for that income bracket. Imagine having your pay halved and then having to deal with skyrocketing rent after, and paying twenty pounds for a cold, hard sandwich that’s also probably infested with mold; that’s London for you. (In truth Loid just doesn’t want to walk in his father’s footsteps, but that’s a truth he’d rather not acknowledge.)
“Dude, that’s crazy! Why would you drop out of fucking Oxford , of all places?”
“Like I said, college is expensive.”
“Isn’t your sister in boarding school?”
“Well, yeah…” Loid grimaces, swallowing another bite of his sandwich. Whoever made this sauce is a certifiable culinary genius, and it’s not everyday he praises another cook. A lot of British cooks seem to be allergic to seasoning and flavour—a fact that grates his nerves endlessly—but whoever made this evidently isn’t. “But that’s a special situation. Her mother made sure her education would be well-paid for.”
“And what about you?”
“I’m not her biological son, so it’s really no surprise she wouldn’t have endowed that sort of trust fund to me.”
“Man, that’s… isn’t there some way you can, I don’t know, divert some of that money to yourself?”
Loid arches a brow. “You do know that breach of trust is an indictable offence, right?”
“Shit, serious?”
“Yes?”
“Oh, well,” Franky deflates, stuffing his mouth with more sandwich. Like this, he looks a little like a chipmunk, but he doesn’t need to have his self-esteem razed to the ground anymore than it already is. “That sucks, though. Sorry to hear that.”
Loid shrugs. Finishing the last of his sandwich, he rolls up the wrapper into a ball and fishes out a cigarette. He chews on it, contemplating, then caves.
“It’s not so bad,” Loid offers, lighting the cigarette. He takes a long drag. Smoke trails steadily skywards. “I’m happy as long as Anya doesn’t have to worry about her own future.”
“… Huh,” Franky says at last, swinging his legs. “You’re actually a pretty decent person, you know?”
“Thanks.” Loid pinches the cigarette and huffs. “That’s always surprising to hear.”
“Yeah, considering you act like an asshole most of the time.”
“Has it ever occurred to you that maybe I am an asshole?”
“For sure. Too many times to count. But ,” Franky waggles his eyebrows, which Loid thinks could really use a trim. “Maybe she’ll have a better assessment of your character instead.”
And there, standing right in front of them, is Yor Briar once again; dressed sensibly in a red sweater that matches her eyes, complete with black tights and black boots.
“Hi,” Franky greets simperingly.
Loid rolls his eyes and sighs.
“Have you no shame,” Loid mumbles lowly. Franky elbows him in the ribs, which he expertly dodges. “Hi,” he calls to Yor, who’s eyeing him with mirth. “I’m starting to think this is a little more than coincidence at this point.”
“I could say the same,” Yor quips back with a giggle as she approaches them with her bike.
“Whoa, whoa, what’s going on with you both? How many times have you met now?”
This seems to fluster Yor, who instantly turns as red as her sweater. “Err…” she trails out, wrangling her hands as she bounces anxiously on her heels.
“Don’t mind him, he’s an idiot,” Loid sighs, stubbing out his cigarette with his loafers. Dimly, he wonders if it’s a habit that Yor would dislike—just like Anya. “We just bumped into each other around town a couple times, that’s all. Coincidence, actually as some might say.”
“R-right! That’s right.” Yor shoots a thumbs up, then shoots a glance at the scrunched-up paper ball beside him. “Have you had lunch?”
“Yeah,” Franky scoffs, eyeing him dubiously with a look that says, you better explain yourself later, cunt. “I dragged this guy out for lunch, because otherwise he’d just be surviving on beans and toast.”
“Like I said—the quintessential British diet.”
Yor giggles. “Aren’t you supposed to be a cook?”
“Exactly! Thank God for people with more than half a brain cell.”
Loid rolls his eyes. “Rich of you to say that when you have none.”
“Hey!”
“So what did you have this time anyway?” Yor asks, a slightly teasing lilt to her voice.
“We grabbed a couple sandwiches from Dilieto,” Loid smiles, picking his trash up to bounce it idly with one palm. “It’s the deli just across on Fleet Street; pretty hidden but really good.”
Franky snickers. “High praise coming from a chef who only eats cold beans.”
“Shut up.”
“Oh, Dilieto!” Yor exclaims. “I’ve had their sandwiches before—the pesto chicken with sundried tomatoes was a delight.”
“Really? I’ll have to try that next time, then,” Loid replies, ignoring the way Franky is leering . Idiot. “Have you had lunch?”
“Yeah! I was just—well, taking a brief break before I tend to the next delivery.”
“You should get lunch with Loid next time,” Franky grunts, equal parts jealous and wheedling. “Teach this cook what proper food looks like.”
“Stop it,” Loid mutters warningly. “You’re making her uncomfortable.”
“U-um, sure,” Yor fiddles with the hem of a sweater and pulls on a loose thread. “I should get going. Sorry, I didn’t mean to bother you.”
“You weren’t being a bother,” Loid reassures, because it’s true. The only person who’s being a bother right now is Franky, who’s grinning in an utterly remorseless way that makes Loid want to sock him square in the face. “Don’t let us hold you back either, if you have places to be.”
“Right! Yeah! I should get going before I’m late for my delivery,” Yor smiles, cheeks suffused pink. She nudges her kickstand and steers her bicycle towards the main street once more. “See you around…?”
“See you around,” he waves, softening as she rides off into the afternoon crowd. Franky mirrors him with a lot more enthusiasm, before swivelling to glare at him pointedly.
Loid rubs at his temples tiredly. “What?”
“You fucking wanker,” Franky declares, thrusting a finger at him. “All that talk about not flirting and here you are. How many times have you hung out already? Are you two shacking up or what?”
“It’s nothing like that,” Loid frowns. It’s not that Yor isn’t attractive–by most conventional standards, she probably is–but he doesn’t really want to give anyone the wrong impression, especially considering she’s been nothing but gracious, and kind. Friendly. “We’ve literally just bumped into each other a few times.”
“A woman born of six fortuities in your life?”
“Kundera, really?”
“Who’s the uncultured swine now?”
Loid doesn’t bother deigning said swine with a response.
Franky scoffs. “Well?”
“Find a mirror,” is all Loid says, before rising to return to work.
“Bloody tosser!”
—
The fifth time they meet, he surmises it must be fate. (Or fortuity, whatever.) There’s no other reason why their paths would keep crossing like this when they literally have nothing in common—no friends, no interests, no nothing. It’s not like London is geographically small by any accounts, and anyway there’s no harm in getting to know each other better.
So Loid asks for her number.
Then, he asks her out.
Her jaw drops. Yor looks about as flummoxed as she’d been when she first spilled the beans on him (like, coffee beans), and he thinks he must have already fucked this up spectacularly and read the room wrong. It’s not like he even has time to date anyway—
—until she lights up and nods and says, “I—err, yes, absolutely! I look forward to it! See you soon!”
And his heart warms immensely.
The only problem is, he has no idea what people really do on dates these days. The dating scene in London has always been a little… off-kilter. It’s not his first date for sure, but he’s also not really the kind of person to fuck on the first date, and that seems to be all people want these days. (Granted, Yor doesn’t really seem like the type.) Get a drink at a nearby pub, shack up in a nearby motel, and then call it quits a couple months later, owing to a garden-variety of issues: commitment issues, abandonment issues, daddy issues. He’s seen them all. Once Loid even had a girl ask him outright if she wanted to be in a situationship with her, because he apparently had the “face of Adonis and body of a fuckboy” and so wasn’t sure if he was the type to want to settle down. Needless to say he’d rejected her flatly. She’d cried, then, calling him a scumbag in front of a growing crowd and claiming he’d only wanted her for sex. Since that was wholly untrue (because to be frank the sex wasn’t even great), Loid had simply gotten up and left the bar without a word. It’s not like he’s a prude or a priest; if nothing else sex works well for stress relief.
It’s just—well.
All’s well that ends well, maybe.
—
That particular evening sees Loid pacing the floors restlessly like a madman, fingers raking through his hair as he agonises over what to do . Someone like Yor doesn’t deserve substandard pub grub. Maybe visiting a garden would be nice, but she’s literally a florist . Suppose she’s sick of flowers at this point? Or would she deem it sloppy, walking around Hyde Park on the first date? (At some point Anya calls him a loser , but Loid pointedly ignores her. He’ll discuss her vocabulary another time when he’s not all harried and quite literally tearing his hair out. ) Perhaps just dining at a restaurant wouldn’t be a bad idea, or he could personally make preparations for a picnic of some sort, but maybe Yor would find him cheap, and that’s not the sort of impression he wants to leave…
After scribbling down 862 possible date ideas, the sun is well and truly up, and Loid hasn’t slept a wink, and fuck him—he still doesn’t know what to do.