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In Loid’s defence, the lights were dim, the music was loud, and Loid was completely, utterly, and helplessly intoxicated.
That’s what he would tell people (not that anything short of waterboarding could get him to admit this aloud) when they asked the question, how exactly, Loid, did you manage to mistake the beautiful (noticeably feminine) Yor Briar for Yuri Briar, Yor’s (noticeably masculine) younger brother?
He only has Franky, that scruffy bastard, to blame. What had he said before this whole mess began? Please, Loid. The girls flock when you’re with me. I need that tonight. We need that tonight . Loid did not need that tonight, actually. But he was nothing if not a good friend, and a friend in debt, too, from the last time he needed a doctor's note forged to explain a late assignment.
So, that’s the situation. On a Tuesday night in the dead middle of semester, by the astoundingly early time of 9pm, Loid is fully, fitfully, off-his-face, embarrassingly drunk. He’s not proud of it, but when in Rome, right? If a party has free drinks, you’re basically obligated to partake. And free drinks, this house has aplenty.
It’s a frat party, alright, but I promise it’ll be cool. Fiona’s going to be there, man. I have to impress her! Fiona, of course, kicked Frankie to the curb within the first five minutes of running into her. It was spectacular, and the boot-shaped imprint on his face is still red when Loid pulls them over to the drinks table.
There, they drink, and drink and drink , until Loid, body lax, head heavy, sits himself in a corner while Franky goes AWOL. Pissing somewhere, Loid thinks. Maybe crying. Maybe cry-peeing.
Some moments pass, and then some more. The ceiling spins above him. Carefully, Loid begins to lift himself off of the ground. Left hand to brace himself, straighten the right leg, right hand reaching, reaching for a counter–right hand missing the counter, right hand falling, right shoulder careening down with it, the rest of his body following suit–till Loid is a heap on the floor.
Dimly, he makes out someone shouting the word taxi . With his forehead pressing against the cool tile of the kitchen, Loid sighs into the floor.
When Loid finally manages to collect his bearings, and himself off of the ground, he realises that the counter is further away then he remembers. Who could have moved it without me noticing, he thinks. The thought strikes a chord of fear in him. It is definitely time to get Frankie, then get out .
The theme of that night’s party is, ‘things that start with J.’ As a result, Loid, who is dressed as a jelly bean, found himself pushing past waves of intoxicated jack rabbits, pots of jam, various renditions of Jesus, swathes of denim in every configuration you can think of, jeeps, jingle bells, jack-o’-lanterns, all in search of Justin Bieber, who was Franky’s alter-ego for the night.
Pushing past a pair of jaguars, Loid makes his way outside. There is a dozen or so people littered about, some Loid recognises, others he has never seen before. Anyone here could be after me, he thinks, determined to be in and out as quickly as possible.
When his gaze lands on a familiar head of long, shiny black hair, the paranoia of the past 10 minutes fades into the background, replaced by a series of nonsensical thoughts. Flashes of sounds and images race by, memories of a tinkling laugh, a kind smile, and a voice like water; smooth, essential.
“Yor?” He calls, drawing closer to the familiar, favourite head of hair. He hadn’t known Yor would be at this party. Franky should’ve told him–it would’ve cut his ‘beg, plead and blackmail’ time neatly in half if he’d started with that fact.
From the back, Loid can make out the bottom half of a glittery pink dress, short and tight, exposing enough leg to make him gulp. His throat is dry, drier than it’d felt moments ago.
The figure turns, and Loid catches a flash of red. It is Yor! Immensely pleased with the findings of his investigation, he reaches for his dear athletic friend. He wants to hold her, something that he always thinks about but tries awfully hard not to. Holding leads to embracing which leads to kissing which leads, if Loid is lucky and he doesn’t believe in luck, to something that sets every atom alight in his body just thinking about. And Yor doesn’t see him that way, so thinking of holding really only leads to miserable yearning.
His arms never make it home. Instead, the figure snatches itself away from him, putting distance between the two. It's worse than he thought! Attempted holding doesn’t lead to anything at all, except for more miserable yearning!
These thoughts are dispelled in an instant when the voice that belongs to the body speaks up, and it at once becomes disconcertingly clear that Loid’s initial assumption was wrong: this was not Yor Briar.
“What the hell!” The voice is distinctly masculine.
Loid pauses in his tracks. He hunches forward, squinting at Not-Yor. Before he can get too close, Not-Yor pulls back again. “Who the hell are you!” The voice is also loud and unfriendly. “And why do you know my sister! And who are you to my sister! Why,” the figure looms closer, “Are you trying to hug my sister!”
The rapid-fire of questions arches over Loid’s shoulder and lands somewhere behind him. A little bit of shrapnel breaks off and hits Loid in the head. These are the words: my sister.
Yor’s…. Sister?
“Yor has a sister?”
“What? No! I’m her brother!”
What, indeed. Why hadn’t Yor mentioned she had a brother? Loud looks at this person with fresh eyes, taking him in in his entirety. Long black hair, a short, sparkly dress…could it be, and Loid considers this with some apprehension, that Yor is ashamed of her brother? But why? Doesn’t she know they’d never ridicule another person for something like that?
Yor’s brother must be following his gaze because his expression distorts. His forehead scrunches, mouth pulled back.
“Whatever you’re thinking…stop thinking it! It’s a costume party, stupid.” He takes a deep breath. “I’m Jennie.” He speaks. “You know, like the Blackpink member?”
Oh . Yes, Loid knows Blackpink. Franky has a poster hanging up above his bed of the Blackpink members.
“Anyway–answer the question! Who are you! Why do you know my sister?”
“We’re on the track team together.” Loid says, knowing in his heart that he has seriously messed up. The thought is sobering. “I’m Loid.”
“Well, Loid , Yor has never mentioned you before. I don’t know what you’re doing, trying to cop a feel, but don’t ever try it again, alright? You’ll be dead the second you think about it.”
What can he do but nod and resign himself to his fate? That’s why the next words that come out of his mouth are, ‘I’m sorry, Yor’s brother, but I can’t promise that.” Wait. “I mean, I won’t be copping a feel, I’ll ask her first, of course, I–”
“You'll do what. ”
The area around Yor’s brother seems to darken. Loid understands. But what…what if he can prove to Yor’s brother that he’s worthy of her, then gain his approval? Okay, Loid! First step: Prove that your feelings are genuine.
“I won’t do anything to Yor! She means the world to me!”
“Loid–” Two voices speak at once. One is underlaid with aggression, and the other–the other is much lighter, much more familiar.
“Is that true? I had no idea.” A figure brushes past his side and comes to a stop between himself and Yor’s brother. This time, the voice attached to the body most definitely belongs to Yor.
She’s dressed like a jaguar, too. The skintight costume hugs her figure in a way that Loid refuses to focus too much on. Yellow, triangle shaped ears sit atop her head, amongst raven-black hair. The entirety of his foolishness settles over him, in his jellybean costume, drunk at 9pm on a Tuesday.
Yet–like there’s nobody else in the world, like he hasn’t just spilled his heart out for any amount of stupidly dressed, intoxicated strangers to hear, like her brother isn’t about to rip him into shreds, Yor smiles at him. And Loid just about loses himself in it all over again, like it’s the first time. Like it’s the last.
God, he really needs to find Franky and go to bed. The alcohol is doing bad, dreadful things to his head.
“Yor, I–” He starts, but she beats him to it.
“You met my brother! Yuri, this is Loid. Loid, this is Yuri. Yuri, Loid runs track with me. He’s the one who stood up for me when those girls from the competing team were being nasty. I do hope you too get along!”
Yuri, who had been poised to fight, seems to deflate. He leans back, frown pulling at his lips. Next to each other, they’re nearly identical. It’s strange, seeing that vicious look of displeasure on Yor’s delicate features.
“Alright, Yor.” She turns to smile at Yuri. When she turns back, the look Yuri gives him is downright criminal. Teeth bared, eyebrows furrowed, the whole nine yards. Still, Loid almost falls to his knees in gratitude. The thought that that might shatter what little self-control Yuri is evidently trying to wrangle up is the only thing stopping him. Also, he thinks that if he falls to the ground, he might just pass out there.
“Yor, I,” Loid tries again. He’s danced with death too much tonight, so the words that slip out are not the ones he most wants to say. “Have you seen Franky? I—need—go home.”
“Scruffy? I think I saw him passed out in the living room.” Oh, that bastard. Forget going home together, Loid had his own problems to deal with now.
With a farewell to Yor that involves entirely too much yearning, and a firm goodbye to Yuri, which Loid is certain conveys a sense of self-respect and trustworthiness, Loid heads off into the night.