Work Text:
A pointed ping resounds in a bathe of blue, interrupting whatever music has been left on shuffle in a bubble, muffled volume that paves way for whatever notification that’s been announced. He glances over at it, uninterested, a needle pressed dangerously in between his lips, a thread pulled taut by his fingers, split leather in between his other hand. He waits another minute, for another ping, another announcement as it usually comes, chimes, but it never does arrive, instead Hozier continues.
The continuation is a punctuation, and therefore, a hallmark of his curiosity that becomes interest like a red string pull. The needle is placed safely back to the pin cushion, amongst the several pins and its comrades, the thread lamely against the floor, the leather bunched into his left hand as he crawls over to his iPad.
He brings it to life, and then opens it to Instagram, where he easily switches from his personal account over to the public one perceived by everyone in the same community. There is that flood of notifications – heart reactions from one post over to another, a mention here and there, stories viewed and commented on – that he navigates through with ignorance. Twilight, a man who prided himself with the love for the craft than engagement, often avoided any asks for collaborations and any sort of interaction.
He is just here for the characters, he often tells himself, even when Franky edges him on for living up to the name he had picked for himself when he decided to make a public debut.
Whatever.
He opens his messages, and it’s a flood of endless chats from different members of the community – one ask after another, mostly compliments here and there, and requests for collaboration. On top of it sits a chat from a user named thornprincess, the icon a photo of an eye with a ruby iris, the name a rose emoji – the one where the rose looks sad, bowing, petals dangling off it.
“Huh,” Loid whispers to himself as he purses his lips, and clicks on the shortened message, piqued, despite the several ones waiting for him, asking to be read.
“Hi,” it begins, the clipped message sent some minutes ago. “I know you probably wouldn’t see this, considering, y’know, you don’t actually interact with people, but I’m a photographer, and I’m just very, very curious about the quality of your photos, since you know, you don’t actually work with anyone – and well! That level of photography is really impressive, and I just want to know, do you have like a team or something, or is this just a smartphone?”
The insertion point blinks at him, asking him to respond as he tries to make sense of the message the other person just sent. Are they… mocking him? Complimenting him? He couldn’t wrap his head around it – it’s an odd question, or maybe they are asking for pointers, but if they are a photographer, then wouldn’t this be just an awkward, and odd way of getting him to hire them?
Loid scrunches up his face, and shakes his head as he moves, and sits right in front of his iPad before taking it in his hands. He clicks on the profile, and is immediately flooded by a feed filled with landscape photos – gardens, forests, people, cities, and every mundane thing brought to life in a color that transcends, surprisingly an OLED screen. They look like the photos he sees on Pinterest or maybe those photo-journalism photos in a National Geographic website, book, or magazine – the kind where it seems like life has been captured, and put on paper with soul than just a photo printed, and pasted.
He scrolls further downwards, clicks every tile filled with something they have captured – a busy train station where he feels the bustle even through a still, a kite loosely flying through a cerulean sky with a striking yellow even through the bathe of sunlight, a lake where it looks like if he reaches further enough, he would be able to touch it. There are captions affixed to it, a form of poetry here and there, Russian literature he recognizes as Fyodor Dostoevsky, and other times just punctuation marks.
He hovers above each post, seemingly entranced, and then makes the mistake of clicking twice, and liking a post that is as old as 2011. Loid blanches, and then, in his flummoxed state, makes the same mistake again – tapping too much, too frantic, that it looks like he is liking the same post more than once.
And well, what the hell else can he do?
“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” he whispers to himself above the noise that is now Hozier’s Shrike as he tries to undo what he had just done, and well, would it be so terrible if he just blocked them?
No, that would be terrible because if they are an established photographer in the cosplay community, word will travel, and that will not be a good look on him. While he is not posting for engagement, he also does not want to get banned from any events or at least, garner vitriol.
Loid breathes out a sigh, an exhale that sounds like it has its own mind and suffering from second hand embarrassment before he tries to click away from the post. It becomes another like, and then he is back to his messages, where a bubble of new replies from them are waiting for him.
thornprincess, 10:30pm: if you thought I was being rude, I wasn’t!!
thornprincess, 10:31pm: I was just genuinely curious! I’m trying to broaden my portfolio
thornprincess, 10:42pm: I think you already saw that I only do landscape photography, and I wanted to try portraits, and well, my brother does cosplay, so I thought? Why the heck not? And your photos look great, and I just wanted some pointers, I guess, and you’re very well-known
thornprincess, 10:45pm: this is getting long – I’m sorry!!!!
thornprincess, 10:46pm: If you want to block me after this, I wouldn’t mind!
twilight_, 10:46pm: Hi, I’m sorry for stalking
twilight_, 10:46pm: And you’re good – please don’t worry about it! I don’t have a team I work with. I do the photos and editing myself through my phone
A speech bubble pops up, and then it disappears, only for it to reappear once more. Loid waits, just as the music changes, and switches over to an old Kodaline song.
thornprincess, 10:48pm: Stalking? I didn’t think you were, lol.
thornprincess, 10:48pm: oh cool! That’s really impressive! I like what you did with the settings of the camera! Did you adjust the aperture, focus, and ISO?
Loid furrows his brows, and then scratches the back of his head as he rereads her message once again.
twilight_, 10:49pm: I just use “portrait mode” on my phone
thornprincess, 10:49pm: OH
thornprincess, 10:50pm: Sorry – I didn’t mean to sound, y’know…
thornprincess, 10:51pm: Thank you tho!
He stares at the message some more, and then resigns with a sigh when it appears that it’s all where the conversation is headed. He taps on the last message they sent to react on it, and then he is switching over to his music app to turn Kodaline off. Glancing back at his unfinished glove and then over to the time, he puts the task for tomorrow after a harrowing day at work. The convention isn’t until another week anyway, and it’s the gloves that’s missing to complete the Bondman look.
The first thing that Loid does in the morning as Twilight is post a photo of an unfinished project to be sent to the digital ether.
The people are quick with it, despite it being six-thirty in the morning, a constant buzz that shakes his phone awake from time to time. Loid pays it no mind as he goes through his routine like clockwork, and then by seven-thirty, he is out the door, his phone already a quiet thing that sits in his pocket.
Friday morning is a bathe of cerulean, the people more sluggish than they were last Monday, a quick contrast to a life that is usually sped up and trying. Noise filters through the bustling streets of 128 Park Avenue, a cacophony he drowns out with a pair of airpods as he weaves through what little foot traffic there is to make way for the office.
Midway through, Franky spots him, and regales about a woman he met some days ago that he barely catches until his friend takes off the headset from his other ear.
“You always do this,” Franky says just as they arrive at WISE, the building peering down at them.
Loid rolls his eyes just as the air-conditioning from inside greets them through the heat. “You always say the same thing.”
“It’s a different one this time! I helped her with her cat,” Franky replies, voice scathing, irritable as they pass through the doors.
Loid’s phone buzzes just then, taking him away from the conversation he is barely in like the same red string being pulled. He reaches for the airpod Franky has in his hand, and takes off the other one to be laid to rest in their case before reaching for the phone in his pocket. The same username sits on his notifications, standing out amongst the rest he has not had time to clear – the same red eye, and sad rose.
There’s an odd, comforting thing sitting on his chest that he decides to ignore.
thornprincess: oh! Are you going as Bondman?
He worries his lip as they pass through the elevator, and then he is typing without much thought.
twilight_: You watch the series?
thornprincess: My daughter does!
twilight_: I didn’t know you had a daughter
Loid winces. How could he know?
“Didn’t know you started interacting with fans,” Franky states with a snicker from beside him, startling him.
Loid lifts his gaze from the screen, locks his phone, and then narrows his eyes pointedly at his co-worker, sometime friend. There is something unreadable in his expression as the elevator doors open in a hush that brings them back to reality, and before they can alight, he digs his elbow on Franky’s ribs. Franky yelps, and it resounds within the office walls, garnering attention from several heads peering at them through the edges of their computer screens. It brings a smirk right out of Loid’s face.
“What the hell was that for?” Franky complains as he rubs his side, muttering a slew of complaints.
Loid gives him another sideways glance, and then he is walking over to his office, abandoning Franky. Fiona from marketing lifts her gaze to greet him that goes unreturned, his attention completely devoted towards his screen now that Franky is out of sight, and whatever he wants to say is out of judgment save for his own.
thornprincess: I never mentioned her, so I don’t think you would, lol
He feels his cheeks warm reading the first message.
thornprincess: she’s five. She watches the show religiously.
thornprincess: Wait, are you going to next week’s con as Bondman?
Loid taps his finger against the edge of his desk, his teeth worrying his lower lip before he decides to type. There is no harm in letting them know his next convention; after all, he did put the details of his next event in his bio.
twilight_: yes
And perhaps it’s a bit terse, but before he can think of a reply to present it more warmly, a speech bubble is already popping up.
thornprincess: oh that’s nice! I’m going, but not as anyone, lol
thornprincess: I’m going as my brother’s photographer
thornprincess: and also my daughter’s. She’s going as Bondman, too!
twilight_: Not as Princess Honey?
thornprincess: she doesn’t like Princess Honey
twilight_: why don’t you go as her then?
thornprincess: I’m not as pretty as she is
twilight_: I don’t think that’s true
It’s out of sheer politeness, he tells himself as he clicks out of the chat, and locks his phone, ignoring the way his heart is thrumming against his ribs. He is being ridiculous. He is just being kind as one is when talking to a stranger on the internet, and apart from that, she might very well be married. And apart from that, he hasn’t even seen her face.
Loid looks at the conversation once more, the speech bubble with those three little dots dancing, and dancing, and dancing... A few seconds pass, and then some more, and he releases an exhale as he feels sweat from the back of his head. He glances over at the thermostat, then back towards his phone before he decides to lock it, and shove it inside his desk drawer, into the ether.
He doesn’t hear from her then.
He doesn’t hear from her within the week – not during the times he posts something behind the scenes, not on random notes updates, not when he has decided to follow her back. He doesn’t think much of it – tells himself it’s just a typical interaction between two people who share a common interest. But, even so, her profile picture feels as though it is staring into his soul every time he checks who has seen his stories, and her username, and rose emoji sit there, waiting, waiting, waiting…
Loid huffs out a sigh, decides to turn off the music, and glances over at the mannequin before deciding to get ready for today. He pointedly ignores the way his stomach feels lightweight, churning as though occupied by something that is unfamiliar, or that skitter within his ribs, and decides, he is just being, well, ridiculous.
It’s not for certain that he will recognize her, considering he has never seen her before apart from the eye in her profile picture; and he resigns, with the way that she is, he knows, it is also less likely she approaches him. Loid exhales then inhales, and then he is stalking towards his desk, and decides, well, might as well get to it, and opens his makeup bag to start.
At this rate, just because he sent over a dumb, little thing out of sheer politeness, he will be avoiding a ghost.
Blue eyes stare back at him, and he stares equally back as he makes quick work. There would not be any much to cover, considering he will be wearing a black mask over his face – a little bit of foundation to avoid looking too pale, the softest of contours to highlight his jaw and his cheeks, and then blush and a swathe of lipstick so he does not wash out beneath the colors, and the camera’s HDR. Calculated, and quick, before he even makes it halfway through Hozier’s album, he is already done, and moving over to reach for the mask to complete the ensemble with a few more hours to spare.
Beneath the bathe of music and Hozier’s amber timbre, his phone pings, and interrupts, decreasing the volume minutely. And again, like a red string pull, he decides to spare a few minutes and reach over to check the notification.
He unlocks his phone to a photo of a woman with piercing, and simultaneously the warmest of red eyes, highlighted by alabaster skin and midnight for hair. There’s a small, pleased smile on her lips, and a gentle dust of pink at the apples of her cheeks. Beside her, is a small child with pink hair, and emerald eyes, donned in a simple white shirt and a trench coat over it.
Loid feels his breath still for a moment, and he blinks, blearily at the stranger looking back at him through the screen. The skitter in his heart beat has now lodged something different as the music wanes, and dulls into white noise – his focus fixates on her, and something in him turns, and changes; something inexplicable he charts it off to being right.
She is beautiful.
thornprincess: thought I’d send over a photo of us!
thornprincess: we’ll see you at the con! I’m the one in a red sweater and a tiny Bondman.
Funny, he has never even noticed the sweater she is wearing in the photo.
Huh.
Loid worries his lip, then releases it when he remembers he has just put on lipstick, as he thinks of an appropriate reply to send her. There is something warm and fuzzy at the pit of his stomach that he blames entirely on skipping breakfast, and opting for coffee instead; a feeling he decides, or tries to pointedly ignore. He taps on her photo twice, and then becomes mortified when all it does is zoom in on the photo than leave a reaction. He becomes face to face with the sparkle in her eyes, and then he clicks away again, and tries for a second time. It allows him to tap on a heart, finally.
twilight_: I thought your brother was coming?
thornprincess: oh he is, but he will be mostly by the stage all throughout the event.
thornprincess: he’s scouted as one of the judges for the singing contest, and the catwalk
twilight_: any chance he’ll let me win first prize?
He surprises himself with a dry laugh at his own joke that he barely catches, and then he is looking at his own reflection in judgment. Loid shakes his head at himself as he places the phone face down on the desk as though to chastise himself. She might be pretty, but again, she might very well be married.
He chances a glance over at his watch, and then over to his phone once more. When a ping doesn’t resound, and interrupt what has now been RAYE’s discography, he decides to complete the ensemble and head over to the venue earlier than he would like to be. Perhaps, he can find the time to take a few photos – practice shoots from the fifth volume and maybe a few action shots in vacant areas, and then maybe skip the long lines if he is way ahead of everyone.
Saturday morning is quiet – a hush of calm blue over a wisp of white, feathered clouds, blanketing the day with a warmth that is soft, and kind. Foot traffic is thinner at this time of the day, granted, most of the people are huddled in nearby cafes for brunch or in shopping centers to beat the usual weekend, afternoon rush. Loid weaves through the crowd with a certain confidence, despite the looks he is receiving from time to time, stopping here and there for a quick photo with a kid or maybe three.
Linden street is filled to the brim with cosplayers in varying shades of an outburst of color, conversation already elevating the atmosphere, filtering through the music that is being played over the speakers. Loid glances over at each character before him, takes them in with a quiet elation, and then he is foregoing the chaos to look for a spot that is his if only for a few minutes.
Tripod in tow, he finds reprieve at a corner by a boutique he once sought out for a particular tie, and studied the area – a short ocular as he goes through the poses he wants to enact. He fixes his gaze over to a fence he can feign climbing out of, and then a brick wall he can do Bondman’s signature poses. Nodding to himself, pleased, he calculates the time he has before this space is shared, and decides to get to work – thirty minutes, fifty if he is lucky.
Loid puts down the tripod where he thinks the sunshine is just perfect, and wouldn’t overcast a shadow on him when he faces this way – just by the pot of roses, and the fence. He fixes it with a look, and then he is testing the distance, walking back three or five steps, checking from time to time through the camera finder on his Apple watch.
Once settled, he clicks on the time on his Apple watch, and strikes a pose – hands in the pockets of his trench coat, one foot forward, and a grim look on his face. He goes from different poses in a span of a few minutes, and just as he is about to finish up and retrieve his phone to check photos, a child with pink hair comes barreling in and secures him to place with an embrace.
“Bondman! Bondman! Bondman!” She cheers, jumping up and down, up and down, up and down like an effervescent bottle of soda shaken.
Loid breaks out into a smile as he reaches for the child just as she peers up at him with those emerald eyes he has definitely seen before.
“Anya!” A voice calls out, frantic, followed by heavy footfalls. “What did I say about running away from mama?” She asks, rhetoric, and Loid lifts his gaze just in time – oh.
“You’re – “ There’s that skitter again in his ribs, louder this time as though his heart is just right below his ear.
“Twilight – hi,” she interjects quickly, sheepishly, and then she is smiling that same smile, but this time with a deeper flush of crimson that reaches to her shoulders.
“You’re – “ and honestly, he doesn’t know why the words have left him, but they have, and they are dwindling, expired underneath her rubied gaze.
“Yor,” she finishes for him, her tone high-pitched, clipped, and what did she say her name was?
Twilight blinks at her, confused, dazed, and everything else in between by just looking at her. “I’m sorry?” He asks, echoes because did she just call herself his or the possessive pronoun yours?
She tilts her head, extends her hand over to him, and then, and then, and then… “Oh! I’m Yor,” – oh, definitely not his, then. “Yor Briar.”
Loid blinks at her hand, and then sheepishly takes it, chastises himself again for being dumb and blond, and well, dumb. “Oh – Loid. Loid Forger.”
“And I’m Anya!” The child from earlier beams up at him, the picture of cotton candy confection with emerald eyes, and a winning smile so bright it might as well be the sun.
Loid looks at her mother, then over back to the child who keeps jumping, and jumping, and jumping – excitement pouring out of her, bursting at the seams. Yor’s hand is suddenly so warm in his, and there’s this electrifying thing within the nerves that it feels a lot like shock, but before he can make much sense of it, she’s already letting his hand go.
“It’s nice to meet you – both of you,” Loid says, after finding his voice, his throat suddenly dry, every minute, little noise suddenly so loud, suddenly all around him apart from the way, how loud his heart is beating.
Yor smiles – wide, and shy at the same time; how she does that, he doesn’t know when his heart is larger in his ribs, in his throat. “Likewise,” she replies, her gaze falling on the floor, sweeping by her feet before it lifts back up, and fixates over his shoulder. “Wait, were you just taking photos?”
There’s a certain glimmer in her eyes that bleeds a type of warmth that is akin to sunshine. The smile Yor has been wearing has grown surprisingly wider, all teeth and dimples and passion as she takes in the scene as though she had been watching him earlier strike poses. Loid follows her gaze, a little movement, a little tilt of his body, restricted by the tiny Bondman who still has her arms wrapped around his legs.
“Oh, yes, I was,” he answers as he looks back down at the child, and then reaching to ruffle her hair. She leans in automatically, and then, as quick as a hurricane, she is extricating herself from him to jump up and down.
Loid watches as Yor just regards her daughter with a fond smile before fixing her gaze over to his tripod.
“May I?” She asks him, bright eyed and hopeful, and all he can do is nod.
“Sure,” he tells her, handing her his phone, his heart in his throat, nerves, for the first time, filtering within his veins, his heart a thump, thump, thump that is incessantly loud, too loud.
Yor purses her lips as she swipes through the photos, taking time with each one, her brows set, furrowed in a way that reminds Loid of professors he once had when curating his papers. It also reminded him a lot like Sylvia when she would go over his report for next month’s stock projections.
There’s that burgeoning feeling at the pit of his stomach, a nerve that seems to wake, and shake him through to his core. He has never sought out appreciation or recognition, and yet, somehow, with this stranger’s gaze affixed to each photo he has taken, there is that certain starvation for praise, for a compliment woven around her voice. Loid doesn’t understand – this, and he tucks it in carefully, farther into the deepest corner of his mind as he watches her swipe left to right, right to left, left to right, in a pendulum of judgment that makes the seconds, the minutes seem longer than they are supposed to be.
Loid swallows, and then he is reaching for his collar, shaking it as though it will shake him awake.
“Anya wants to see!” Anya beams up, jumping up and down, up and down, up and down once more as she pulls at her mother’s red sweater.
Yor only gives her a patient smile, and something about the ease in her actions speak to him in a way he couldn’t quite comprehend. A certain softness, and Loid thinks, whoever is her husband might just be very well lucky. Yor crouches over to Anya, and shows her the photos, swiping from left to right, left to right, left to right, watching her daughter make oohs and ahhs, eyes wide, green eyes glittering, sparkling.
There is that warmth again, that flutter at the pit of his stomach as he watches mother and daughter admire his photos. And easily, as though automatic, it puts a smile to his face, softening him in ways he couldn’t, once again, quite comprehend.
“Whoa,” Anya pipes up as she peers up at him, and untangles herself off her mother’s hold, hands clasped together, shaking, shaking, shaking in barely controlled effervescence. “You really are Bondman,” she exclaims.
Loid laughs despite himself, and he graces her with a warmer smile as he reaches once again to ruffle her hair. She seems to like that. “Keep my secret, will you?” He asks, placing his pointer finger on top of his lips.
“Yes-y, yes,” Anya pipes up, bobbing her head up and down in a quickened nod, and then she is jumping once again. “Mister Bondman, since you are so good at cosplays,” she places her thumb underneath her chin, her brows drawn. Beside her, Yor visibly panics. “Why don’t you cosplay as my papa?”
Yor is a burst of red as she stands up so quickly she almost drops his phone. “Anya!”
But Anya pays her mother no mind, waving her away as she looks over at Loid who is as flustered as she is. So, not married then. “Anya needs a papa, and Bondman is the perfect papa – so whaddya say, mister Twilight, guy?”
Loid flashes Yor a nervous smile, and then he is crouching over to Anya’s level. “I’m sure you should ask your mama first.”
“Mama doesn’t mind. In fact, mama talks about you a – “
“ – Loid! Let’s take your photos!” Yor says in one breath as she offers back his phone, and motions to her camera.
Loid knows when an out is offered, and he easily complies despite the redness on his face to his neck. He blames it on the heat. Anya thankfully takes this as her cue as she falls into step with her mother as Yor lifts the camera to find a better lighting than what he was working with.
As quickly as she has flustered red, the moment she has her eyes on the view finder, Yor is someone else – a picture of practiced grace, passion bleeding at the seams, her face neutral, calculating as she motions for him to stand in places.
“I trust you know your character well,” she tells him, and gone is the nerves in her tone as she spares him a glance before she’s back behind the view finder. “Can you give me a pose?”
Loid, in contrast, is a ball of anxiety as he tries to remember Bondman’s significant poses he had just been doing earlier with finesse. He breathes out a huff, and then he is simulating a run – one knee striking out, right foot lifted, shoulders angled in a way that tells the viewer he is outrunning something. He tries to capture the look Bondman had been giving in the fifth volume of Spy Wars – teeth gritted, looking far ahead, confidence kicking in, apparent by the way his brows are drawn despite being hidden behind a mask.
Yor nods, and then she is clicking, the camera flashing, as Anya preaches her excitement with each sound of the shutter.
“Okay, can you try another pose?” Yor asks, and then she is shifting, the moment she sees his hesitation. “Like this, in the second volume,” she tells him as she stands, feet parted in a stance parallel to her squared shoulders, chin tilted in an angle that is neither up nor down, eyes downcast, yet looking upwards at the same time to show a certain lethality.
Loid catches himself looking, looking, looking – his mouth dry, his heart doing that funny little thing, his stomach a burst of butterflies. It takes a moment for things to click, and then he is closing his mouth like a fish out of water and trying to find his footing.
“Okay,” he tells her, and he feels like an amateur as he mimics exactly what she has done.
They continue this way – Yor directing each pose, Loid finding his heart lodged in his throat but following through nonetheless. At one point, Anya has decided to join in on the photoshoot, and eases the nerves in his stomach as though untangling each knot. By the time they’re finished, there is a long line behind Yor that Loid dreads that she immediately notices.
Yor puts down her camera, and allows it to hang around her neck as she cups her hands into a tiny megaphone. “Sorry, guys, but Twilight will not be taking any photos with anyone.”
It’s a little snobbish, really, but Loid feels grateful for it as he flashes her a small smile, and then he is scooping Anya up in his arms. “Thank you – do you mind taking a selfie to commemorate this partnership?”
The redness is back, but she shuffles close to him as best as she can, their shoulders brushing against one another. “Not at all,” she tells him, and then he is raising his phone to capture the moment the way this mother and daughter has captured him.
Texting each other becomes routine – in every platform that exists. Instagram, Discord, X, Facebook that he barely uses, iMessage – everywhere, anywhere. It didn’t start off as such, granted, he has always preferred communicating over Instagram, but then, there were outages here and there, and then disputes about where best to send the photos to keep the quality before eventually, it became gradual.
And well, he isn’t complaining.
Each ping is a rush, and each time he reaches for his phone to get to it as fast as he can. In the middle of meetings and underneath the table, in the middle of a workout, in the middle of some split sprints during a run, in the middle of a game, and every time, it’s the same thing: a hi, a how are you doing, a have you eaten, and then it’s photos then pivoting over to the next con, the next photoshoot, or some studio she wants to try.
And despite it being all the same thing every single time, he answers, he shows up, he calls. Loid has long resolved that if it means getting to see her, then it’s always going to be a yes, not no, not maybe; always, always a yes.
“Are you sure you don’t have any plans?” Yor asks as she studies the studio they have booked on a Friday, playing each scene in her head, doing her own, minute poses that Loid knows she will ask him to do.
Loid shakes his head as he fixes the wig on his head, careful as his eyes follow hers. It’s a simple, little thing – they’re shooting one of Bondman’s missions after he has successfully thwarted the kingpin, retrieving a file from underneath the billiards table. Everything after will be based on the official art – some poses in front of a luxurious couch, standing by a pillar and studying the ciphers he had been left with. The perfect spy as Anya had once told him when she asked him to do this for her.
And while he has other characters to cosplay, he quickly obliged.
“Okay, cool – this will be quick, so I just need you to do this pose from the fifth panel,” she motions for him as she crouches underneath the billiards table, and feigns reaching out for a safe. “We don’t have a safe, so we’ll be improvising. I can do that with the angle, and just adjust the aperture.”
Loid tilts his head, and glances over at her. “You have been doing this for a long time, have you?”
Yor blushes a pretty pink as she rocks on her heels, her lower lip caught by her teeth that Loid finds he wants to release. He quickly shakes the thought away.
“I have,” she tells him with a shrug. “But, not portraits. Always landscapes.”
“Could have fooled me,” he tells her, and it’s sincere. He has seen the photos she has taken of him, and it always elevated each character, giving it soul the way he couldn’t capture before when he was taking his own photos. It’s as if she managed to color it for him or rather, bring color into him, into his life, and well, she did, didn’t she?
Yor smiles something shy, something quiet as she wraps her arms around her legs, bringing her knees to her chest. She places her chin on top of her knees, letting the evening of her hair cast a veil to hide the fluster on her cheeks.
“It’s what I do – this,” she pauses as if to emphasize on what they are doing, what she is doing for him. “I’m a photojournalist for the Garden, though I usually, you know, do investigative photos. The ones on my Instagram feed are just, you know, pictures I have taken while out on the field – something to ground me when things get rough.”
Loid blinks at her, and it makes sense, really, the talent, the passion in each click, the glee and the glimmer in her eyes every time she sees each photo she has rendered, each direction she has given. It’s innate. It’s… He can’t help but feel a sense of honor to be so included in this art, of pride to know what she has achieved. And then, there is that funny little thing in his stomach once again, butterflies invading, assaulting – a burst of flowers and petals dancing in each vein, each atom of his being.
“It’s how I had Anya,” she continues as she meets her gaze with his, her eyes a shimmer of love and something warm he feels through to his fingertips. “Shopkeeper sent me to investigate the state of Ostanian orphanages – and oh, it was so dreadful, Loid.” Yor sniffs. “They were taking government money, but not funding these orphanages, and it broke me so much. My brother and I had been orphans, and it was just,” she pauses as she looks away, pressing her cheek against her knees. “I couldn’t bear to see that what we went through is still what these children were going through. I took plenty of photos – camped out of each orphanage to capture each one who is responsible for this.
I met Anya one day on a rainy evening. She managed to slip out with her chimera. You should have seen her, Loid, she was such a tiny thing – three, but looked barely two. But she was so, so smart. She kept me company during my last night, and I was so reluctant to leave her there, but I had to. I was single, and I wasn’t sure if I can raise a kid; I was lucky enough Yuri turned out the way he did despite the circumstances – and I just couldn’t. I couldn’t put her through that, I thought, and it broke my heart when I had to drive away,” Yor pauses, and then she is looking back at him, smiling, sadly, fondly. “But you see, Anya is very, very smart.
She managed to slip into the car with what little things she owned – just her, her blanket, and her chimera. By the time I noticed, I was almost in Berlint. I had to drive back to return her, but then, when we arrived, I just couldn’t. They told me to keep her. I would have had to anyway.”
“She adopted you before you could,” Loid says, unsure what else to say.
Yor nods, and the smile is no longer bittersweet as she delights him with a laugh so soft, so filled with love that she bears for her daughter. “I’m glad that she did.”
“Anya is so loved, thanks to you.”
Yor nods once again, and then she is looking back at him. “Photography has given me so much I never thought I could have,” she says before she inhales a breath to steady the tremors in her tone, and then, and then, and then, “I’m also glad it brought me to you.”
Loid sucks in a breath as though caught in a sudden flash photography before it settles within him – the understanding, the moment the things have finally clicked.
“I’m glad it led me to you, too.”
“Are you seriously using someone’s wife and child as your lockscreen?” Franky asks in an outburst of surprise, coupled by laughter as he reaches for Loid’s phone.
Across the room, several heads have perked up to attention, watching them curiously as the usual after lunch hour drones out, the promise of home in a few hours giving birth to boredom and skittering thoughts. Loid ignores the way Fiona has reddened in irritation as she tries to keep the piping hot coffee she drank down her throat.
“That’s,” Loid says, exasperated, as he reaches for his phone, and pushes Franky against the wall. He lands with a thud that triggers more attention. “That’s not someone’s wife and child.”
“Is it your wife and child?” It will be, Loid thinks.
“Shut the hell up, man,” Loid expresses just as Sylvia emerges from her office with a raised brow. Franky, ever the menace, throws Loid’s phone on his head before he scrambles back to his cubicle.
“So,” Yor starts as she spins on her heel to face him, autumn leaves falling down in a cascade that makes her look ethereal, standing in between orange and red leaves. “What made you start cosplay?” She asks with a tilt of her head, the sun’s light catching the red in her eyes in a fractalized glimmer of warmth. She looks so beautiful, Loid thinks.
Behind her, Anya zooms past, going from one tree over to the other with Bond in tow. He follows the ball of cotton candy pink and snow before glancing back at Yor, who looks absolutely breathtaking. Gingerly, he takes her camera he has decided to hold for now, and places his eye behind the view finder before committing her beauty into something more than just his memory.
Yor blushes prettily, and he takes another photo, then another, until there is five of them, five of her trying to shy away from the camera.
“Hm,” he hums as he glances over at each photo he has taken before glancing back at her. “It was more of a hobby, really. I never thought I would be cut out for it nor had I expressed any interest in it, for me, back then, it had always seemed silly.
I couldn’t understand how people can do that – subject themselves into that kind of judgment or scrutiny, doing what most people think isn’t normal.”
“What changed?” Yor asks with a tilt of her head. Above her, the sunlight spills as though it has decided she deserved a halo – Loid takes her photo automatically, without fail.
“My boss dragged me into one of the events. Apparently, she needed a hand for her costume, and I was the closest she has for a friend. I saw how quickly she can go from Sylvia, the boss, to this Fullmetal Lady she calls herself on Instagram. She was so confident, and so carefree that I thought, I wanted to be like that, too – to be so unabashedly myself while being someone else.
I told her about it afterwards, and she laughed at me, and told me her plan had worked,” Loid shakes his head as he lifts the camera to take a photo of Yor once more, this time as she is smiling so endearingly at him. “I’m glad she did that. It helped me find my footing, somewhat, even though I don’t work with anyone. I mostly do it for myself – so I have an avenue to express myself somewhere that’s not work.”
“I’m glad cosplay can be like that for you,” she tells him just as she is reaching her hand out to her side to catch a leaf seemingly floating its way downwards.
Loid takes a photo of her once again, and thinks, he is a lot like this leaf when it comes to her and Anya – floating, floating, floating towards a place he never thought he belonged to.
“I’m also glad it led me to you,” he tells her, echoing back what she told him a few weeks ago.
Loid reaches out to Yor as she did with the leaf, the camera dangling by his neck as he catches her, captures her the way she has captured him. Her breath stills just as his does, and for a moment, the noise all around them dulls, dies down into this thump, thump, thump of their shared heart beats. Anya’s laughter fills the air not too far from them, but during this moment, as though the aperture in his life has zeroed in on her, all he sees, all he hears, all he feels is Yor. Everything else, is a blur of technicolor.
Loid leans closer, and so does she.
“May I kiss you?” He asks, and minutely, the movement so miniscule, she nods, frozen like the photos he has taken of her.
Like a motion picture, he kisses her, and allows her to bring to life things that have always been so dull, so rasterized by technicalities. Yor molds herself into him, her eyes fluttered closed so slowly like the butterfly wings in his stomach, and he breathes her in as though she is oxygen herself.
Loid has now come to realize what it feels like to have something bleed into focus like a portrait being taken with its aperture affixed to the only thing that matters – Yor and Anya.
They part hesitantly, halfway when their lungs seize and ask for air, their foreheads pressed against one another, their noses brushing each other’s. Anya giggles somewhere, a dulled little thing as their ragged breaths and synchronized heartbeats fill their senses.
“You should let me take your photos from time to time,” Loid whispers as he leans in to kiss her once again – once, twice, thrice – chastely as though he cannot get enough of her. “You’re too beautiful not to be anyone’s muse.”
Yor shakes her head, breaking apart from their shared space. “Stop,” she tells him, but there’s laughter beyond it as she flushes a deep crimson. “I’m content being behind the lens.”
“You should be in front of it.”
“I’m happy to just be in front of you.”
“Are papa and mama flirting?” Anya beams up at them, a small smile playing on her face.
“Anya, he – “
“Yes,” Loid affirms, and then he is wrapping an arm around her waist to bring her closer to him. He presses a kiss on Yor’s cheek as he glances over his now decided on daughter.
Anya jumps up and down, up and down, up and down as she claps her hands together. “Does that mean you will be cosplaying as my papa, Mister Twilight?”
“I will do you one better. I’ll forever play the role of your papa,” he glances over at Yor. “If your mama lets me.”
“Please, mama?”
“Of course.”