Chapter Text
Loid Forger’s world is made of white waves.
When he wakes up in his room in the morning, the sky is white, the air is stifling, the walls are bleak. It is still snowing, it has been ever since he woke up in the world again. He gets dressed in a white shirt, inside his small, gray little room. His own room, he recalls, not a shared one.
The dog that bumps his nose against his leg when he exits his room is white too. He walks to the kitchen and finds a plate prepared on the table. There’s a note next to the food, from people that promise that they will be back soon. One is at work, the other is at school. A wife and a child—theirs, apparently. They represent one of the waves, blinding white, where he can’t see them, can’t reach the shore where they are.
Doesn’t matter.
Loid Forger sits at the table and eats breakfast. The food isn’t very good, but it’s all he has. And he wonders, for a moment, what he had before. Once he’s done, he takes the newspaper and reads. There's dust and war everywhere. The world seems far-away.
And he wonders—how the world seemed to him before, what did he find in it.
He finishes reading and goes back through the white, the white foam, this pale foreign house.
His wife is a woman of routine.
This truth dawns upon him during the initial week after awakening. Each morning, Yor prepares breakfast, helps her daughter for school (their daughter, he reminds himself) and, subsequently, she departs for work, always coming back earlier than intended.
Her eyes always remain fixed on him, her voice a soft murmur, cautious and gentle. It is as though handling him is akin to gathering fragments of shattered glass, which she does with the willingness to bleed.
The world remains an endless wave of blinding white: white sky, white snow, white void.
Yor is the first semblance of color into the blank existence. Everything in her is red. Her reddish sequin eyes and petal-soaked hands—her blush-painted cheeks, the way the red gleams within her moon scent and envelops her form beneath the folds of her loose sweater.
The world kindly blooms in red. Loid closes his eyes, breathes it, and adapts.
It has been a week now.
"I'll be taking a break from work for a while," she says one day, her smile a veneer, failing to reach her eyes.
Loid has his hand resting on Bond’s fur when he looks at her. “Oh… is there a problem?”
"Not at all," she denies, her head shaking softly. "It's for the sake of staying longer at home."
If he has something else to say, she grants him no voice, retreating from the room.
The world is white.
His daughter, Anya, doesn’t spend a single moment away from him.
It’s still strange calling like that—he can’t picture himself raising a child. But she is his daughter, no matter, even if she doesn’t look like him at all—and Loid drinks her company with welcoming hands.
“Papa, look,” she says pointing at the screen, “it’s Spy Wars. You liked Spy Wars.”
Loid blinks, “did I?”
“Oui,” Anya nods, very sure of herself, sitting next to him, “you watched it only to help me to do my homework, but you liked it a lot, even if you lied.”
"I see," he murmurs, absent-minded.
The hues flicker around the small screen, but all he perceives is pink, then green—the colors of Anya, who clutches his hand tightly. He notices the tears welling up in her eyes. If he knew better, any trace of himself, he would know how to comfort her. But he's incapable. So Loid leans into her, and she nestles her head against his arm, seeking his warmth—squeezing her little hand in return seems to keep each other safe, at least for now.
In their shared silence, they breathe the essence of pink, and green becomes their color.
His wife never seems to sleep. Night after night, she disappears into the darkness, submerged in tasks he's unaware of. He considers it just, reminding himself he never inquired, nor can he recall if he ever had. When she's home, or returns late, sleep evades her like a fleeting ghost.
Loid almost convinces himself she's watching over him, guarding against the specter of death lurking in every corner. When he dares to voice his concern, she merely smiles, assists him with his coat, and slips away, leaving him in a state of frustrated bewilderment. It's the first time irritation bubbles within him. That’s why, one restless night, he musters the courage to stay awake, waiting for her return.
When the door opens Yor walks slowly, her body tense. Alarmed, he rises from the couch, walking towards her.
“You’re injured.”
Her eyes go wide, surprised, then a peal of laughter escapes her as she brings a hand up to her cheek. “I fell on my way here,” she says. “Why are you awake, Loid?”
“I was worried,” he explains, “you didn’t say where you were going.”
Her shoulders relax. "I’m sorry," she says. "My boss called late, but it was a one-time urgency. I'll be at home from now on."
Loid’s mouth becomes a line, unable to refute her. “At least let me treat your wound,” he offers, his hand reaching toward the cut on her cheek. But suddenly Yor’s eyes widen and she’s moving away, as if his hand will burn her. He freezes in place, surprised, and even when she lets out a breath, she does not approach him.
"You... you don't have to," she murmurs, stepping away, avoiding his gaze. Then her smile is there again. "I wouldn’t want you to get dirty with my blood, Loid."
Her words sound kind, but there’s a silence that holds no tenderness. Yor smiles and wishes him a good night, disappearing behind the door as it closes softly like a question mark.
He stands alone.
The red stays with him, somehow.
Anya returns from school earlier than usual, her lips quivering, her small frame weighed down by the burden of defeat, her cheeks and uniform dirty. Yor rushes to her daughter, and cradles her until the storm within her subsides, until she clings to her mother's shoulders and releases the cries she had been holding back.
Loid stands alone, afar. Unknown what to do.
When Anya's tears finally ebb, he approaches her with hesitant steps. Her gaze remains downward, her anger palpable, her lips set in a pout. Learning from Yor's patience, he patiently waits, allowing the tempest within his daughter to calm. At last, when Anya meets his eyes, she jumps to him, hugging him around his neck.
Loid pats her back, unknown what to do. “Do you want to tell me what happened?” he asks, low, patient.
Anya just hugs him tightly. She buries her face further on his chest, but does not cry. Hesitating at first, Loid wraps his arms around her tiny body, as she lets the melody of his heartbeat lull her back to her calmness. “They made fun of papa,” she finally says, voice muffled against his shoulder.
Loid blinks, his hand instinctively finding its place on her head. "How so?" he asks, his voice reaching her like a calm stream.
Anya's response lingers in the silence. Loid can guess what she’s being made fun of at that place, but he doesn’t say anything either. She looks up at him, as if, somehow, she can see that he understood. Anya comes back to him and hugs him tightly, refusing to let go.
“Papa, Anya got another Tonitrus Bolt, but it will be okay-dokey!” she exclaims, looking at him again with determined eyes. “Anya will get lots of Stella Stars, lots and lots, and make papa proud!”
Loid blinks, his mouth open, taken aback. He hugs her again, then, tightly. “Anya, get those Stella Stars only if that’s what you wish,” he looks at her. “Whatever happened, I know I was already proud of you.”
His words become a blade of honey, reaching her, and Anya's cries fill the air loudly—as if she’s lost, as if she’s still away from him, unable to return home. It feels strange, and lonely. All he can do is cling back to her, caressing her back, whispering words of cotton.
On a side, unable to feel her gaze, Yor observes them, her own tears held back.
He likes to watch his wife work. It doesn’t matter if she’s sweeping, cooking or dusting. Despite her protests, he begins helping her out, no matter how much wants him to rest. Loid doesn’t want to rest, he feels that he has been doing that for a whole lifetime. On the chances they make eye contact, he offers her a smile. It seems to throw her off and make her blush, though he can’t explain why. Somewhere in his heart, it feels normal. Yor returns the smile, then, and it almost reaches her eyes.
Almost.
It’s on a glowing afternoon when Loid feels someone combing through his hair and caressing it. It feels nice, a welcome feeling compared to his numb body. He’s tempted to go back to sleep right there. But he moves, and the hand caressing it suddenly jerks away. “I-I’m sorry!” her voice reaches, flustered. He blinks awake, and suddenly Loid realizes that his head is in her lap, and that he fell asleep there. His body tenses and he jumps, moving away.
“N-no, I’m sorry,” he apologizes, embarrassed.
And then he wonders—why are they sorry?
Yor flashes him an apologetic smile. “It’s nothing, you were tired because you worked too much.” She stands on her feet, heading towards the kitchen. “I’m going to make dinner now. It’s stew tonight again. You don’t mind, right?”
Loid follows her, “I can do it, Yor, you—”
“No, please, Loid. I’m your wife,” she interjects him, and her voice sounds hard, distant, and he doesn’t know what to say. But then she turns to look at him, smiling like she always does. “I want you to rely on me too, sometimes.”
He knows those are the words he should utter. Yet, in the quietness of his mind, it feels as though she speaks not to him but to a ghost—a specter lingering in the corner of the room. And so he remains rooted in his silence, watching her retreat into the distance.
Her name is one he can almost pronounce.
The days are white and endless. But he adapts, he lives through the foam.
After being caught in the snow on his way back home, he emerges from a cozy bath. Before he can begin brushing his damp hair, Anya pulls on his wrist, urging him to join her in watching Spy Wars. Despite his attempt to tidy his hair, the brush becomes entangled in his knotted locks. Loid clicks his tongue while trying to untangle it, but suddenly, Yor appears behind him, delicately touching his wrists.
“Here,” she says softly, “allow me.”
Loid stands stiff, his heart becoming a music box. Her hands are calloused and warm, gentle, handling him with such a care it makes his chest constrict. She gets the brush out from the messy tangle easily, and begins brushing his hair, the tip of her fingers touching his nape, sending shivers down his spine. He has known for a short while that Yor possess an immense strength, one that sometimes is overwhelming even for her. And yet, she’s holding it back as best as she can as she moves her hands with care.
She holds a kindness that not even blades can cut. He understands this instantly.
Once she’s done, he looks up and her smile is soft and indolent. He thanks her, pretending that his heart isn’t a wild songbird, that there isn’t a trace of life tangled in his ribs.
His wife is strange. His wife is a mystery.
And she’s utterly beautiful.
Sometimes he can feel her eyes on his back. He slowly gets better at it—feeling her gaze, knowing that he’s being watched. But only from her. She stares at him with a forlorn expression, the guilty swimming in her eyes. He tells her that nothing is her fault, because even if he can’t recall anything, he’s sure of it. But Yor looks at him, pained, as if she has failed in everything. She hasn’t. And yet there are times his wife looks terribly lonely.
When he finds her sitting on the couch all alone, it hits him. She’s a wife, she’s a mother, but first and foremost, she’s her own person. A person that dedicates day and night to take care of everyone, to sacrifice everything until her hands grow cold. She gives, but refuses to take. Loid can’t let that stand.
“Yor,” he calls in the dusk, her syllables becoming dust-magic under his tongue. “Yor, everything is going to be alright.”
She looks at him, and there’s the red, and there’s the smile, and it’s all Yor. She gives him a weary chuckle in response.
“Yes. It will.”
Silvery, white-blinding waves are connecting to his wife, suddenly.
One wave is the smile she gives at him, in sweet resignations.
One wave is the open wound on her cheek (red).
One wave is her hand suddenly touching him, squeezing his fingers. It is a fragile, small wave—but he lets himself drown under it. Loid holds her hands between his and he holds into her reassuring smile. It all becomes red, when she smiles back. There are cherries on his mouth, a silk red thread connecting to his heart.
That night, they fall asleep against each other: her head on his shoulder, his hand over hers. Anya climbs between them at some point of the night, and so they remain: not thinking, not wondering, not drowning (even if for a moment).
They remain. Distant from one another, she feels him sigh her name and he hears her sigh someone else's back.