Chapter Text
Yor really doesn’t get why she’s studying Greek.
She really, really doesn’t.
Quite apart from the fact that Eden was apparently an elite school for the crème de la crème, thereby making classical language mandatory for instilling a timeless elegance in its students and refining them for finer things in life… whatever that whole spiel means (it’s more convincing when Mr. Henderson does it). Still, she doesn’t get it. She’s literally never going to use it in real life. It’s as dead a language as Latin is, and it’s practically useless—unless she somehow snags a ticket to Greece (which is highly unlikely, because she’s cash-strapped), or so decides to quit her part-time jobs in favour of philosophising outside ancient ruins (again, high unlikely, and the last she’s checked people don’t get paid for dispensing folk wisdom outside temples; they just get arrested and/or straitjacketed).
And to top it all off, she’s terrible at the subject. Hopelessly terrible. The phrase it’s all Greek is literal for Yor—who, after months of scrambling through The Iliad, still flounders helplessly every time she’s called upon to read it aloud. As a matter of fact she’s already gotten two Tonitrus bolts this year from apparently butchering the words so hard to the point of giving Mr. Vasilios “permanent hearing damage”. If she doesn’t get her act together soon she might just be well on her way to getting expelled (and possibly groveling outside ruins and temples for the rest of her days.)
“Ms. Briar?” Her teacher calls sharply, with a look of deep exasperation. Oh no, oh no… “Can you read the next paragraph, please?”
Yor stands, and it’s like the ground is sinking sand. Her feet feels terribly clammy. “U-um, l-let me not then die… inglory? Ingloriously? And without a… s-struggle…” This certainly was the epitome of a struggle. Yor has no doubt she’s going to die a most inglorious death at this rate. “But l-let me first do some… great thing… that shall be told among men here… hereafter?”
“Ms. Briar,” Mr. Vasilios interjects tersely, rubbing his ears for emphasis. She hopes the teachers here at least have good insurance coverage. “That’s quite enough for today, I think. Please see me after class.”
Yor nods, shoulders slumping. She sinks back into her seat in utter defeat, and oh—
She’s so, so screwed.
—
He doesn’t mean to overhear the conversation, really. He really doesn’t. Loid has better things to do than eavesdrop. Like take a stroll. Or a nap. Or water his cactus. But it’s impossible to miss it when the girl in question—or the girl in trouble, he supposes—looks so impossibly contrite and distraught, every bit the kicked dog.
I’m afraid you’ll have to drop this class if you can’t keep up.
What? But—that is, I won’t have enough credits to graduate on time! It’s three weeks into the semester and I can’t possibly enroll into another class now…
Then keep up, Ms. Briar.
Yor Briar. The girl from Greek, whose affinity for the language matches his affinity for failure. Her appearance isn’t… well, objectively speaking, it isn’t objectionable , but she always looks a little frazzled and thrown off-kilter and—for want of a better word, he’s not trying to be mean—friendless. That said, she doesn’t strike him as malicious. Just… odd. It probably doesn’t help to have six Tonitos crowding your uniform either. In the eyes of the vast majority of the student population that’s a fate worse than poverty, and as a result people tended to avoid her like the plague. Part like the Red Sea whenever she enters.
It’s all very childish and stupid, but it’s also all very par for snobs who view others as snot and nothing more. And Loid can’t help but feel a little bad, because—well, she probably didn’t choose to be so strange, any more than he chose to be popular. Either way, he’s sure it doesn’t feel great going through it alone.
So Loid approaches her. She could probably use some help, he surmises. And tissue. Not in any particular order. But even a distance away her face is a bright, fetching red, and she’s crying so hard that she hardly even seems to notice him at all.
Snot dribbles down her nose as he nears. Grimacing, Loid extracts a pack of tissues from his bag.
“Hey,” he calls, as gently as he can while running on three hours of sleep. “Are you alright?” Yor jerks violently, and he winces. Way to go. Now he feels like a total jerk. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“H-hi,” Yor croaks out. “It’s ok. I’m good. S-sorry, ah, I didn’t mean to…” he can barely make out what she’s saying next; it’s all unintelligible mumbling accompanied by shifting feet and wrangling hands. “Sorry. Oh my god. I must look like–like a mess.”
This is true, so Loid wisely keeps his mouth shut and hands her some tissues–which she readily accepts. Yor rubs her face with so much vigour he fears her nose might fall off.
“S-sorry,” Yor rasps, face splotched a brilliant red.
“What for?”
Slumping dejectedly, she turns to the side to blow her nose. “I don’t know…”
“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” he says, in what he hopes is a suitably soothing tone. “I’m sorry if I caught you at a bad time. I just thought…”
Wide eyes flicker up to him; confusion and hope swirling in pools of red–
And now he’s tongue-tied. The solution is staring directly at him: tutor her. Comfort isn’t his forte, but Greek is, but Loid really doesn’t want to squander his free time. He barely has any to begin with. As it is he hardly has enough time to sleep. It’s sheer luck that the cafeteria deigns it fit to serve its students and staff alike copious amounts of coffee, though at the rate he’s going his heart is probably going to explode from caffeine overdose before he’s thirty.
“… you were saying something?”
“Ah, right,” he coughs lamely. “I just thought you could… use some tissue.”
“Right,” Yor mutters glumly, eyes snapping back to the ground. She blows her nose again. “U-um, I don’t mean to overstep, but you… you’re the top student in the cohort for Greek, right?”
“... Yes,” he sighs, because there’s no point refuting it. Not when that fact is emblazoned all across the school halls for the whole world to see. Instinct screams at him to walk away and leave, because if he stays any longer he’ll inevitably end up digging his own grave, but his conscience is screeching at him to offer a helping hand—”I could help you, if you like.”
Instantly Loid wishes he’d followed his instinct. Surely he must be possessed. Maybe the rumours about the school being haunted are true after all. Some magnanimous spirit must have taken over him, because why in the world would he offer that when he's already ten feet snowed under?
“Really?” Yor sniffles. “Wouldn’t it be troublesome, though? I know you’re busy… being an Imperial Scholar doesn’t look easy… Not that I would know, but…”
Regret barbs at him. He can already see his afternoons fading away… but he also can't bring himself to say no. Not when the girl is literally looking at him with huge, imploring eyes like he’s the messiah and still sniffling, and— god , he hates when it girls cry. (He’s had to put up with a lot of that over the years, coupled with various accusatory fingers thrust in his direction for being such a heartbreaker and a tease— whatever that means.)
In this case, however, it’s nothing to do with him and everything to do with Yor, whose abysmal grades might very well spell bigger trouble (see: suspension and/or expulsion). Such were the downsides of meritocracy. Or , Loid supposes, what was a very skewed version of it, since you could technically weasel out of consequence’s way in this school if your father so happens to be a puissant tycoon or politician. It’s very much a system designed to benefit the rich. And judging from what he knows—he’s not being presumptuous here; being a student councilor and Imperial Scholar means he has some general knowledge about the student body—about Yor Briar, she falls on the other end of the spectrum. He knows she’s on financial aid. A diversity intake, to put it crassly, as part of Eden’s recent outreach programme to seem more relatable to the masses—which, in Loid’s humble opinion, is really just a pack of charlatan bullshit.
Case in point: Exhibit A. The still-crying girl in front of him.
“Yes,” he relents at last, conscience getting the better of him. Hadn’t Homer said something about men being wretched things? “And no. And yes, but it’s okay.”
“Huh? O-oh,” Yor laments, weary and defeated. “Sorry. I know you must be busy. You don’t have to trouble yourself, of course…”
And then she gazes at the ground like it holds the answer to all of life’s problems. Her shoulders quiver. Loid knows enough from dealing with a younger sister that this is probably a sign of a fresh wave of tears, and crap ! He really doesn’t want to be the cause of it.
“Hey,” Loid cajoles awkwardly, fumbling for something to say that isn’t outright platitudinal or just pure blarney. Oh how he loathed pithy consolations… “Don’t worry about that. I’ll help you. And you’ll pass, and graduate on time, and you won’t have to deal with Mr. Stick-up-his-butt anymore.”
That seems to mollify her somewhat. A watery laugh—a cross between a snort and a giggle, really—breaks out of her.
Loid smiles.
“T-thank you,” Yor chokes out. “I’m—so , so sorry—“
“Huh?”
“I’m such a mess,” she laments, which isn’t entirely untrue. Her cheeks are blotchy; eyes swollen and puffy. She’s definitely seen better days. “I’m sorry you had to see that. I didn’t mean to—to cry , in the middle of school, but—ah, it’s just… been a lot. I’m sorry.”
“That’s five times, now.”
“Huh?”
“Five times you’ve apologised for nothing.”
Yor balks, scrubbing at her face like she’s trying to rearrange her features. “I’m sorr—I mean, uh, thank you…?”
Loid shrugs, clamping down a smile. “Take it easy, alright? It’ll be fine.” She nods, and he plunks the rest of the tissues in her palm. “Here. Just in case.”
At last a smile breaks out of her, small and shy. Yor ducks her head and repeats her thanks—this time less audible than before.
“It’s no big deal, really,” Loid reassures, slowly turning to leave now that she’s regained some of her composure. “Sorry. I just realised I’m running late, but let me know which day works best for you?”
Yor brightens through the vestige of tears. “Okay! Thank you so much! I promise I’ll do my best!”
“I’m sure you will,” because the zealousness in her voice holds nothing but promise. Loid hands her phone out to her. “Do you want to give me your number? So we can coordinate our schedules easier.”
“Okay!” Tearless at last, her fingers fly across the screen. Yor returns the device back to him. “Thanks again, Loid. U-um, truly, I can’t thank you enough–”
“No problem,” he interrupts lightly, turning at last to leave.
And so the rest of the semester begins in earnest.
—
Yor Briar: hi! i’m really sorry again about this afternoon. thank you so much for the offer… i know you must be really busy, too, so i promise i won’t take up too much of your time, and i’ll work really hard!
Loid Forger: All good. I wouldn’t have offered otherwise :)
Yor Briar: thank you so much! when’s a good time for you?
Loid Forger: How about 3pm next Wednesday? We could use one of the study rooms if that works for you.
Yor Briar: sounds good! see you then (๑･̑◡･̑๑)