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The grandfather clock in the living room chimes, signaling the 3 o’clock hour.
Bond barks lightly in its direction, wagging his tail and spinning circles in front of the coffee table like he does every time the clock sings. Loid doesn’t quite know exactly why he does it–he was never trained to spin around like that.
Nevertheless, Loid gets up from his spot on the couch, Bond quickly standing by his feet.
Yor smiles when Loid enters the kitchen. Her hair is up in a ponytail, and she’s busying herself with boiling water on the stove for tea. Loid comes up to her and kisses her shoulder as he reaches around one of the cabinets for Bond’s snacks.
“The water should be ready soon,” Yor says as she takes out a box of biscuits.
Loid hums in acknowledgement. “Is that the box that Anya and Damian brought last weekend?”
“Yes,” Yor nods, biting into a cookie, “they’re still surprisingly fresh!”
Loid fills Bond’s bowl with his own doggy biscuits, and the sound of food hitting metal makes Bond bounce in his spot.
“C’mon, boy,” Loid gestures for him to follow back to the living room.
The kettle whistles in the kitchen, and Yor soon comes out to the living room with a steaming teapot and teacups. She lays them onto the coffee table next to the box of biscuits.
Loid turns a small hourglass to time the steeping of their tea, and Yor puts on their favorite jazz channel on the radio.
Sunday afternoons always go like this.
Yor always sits on their soft carpet between the coffee table and the sofa, a book in hand and Bond happily eating treats next to her. The table is full of snacks–they vary each week, from pastries from the local bakery to Loid’s homemade cookies to crackers and Yor’s favorite cheeses–and a pot of tea. She nestles herself in between Loid’s legs, leaving a kiss on his knee when she settles.
Loid always sits on the couch behind her, humming along to the music as he brandishes a hairbrush to smooth out Yor’s long hair.
It’s a peaceful routine that has changed in some ways and stayed the same in others.
Sunday afternoons have always been of intimate quiet and resting heavy minds and limbs. The earlier years of this afternoon arrangement finds another member of the family in the room with them. Anya was often either napping on the couch next to her father, doing homework across the coffee table, or braiding her mother’s hair.
Nowadays, it’s just Loid, Yor, and Bond in the Forger house.
A particular brush of Yor’s hair brings something to Loid’s attention. “There are a few strands of white hair,” he notes.
Yor makes a surprised hum. “Are there?” she chuckles, “I’m getting old."
“Nonsense. You’re only forty years young, my love.” Loid replies with a teasing tone.
Yor laughs at that, tilting her head up to look at her husband. “Well, would you still love me when my hair goes… blonde like yours?” she asks.
Loid rolls his eyes at her playfully. “I think that’s a silly question.”
“It’s very important.”
He smiles and kisses Yor’s head. “We can dye it fun colors.”
“What, like bright green?”
“Perhaps,” Loid says as he goes back to brushing her hair, “Pedestrian safety, and all.”
Forty years young, the both of them. Gone are the days of tossing Anya in the air as giggles ring through the room, of missions that work them to the ground, of Stella Stars and Tonitrus Bolts.
Retirement from their respective jobs has been treating Loid and Yor well. They have time to focus on hobbies now, something neither of them had the time for growing up. Loid has taken a liking to sewing, a refresher of what his mother used to teach him; the pillow that Yor is sitting on is one that he made himself. Yor has been doing restorative yoga for all the compounded physical and mental stress she’s had since a kid.
Anya often teases them over how they’ve mellowed down through the years, the thoughts in their heads much more peaceful than their 27-year-old counterparts.
When they’re reminded of the life they used to live, Loid and Yor often have to step back and fully digest how far they’ve come. One blink of the eye and they’re sending their daughter off to University of Berlint. One blink of the eye and they’re celebrating their ten-year wedding anniversary.
One blink, and Loid’s smile lines are showing, and Yor has white hair.
“Would you still love me when my memory is as dull as a butter knife?” Loid asks.
Yor leans her head against his knee. “I’ve already committed to remembering everything about you that there is to learn, haven’t I? I think I can shoulder having to remind you of this,” she shows off her wedding ring in front of them, gleaming in the afternoon sunlight, “whenever you forget.”
“Mmm, well,” Loid hums, “I don’t think I’ll ever forget that .” Loid puts down the brush and lets Yor’s hair flow down.
Yor stands up, but instead of sitting down next to Loid and cuddling up to his side, she climbs onto his lap and wraps her arms around his neck. Loid’s hands find their way to the dips of Yor’s hips, slotting perfectly as though they were made to sit there.
Yor hums casually. “I’ll hold you to that when you’re an old man, then.” she says, sealing it with a kiss.
Loid wraps his eager arms around his wife’s waist almost immediately, tilting his head and deepening the kiss.
It’s a dance they’ve done before. Eleven years of marriage–thirteen, as per their old, forged marriage certificate–has granted them the opportunity to learn every trick in the book. Loid knows that crawling his hand up the expanse of Yor’s back gives her goosebumps. Yor knows that tugging on Loid’s hair makes a low, pleased rumble rattle his chest.
Their lips move with the fervor of a juvenile couple, unaffected by the banalities of an aging relationship.
Yor smiles into the kiss, leaning forward to feel more of Loid on her. Loid responds in kind, running his hand up and down Yor’s back to the rhythm of the radio tunes.
They taste like tea and jam and lemons, just like their first kiss.
When they resurface for air, their cheeks are a lovely shade of pink, their lips not straying too far from each other’s. Yor’s hair is slightly messier than when Loid finished grooming it, and Loid’s shirt is a little creased where Yor has gripped and twisted it.
Loid completely envelops Yor in his arms, and he dips down to Yor’s neck, blowing a raspberry on it. Yor yelps and starts poking Loid’s side, where he’s most ticklish. He jerks, laughing into Yor’s lips as he evades her hands. He ends up pulling them down to lay on the cushions, Yor resting her head on Loid’s chest.
Yor nuzzles into him, finding comfort in the sound of Loid’s heartbeat.
“Would you still love me even when we don’t have the energy to do all this anymore?” she asks, leaving soft kisses on his chest.
“Hey now, don’t underestimate how fit we both are,” Loid says, poking her side, “We’ll be those grandparents who still work out daily.”
Yor chuckles. “I suppose so.”
She looks up, and she finds Loid’s fond eyes on her. She smiles at him sweetly, and he pulls her impossibly closer.
“Time is a funny thing,” Loid mumbles, thumbing a small scar on Yor’s temple from years ago.
Yor leans into the touch, nodding lightly. “I remember you crying when Anya moved into her dorm at university,” she teases.
Loid huffs. He’s used to falling victim to his girls’ jabs–metaphorical and literal, after Anya started kickboxing training with her mother. He’s not going to deny this one, though. Coming home and seeing Anya’s room looking less lived in made his heart ache.
He can’t even remember a life where he was alone. He can no longer visualize a life without Anya and Yor.
And with his wife on his lap, arms around his neck and holding him like she doesn’t intend on ever letting go, he doesn’t think he has to, ever again.
“Do you ever think of what life will be like, then?” Loid asks, brushing out Yor’s hair again, with his fingers this time, “When Anya has her own place and we move into a smaller house.”
“Can we get a cat? I think Bond would like a friend.” At the mention of his name, Bond perks up and pads his way to his owners. He’s not as active as his puppy self now; he moves a little slower, spends most of his time napping next to Yor or sitting at Loid’s feet waiting for bits of what he’s cooking.
Loid and Yor shuffle around to give Bond space to lay comfortably on Loid’s torso. Bond obliges, mimicking Yor and resting his chin on Loid’s chest.
Loid and Yor smile, ruffling the soft fur of his head. “You’d like a little friend, wouldn’t you, boy?” Yor coos. Bond huffs in agreement.
“Anya spoke about getting a dog when she finds her own place,” Loid adds, “Her and Damian.”
“I heard. I’m glad they’re going steady.”
Loid nods, “They’re growing up.”
It’s scary, to say the least. Letting their baby girl go off into the world is daunting, but if there’s one thing they know, it’s that Anya’s got a good head on her shoulders. Worrying about her would be futile, and they’ll only get a loving earful from her about being fussy.
They eventually fall into silence, the radio still going. Bond has fallen asleep on Loid, sealing their fate for the next hour or two. The sun is setting steadily now, bathing the room in warm light. The colors peek through the windows and hit Loid’s face in a way that makes his eyes glow, his skin look impossibly kissable.
“I think we’ll be okay, yeah?” Yor says, following up with their previous conversation.
“A lot of things will change,” Loid replies, reaching down to kiss Yor’s head, “but this,” he gestures to the lump of Forgers on the sofa, “will always stay the same.”
It’s self-indulgent, the way Yor stares at the man in front of her, a hint of satisfaction in the small smile she dons at the knowledge that this view–the way her love looks at her like she hung the moon and the stars–will never, ever grow old, even as they do.
Even as their hair turns silver and the lines of their smiles are etched permanently on their faces.
“I’ll always let you brush my hair.” I’ll always love you.
“And I’ll always let you make me tea.” And I, you.