Sylvie was used to the idea that her friends got uncomfortable around other people with their deadnames. Of course they would, why wouldn’t they? The names carried a lot of weight, and even Sylvie didn’t like what she used to be called, even though, personally, she wouldn’t consider it a deadname, not really. It was still her even though she didn’t particularly like hearing it, except for sometimes, when she still did.
But it was different when it was something you still used sometimes, Sylvie figured. Because it was different when she called herself something and when someone else forced her to hear it – she didn’t even like hearing Sylvie when the speaker had ill intent, and what else exactly were they going to call her? And she’d heard other-than-Sylvie used enough times in anger or malice that just hearing it out of context, well. She could guess what her friends meant.
It was just that up until this point, it had been academic, because how often were you going to meet another person named Loki?
And so this was. Well. This was the first time Sylvie had been required to confront the situation, and in all honesty, she was kind of jazzed to have another sort of Common Trans Experience to share with her friends, even as she felt the gurgle grow in the back of her throat. Because what’s the polite way to say, ‘sorry, I can’t say that name, it gets caught on my tongue like a too-hot bite of casserole and mangles every word after it’?
So Sylvie made the drink, and called out ‘Loki?’ and barely stuttered over it, and the polite expression stayed plastered to her face even as her breathing sped up slightly, and then. Then. Then This Other Loki winked at her and that was.
What, perfunctory? Just always winking at the barista like an incorrigible flirt? Or was it. Well. Sylvie was used to being clocked by other trans people on account of her several items of very blatantly trans clothing, which right now was her braided ribbon headband. If they were trans, anyway. But it felt somehow – and that was fucking insane, how could it even – Sylvie felt like they knew somehow but that wasn’t. Well that wasn’t anywhere.
Unless it was someone who was stalking her, she supposed, but why would someone do that? Like, yes, using someone’s old name to try to trick a response out of them, that made sense, even if deadnaming someone was more than a little fucked up, especially just to see if it was really them. But the thing was. Why?
Sylvie didn’t really have disgruntled exes. In fact, she was still good friends with almost all of her exes. She’d left all of her previous employers on relatively good terms, or at least as much as you’d expect out of a customer service job. She was keeping up to date on her debt; nothing to send collections after. And it wasn’t like she had. Enemies. She never got along with anyone in high school, but that was before she figured out exactly why she was so temperamentally never getting along with anyone.
Unless it just. Was Another Loki, who had, out of bizarre curiosity, tried to find who else out there was A Loki, too. Which was. Overthinking, maybe.
And they did seem like they probably were named Loki after all, given how, every now and then, other people showed up and called them Loki, too, like, for example, their brother, Thor, which really made sense, if Sylvie thought about it way too hard. It could always have been a chosen name, after all.
Anyway. The point was, her friends made fun of her, but it was also gratifying to hear the advice on getting over the initial awkwardness, and it helped. Sylvie was glad for once that she’d been named Loki and not Steve or Sarah or Sam. So she got used to the name, and she got used to the customer, and she got used to ignoring the paranoia when, months later, nothing had come of it anyway.
What she did not get used to was the flirting. Because this Loki was an incorrigible flirt, and all of his friends apologized for that. But the thing was. They apologized to Sylvie only, and not any of the dozen other people he had been flirting with, including every single other barista and also the delivery guy who brought them their cups. Which was. Well. Something.
And on the one hand, Sylvie thought he was maybe reading a little bit into the fact that she referred to him as Loki and not as half-caf salted caramel oat milk latte extra whip, but then, on the other hand, she always found herself smiling when he winked at her, and laughing at his, really, abundantly stupid puns. And reading her poetry.
It wasn’t that it was in Latin, and thus, made sense that he would read it in an overly solemn tone, with dramatic breaks as suited. It was that, when she called him on the Classics version of a dirty limerick, the grin he gave her was dazzling.
It was that, when she missed her regular shift, he brought her flowers and a get well card, even though she wasn’t actually sick, she just had to go to the bank.
It was that he brought her a book she’d mentioned wanting to read, and it fell open so readily that she could find all his favorite passages, and yet, the pages were pristine, the barest of shelf wear on the spine and jacket, some slight fading, and not a single pen mark or folded corner. This was not someone who lent out books.
It was that when she explained all the Other Loki awkwardness, finally, and yes he’d known the one thing but not that part of it because of course not how would he, they went with her to one of her meetups with a handmade genderfluid headband to match her own, something carefully and lovingly crafted, something they would have had to have in his closet already to even have on hand. Sylvie wondered if they’d gotten them from the same place. How many times, over the years, they just barely crossed paths.
When they finally kissed, holding hands by some cheesy romantically lit trees, there was no more question that Loki was their name, and not Sylvie’s at all.