“Sorry,” Anis mumbles, “that sucks. But I meant, like, asking her. Not actually hitting her.”

“I apologize. The idioms of thine world are unfamiliar to me.” Lysander bows towards her in a conciliatory manner. 

“No biggie, I guess I should've seen that coming. All this new stuff must be a heck of a lot to wrap your head around, yeah?”

Lysander nods. “Yes, it is. I hope my ignorance does not inconvenience thee much.”

“It’s chill, I know I’d be freaked out if I was in your shoes.” Anis scratches the back of her head. “Um, you guys feeling hungry? It’s around lunchtime. I know a good place.”

“How good?” I ask.

Anis flips her hair. “Good on a budget, duh. I’m not made of money either, mister.”

Weaving through the groups of people, she leads us to the main food part of the Central District’s shopping hub, a cluster of eateries that people colloquially call the Grand Court. I used to go here a lot, back when I was first starting out as an intern; these days, I’m a lot more careful with my money, so I stick to quick meals from the supermarket. Instant noodles, ready-made meals, even kids’ lunch kits, at one point…

“Here,” says Anis, stopping us in front of a restaurant with striped awnings and an outdoor area. Outside, an outdoor heater crackles away, supplying some warmth to whoever’s silly enough to eat outside in this freezing weather.

“You sure this is a budget place, Anis?”

“Why don’t we find out for ourselves, Mike?” she snickers. “Go ahead, take your little boytoy and—”

A tinny burst of noise comes from inside Anis’s totebag. It’s the chorus of some pop corny song that she’s set as her ringtone.

“Aw, crap!” Anis fumbles for her phone to intercept the call. “Yeah, yeah, guys, I’ll be there in a minute, I know, I know…”

She hangs up before long, sighing an irritated sigh. 

“What’s up?” I say.

Anis shakes her head in disappointment. “Sorry, guys. I’m not staying for lunch. I’d love to third-wheel your guys’ date, but I really gotta go now.”

“Wherefore art thou going, Lady Anis?” Lysander asks.

“Oh, just catching up with some of my group project members. They’re gonna kill me if I keep slacking off!! See you two lovebirds later, hahaha!”

Giggling maniacally, Anis takes her leave, dashing off to her group meeting. Hopefully interpersonal communication comes as easily to her as teasing me does.

“Shall we?”

Lysander and I go inside, going through the motions; sit down, get the menu, look at it for ages before finally getting something to eat. My stomach grumbles. I feel like grumbling too. Damn, all the hanging out with this guy is really hurting my bank account. Payday isn’t for another two weeks, either… I really hope I get compensation from the boss for the extra work I did with the Survey Team…

The interior is nice, I guess. The dining room is lit by ambient light from the outside sun, what little there is of it, anyway. The tables are covered in pristine white tablecloths, while the walls are covered in autographed portraits of minor celebrities posing with a rotund man in a chef’s uniform, who I assume is the restaurant’s owner. Doesn’t say anything for quality, though.

I smile my best “normal guy” smile. “I’ll order for you, Lysander. Just look over the menu and I’ll help you out.”

Lysander points at a nice-looking picture. “This one, please.”

“Okay.”

We order, food comes, blah blah blah you know the drill. This time, it’s two decent portions of pasta — although nothing as sizeable as the ones Tasty Noodle House had. Lysander should be more familiar with this kind of cuisine. Without me even needing to help he grabs a fork from the cutlery box and pierces his spaghetti with it. Sheesh, has he been practicing? He sure learns fast.

“Wheaten noodles in some kind of cream sauce, and small chunks of meat.” Lysander twirls his fork idly, “What, pray tell, is the name of this dish?”

“Spaghetti carbonara.” I shove a piece of my own pasta dish into my mouth. The sauce is thick and the meat is tender. The acidity from the tomatoes goes a long way when tempered with a little bit of sugar. “It’s a name from one of the old-world languages, ‘Italian’. Some people still speak it.”

“Spaghetti carbonara, hmm? Names and languages are such curious things. A funny thing to think that anyone derives the basis of their identity from a mere string of sounds… yet we do, don’t we all.” Lysander inserts a bite of food into his mouth and chews. He seems happy.

“Yeah, it’s a crazy thing to think about, isn’t it? Pets getting used to what their owners call them, people changing their names later in life, even the names of places shifting over time. Vibrations in the air can determine the course of someone’s life.”

“At once both arbitrary and full of meaning… Each syllable is associated with a feeling, and each word its meaning… Any world is a strange place indeed.” He takes another bite of food.

“You know, Michael isn’t really my name,” I blurt out.

Lysander looks at me funny. “Hm, hast thou hidden something from me?”

“No,” I stammer, “not exactly, it’s not like I lied that much.” 

Lysander raises an eyebrow. “Michael?”

“It’s Mikhael, really.” 

“Mikhael Clark?”

“Mikhael Chaikovsky. My parents were from another world, too.”

“Huh!” Lysander exclaims. “Wherefore dost thou reject thy name, and wherefore didst thou mock mine own?”

Is he asking why I don’t go by Mikhael, and why I made fun of his crazy long name? “Well, I go by Mike or Michael because it’s just easier for others to say. I mean, Guille-whatever of Whatever is super long, you know? There’s no way you guys would get anything done if you had to spend half the day just saying each other’s names.”

“Nay, we have titles to refer to each other with, of course. But a proper true name is still of high import, since knowledge of another’s true name confers power over them.”

Okay, so people over there believe that. Good to know. “So you know my true name, then. What are you gonna do with it?”

“Hmm…” Lysander contemplates. “Nothing, I’faith. I have no need of controlling thee nor anyone else. Thou hast granted me this knowledge in confidence, and I have no intentions of disabusing thy goodwill.”

“You’re a good guy.”

Lysander smiles. “Thou knowest mine own true name as well, doth thee not? Verily, what shall thou do with it?”

“Nothing. What would the point be? I don’t know how to use true names or what I’d use them for.” I shrug. “Even if I did, it’d feel weird doing that to someone.”

Lysander takes a sip of water. “Mmm, how surprising. Despite thy appearance, thou seemest to be pure at heart.”

I almost choke on a meatball. “Haha, what do you mean by that?”

“I mean no harm, Sir Chaikovsky. ‘Twas a compliment.”

“I guess so, huh? Where you’re from, definitely.” I think about world 95086 again. “Speaking of that, how’d you get your name?”

Lysander clasps a hand to his chest. “Verily, it gladdens my heart to hear thee take interest in me. My surname of ‘de Lothaire’ originates from my birthplace of Lothariton; I myself am not sure who was the founder of the town, but he must have been a noble man. I hope I may live up to the legacy of those before me, and surpass them in accomplishment. Wouldst thou like to know what 'Guillemagne' and 'Lysandrios' mean, too?"

Well, not like I have anywhere else to be, I guess. My lunch break can be up to an hour if needs must, and the clothes shopping from earlier shouldn't count for much… Anyway, I applied for an off day today, so it really doesn't matter. "Sure, why not." 

His face lights up with an enthusiastic smile. "The first part of Guillemagne, the 'guille', means 'of great will'; the second, 'magne', means 'great' as well, but I believe 'aume' may be a fitting insertion as well — 'aume' meaning protector."

"So you're either a double-great guy or a great protector."

Lysander nods. "I prefer the second interpretation, indeed. I strive to always protect my fellow countrymen in any way I must… as thou hast seen, they falter without my guidance, having grown used to me in the years since my victory over the Demon King."

"And what about 'Lysandrios'?"

"'Lysis', to free, and 'andros', man — thus, a freer of man, a liberator of people."

"That's nice." 

"Mikhael Chaikovsky… what meaning does thy name hold?"

"Oh, nah, don't even worry about it. My name's nowhere near as iconic as yours; it's so bad that my parents never told me what it meant."

"Still, it does stand to reason that a good man may succeed even with a bad name."

"I guess so, I guess so.” I stuff another meatball into my mouth and chew on the question. “Next time I see my parents, I’ll ask them what the hell they named their son."