Dancing
Being alone with his father was torture. Loki was left with nowhere to hide, no secluded places to sneak off to. A house the size of a palace and he was trapped. Before, there were no obligations. There were no meal times or reminders to take medication or stilted conversations every time he had to schedule another appointment.
Nothing could have made the last week any less miserable, waiting on his father, hand and foot. It was unbearable, like Odin was trying to make things as painful as he possibly could for both of them, the wretched sack of shit. Loki spent most of his time being berated for every mistake he made, all his shortcomings. How incompetent he was; never as good as Thor. He couldn’t cook as well as Thor, didn’t clean as well as Thor, apparently even the way he made tea was inferior.
That was fine. It wasn’t anything he hadn’t heard hundreds of times before. No, the most insufferable part of it all was that he actually had to speak to his father. Loki had even tried, at first, making awkward conversation each time he brought Odin his medication. Even though his father didn’t deserve it. After everything, despite how much he tried to suppress it, he felt sorry for his father, a horrible solid ball of pity that settled heavily in his gut. He wanted to hate him, thoroughly and wholly, but he just couldn’t. So instead he asked how he was feeling.
“The same as I felt when you asked me an hour ago.”
Loki bit the inside of his cheek, setting Odin’s assortment of pills on his bedside table, “Doctor Brooks called. He’ll be here on Tuesday for your checkup.”
“What is there to checkup on?” Odin didn’t look up, instead staring distastefully at the pillcase in Loki’s hand.
“It’s routine, just a physical and a mental examination.”
“A mental examination?”
Loki had to stop himself from flinching at Odin’s tone.
“What do I need a mental examination for?”
“It’s just a formality, father.”
“Have it canceled.”
“It’s really up to the doctor, I can’t–”
“Is this something you’ve requested to humiliate me?”
“No, father, I–” Loki’s fumbling, now.
“You think I’m losing my mind?” Odin’s face is growing red.
“Of course not.”
“Have it canceled.”
Loki just nods, knuckles turning white.
“Have I not made myself clear? Go. Now.”
He wanted to argue. He wanted to tell Odin how ridiculous he was being. He wanted to tell him to get his head out of his ass, that the doctor has every right to be concerned for the mental stability of a man whose body was rapidly decaying around him. But his father wouldn’t listen, and he knows it. He knows Odin would dismiss him again, or scream at him, and it would only place more strain on their already tense relationship. Instead, Loki turned on his heel, and tried not to shrink in on himself as he exited the room.
Loki tossed Odin’s dirty plate in the sink, and picked up the receiver. He ran a finger over the rolodex on the kitchen counter, flipping through to the doctor’s office. He gets the answering machine, so he leaves a terse message about canceling an appointment and to please call him back to reschedule.
He propped his chin in the palm of his hand, and stared at the phone. He just wanted to get out. It was late. He knew it was late. He’s trying to talk himself out of this stupid idea, but before he can stop himself he’s rifling through the pocket of his coat and pulling out the card.
He dialed the number with shaky fingers, his heart pounding in his chest by the third ring. He scolds himself for being so impulsive, and he’s about to hang up.
“Hello?”
Loki meant to be more cordial. His etiquette was usually exceptional, but there’s blood rushing in his ears, and he figured he’d better spit it out before he lost the nerve.
“Do you want to get a drink?”
Loki took Thor’s car to a bar a few miles outside of town. It’s busy, even for a Friday, but he manages to slide into the line at the bar, order himself a martini, and fumbling, a scotch for Mobius. There’s an open booth by the door, and he’s two drinks in and thinking about calling the whole stupid thing off when a burst of cold air hits the back of his neck, and he turns to see Mobius, surveying the bar. There’s snow stuck to his lapels, collecting in his hair.
He smiles and shakes his head when he sees Loki looking up at him, and Loki’s heart skips a beat. Mobius busies himself with his coat, throwing it on the seat and sliding in across from Loki. His face is flushed from the cold.
“I hope I didn't keep you waiting,” he says, yanking off his suit jacket, “Got held up at work.”
Loki can’t help the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, “I was beginning to think you’d stood me up.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“I didn't know what you’d like,” he gestures to the glass.
“Whiskey?” he asks, picking up the glass.
“Scotch.”
“Even better,” he takes a sip and then he’s pulling at his tie and rolling up his sleeves and Loki has to remind himself that he’s not a horny fifteen-year-old to keep himself from staring. And, aside from the obvious embarrassment, they’re not in the city, and Loki wants to avoid drawing attention to himself, he knows he doesn’t blend into the crowd here. He hopes they’re far enough that he doesn’t run into anyone he knows, or used to know. Maybe it doesn’t even matter, so it’s best to keep a low profile, avoid prying eyes, and hope to god no one recognizes him.
He realizes he's lost in his thoughts about a minute too late, and when he shakes himself out of his daze, Mobius’ eyes are locked onto his own. There’s a faint smile toying at the corner of his mouth.
“Sorry, I… I guess I’m… distracted.”
“I don’t suppose you’ll tell me what’s got your attention,” he says after he throws his head back, emptying his glass.
“No, I don’t suppose I will,” but it’s strained when Loki says it, because a part of him wants to tell Mobius, and he knows he shouldn’t because he doesn’t want Mobius to get the wrong idea. Because this wasn’t a date. Because he never said it was a date, and Mobius never asked if it was a date. So it would be ridiculous to call it a date, and he doesn’t want to make Mobius uncomfortable by implying that people at the bar might think they were on a date, and by extension, implying he thinks they’re on a date and—He realizes he’s lost himself again.
Mobius, fortunately, doesn’t push. Instead, he slides out of the booth.
“Let me get you another drink.”
Loki glances at his empty glass. He shouldn’t. He shouldn't be out too late, he definitely shouldn’t drink too much. He has to go home. He has to take care of Odin.
But he finds himself nodding.
“Martini?”
“Dry.”
Mobius’ accent thickens around his fourth glass. His voice holds it’s soft, comfortable caidence, but it gets lower and heavier. Loki hangs on every word, tired eyes lingering on his mouth.
The bar is emptier now, and he should probably head home, but Mobius is laughing at something Loki just said, and it’s like molten gold.
“When are you gonna start bein’ honest with me?” Mobius has a lazy smile on his lips.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Loki feigns, and it only makes Mobius’ smile grow wider.
“Bullshit.”
“Ask away.”
“What’re you doing here?”
“In England? Well, it’s a rather long story—”
“What are you doing in this bar with me tonight?”
Loki considers trying to dodge the question again, and he knows Mobius would let him, but he feels like he owes him some kind of candor after evading every personal question Mobuis had asked besides his own name.
“I needed to get out. I needed to take my mind off things… needed… someone to talk to.”
Mobius just nods, so Loki parrots his question back at him, “Why are you here?”
Loki was expecting something about Mobius needing to let off some steam; a long day at work or a difficult client.
“I wanted to see you.”
Loki felt his heart stutter in his chest, but Mobius didn’t give him time to dwell before he was putting another question to Loki, watchful eyes gauging his reaction.
“Why this bar?”
That was a fair question, he supposed, he had chosen it.
“I don’t like the bars in town.”
Mobius tilted his head.
“I don’t like the people in town,” Loki admits, “And I don’t like running into them.”
“You don’t seem to like much of anything around here.”
Loki laughs, and it comes out a little bit bitter.
“I guess not.” He wants to say I like you, butit’s too much too fast and he knows it.
“So why come at all?”
“I didn’t have much of a choice.”
Mobius gives him a sad smile, like he wishes he didn’t know exactly what Loki was talking about.
“Why don’t we get some air?”
So Mobius pays their tab, despite Loki’s protests, and he holds up his coat to help Loki into it. And then they’re outside, hugging the side of the building, while fat white snowflakes catch in their hair.
Loki can feel the bass in the soles of his shoes. He lights a cigarette and watches the smoke dissipate.
The song changes, as night is winding down, and the beat is slow and steady. Loki flicks the butt.
“I miss dancing,” he says it without really thinking. He just misses the city, he misses being young and careless.
Mobius, who has the crown of his skull pressed against the brick building, turns to him. He holds out a hand and Loki takes it, only to be pulled into Mobius, who places a tentative hand on Loki’s waist.
So Loki puts his hands on Mobius’ shoulders, and they sway, slowly. Loki’s fingers drift upwards, playing with the hair at the base of Mobius’ neck.
Their foreheads are centimeters apart, and the heat from their breath is mixing between them. Mobius smells like sandalwood and aftershave and detergent.
He brings a hand up to Loki’s face, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear.
And then they hear the door slam against the side of the building and loud, slurring voices. They startle apart, both of them pressing themselves into the wall and holding their breath. Mobius has one hand in his pocket, and there’s a look in his eyes like nothing Loki has ever seen.
The voices fade, eventually, and the two are left in the dark.
Loki wants to stay. He wants to stay with him. He wants to offer Mobius a ride home. He wants him to be safe.
Mobius, who stands beside him, chest heaving.
But Loki is scared, and before he can stop himself he’s backing away, leaving Mobius alone by the side of the building, watching Loki leave. Letting Loki go.
He doesn’t say anything.