Grief
It's Sif and Brunnhilde who eventually take him home.
Loki doesn't remember too much from the ride. He thinks one of them is talking to him but there's a gaping emptiness inside his chest that distracts him from the outside world, a black hole devouring everything that exists, everything that has ever existed.
He is just a shell. Wind howls within his empty ribcage and there's nothing inside him and every cell of his body aches and it shouldn't hurt when there's nothing that could be hurting and yet it takes everything in him not to howl with overwhelming agony. It's the only thing that exists.
Atoms are made ninety nine percent of empty space. Loki has never felt it more acutely before.
He comes to himself at the threshold and sways immediately, a hand grabbing his elbow the only thing preventing him from falling.
'No,' he moans, his voice rasp and hoarse from disuse and crying. He thinks he's been crying but his eyes are dry now and he doesn't remember. Doesn't remember anything. 'No, I can't... I can't...'
To come back to their apartment, to go back inside, see Thor's shoes lined up next to his, an open magazine he left on the coffee table in the morning – it would kill him. He hurts already. Hurts so badly he can't breathe. Can't breathe.
He's not ready for that.
Brunnhilde takes him to her and Sif's apartment instead, the other woman staying behind to grab some of Loki's clothes and the most necessary stuff.
The doctor has said Loki shouldn't be left alone in his current state. That he's too vulnerable. But Loki has no family – never had, really. No one to turn to.
All their friends were really Thor's. He's liked them enough, most of the time. Brunnhilde and Sif being the only ones he's ever really been comfortable with.
It has always been only Loki. And then, Loki and Thor.
Now he's alone again. He doesn't think he can survive this. Doesn't know how he used to. Doesn't remember anymore. Doesn't want to.
I can't, he thinks hysterically. I can't, I don't know how, I am unable to. Please. Please please please.
One breath, then another. One at a time. He feels the air entering his nostrils and travelling down to his lungs. It feels like dust and plastic and suffocation. Feels like nothing.
A breath. A heartbeat. A step, then next. It's as simple as that. He's never noticed it before. Now it takes all his effort not to just pass on the floor and stop functioning.
He's tired. Has never been more tired in his life. Suddenly simply maintaining his bodily function takes too much effort.
He must have passed out at some point because the next thing Loki finds himself on a couch in a familiar apartment. There's trinkets and pillows and unfinished paintings everywhere. It's not theirs and for a moment he feels confusion.
But then he remembers. His breath halts and catches in his throat and he can't breathe, can't breathe, and it hurts. Hurts so so badly. And he remembers.
A phone call. Loki's all dirty and gross, a band keeping his hair from falling into his eyes. He's been cleaning their little cell in the basement for the past hour, stuffing every thing into boxes. He hopes to sort it out later and throw the useless ones away, maybe give some to charity.
He has a special ringtone set for Thor. Reaches for his phone without looking, swipes to the side.
'Hey, big bear, what's taking so long? I'm almost done down here.'
'Is this Loki Laufeyson?' An unfamiliar voice asks.
He pauses mid step, phone pressed between his shoulder and his cheek, hands full of old Christmas decorations. 'Yes, that would be me.'
He's not scared yet. Just confused.
'This number was saved in Mr Thor Odinson's phone as emergency call. I'm calling to inform you...'
The man tells him he's calling from Saint Mary's Hospital. There had been an accident.
Loki's body goes cold and the world turns around him. The decorations slip from his numb fingers. He can feel the blood thumping in his skull and everything is sort of muted and blurry at the edges. For a while, everything stops.
A drunk driver crashing into Thor's car.
Loki doesn't have a driving license. Has never felt the need to get one, doesn't want to add to the climate change. Goes everywhere by bicycle or bus or asks Thor to drive him. He must have called Brunnhilde but doesn't remember that. Everything is sort of a blur after that call. He finds himself at the hospital, a man in his mid-forties in a white coat and with stress wrinkles on his face telling him what has happened.
Fatal injuries, quick death.
They won't let him see him. Won't let him see Thor. Tell him he's not family. Loki falls into hysteria and it's only thanks to Sif and Brunnhilde's combined strength he doesn't tackle the doctor to the floor and run to the room they keep him in.
He needs to see. Needs to see to believe.
Thor is hurt and probably scared and Loki needs to see, needs to be there for him.
Surely they're wrong. These kind of things don't happen to them. People on the TV, some faceless individuals, of course – that's life, accidents can't be stopped. But not them. Not Thor.
That's just absurd.
He's given a shot, some kind of sedative. The blurriness and detachment come back like a numbing coat shielding him from the world. He sits in the waiting area with Sif and Brunnhilde until Thor's parents arrive.
He doesn't remember what his last words to Thor were.
Loki wakes up in the dead of night on the couch, blankets thrown away, back and forehead sweaty, a wide smile and blue eyes and wheat-like hair imprinted on the inside of his eyelids. He realizes he doesn't remember what his last words to Thor were.
He tries and his head starts to hurt and he hyperventilates and goes into a full panic attack because he can't remember.
He had been busy with dishes when Thor was leaving for work that morning. He was running late, didn't have time to kiss Loki goodbye. Closed the door audibly behind him; Loki sclowed because that oaf always slams the door shut so hard it's going to fall out of the hinges one day.
He doesn't kiss Thor goodbye. Doesn't tell him how much he loves him. How Thor is everything to him. How he's brought Loki back from between the dead when he was at his worst. How he created a hot swirling nebula inside his chest that gave birth to new stars and awoke Loki's numb dead body and his suffering treacherous mind.
There will be many more chances. Many more occasions. It's never too late to say all of that.
So many more.
But there's none, he knows now.
Loki chokes on his own cries until he passes out.
He leaves the girls' place two days later. They say he doesn't have to, that he's welcome to stay as long as he wishes. Are reluctant to let him go. But Loki doesn't want to be a burden. He's useless now, alternating between restless sleep and excruciating sobs that rip his guts from inside out.
It's weird. Crying has always been soothing, leaving a blessedly numb calm afterwards. It doesn't anymore. He cries and cries and it doesn't get easier. Still hurts the same.
Hurts so much.
The only rest he gets is when he falls into uneasy slumber, body too exhausted to keep on going. He finds no respite in his dreams. They're haunted by a blinding smile and golden skin and warm, heavy hands ghosting over his hips. He wakes up disoriented and aching and dives straight back into the torture the reality has become, and every time it's just as bad, being faced with the facts, learning them again and again.
He doesn't distinguish between dreams and consciousness anymore. It's all a nightmare.
Loki doesn't go to the funeral. Lies in bed all day, staring at the ceiling. His phone had been exploding with calls and messages until it died down. He thinks someone had been pounding at the door at some point but can't be sure. Isn't sure of anything anymore.
Lies in bed and breathes.
Their bed. Found on a bargain in a cheap store, the first item they put in an empty, recently bought apartment.
Their bed. Their apartment.
He lies, bones heavy and empty, hurting with nothingness. Lack of presence. In, out. It's as simple. It's the hardest thing Loki's ever done.
There's still a dip in the pillow on Thor's side. Loki wants to push his face into it, breathe Thor's shampoo until he suffocates. Is afraid to ruin the remains of the man's presence.
He crawls to the chest of drawers instead and pulls out Thor's pyjamas shirt. Curls on the hard, unforgiving floor and buries his nose in the material, breathing in the familiar scent of Thor's skin and Thor's body wash and Thor's love.
He must've fallen asleep at some point because when he comes to himself it's long dark outside, street lamps casting long sharp shadows across the floor, hiding the corners in darkness.
His mouth is dry and he can barely crack his eyes open. He hasn't showered in days.
Thor's shirt is pressed against his chest in a cruel mocking parody of a body that's not there to hug anymore. A heartbeat lost forever.
Dry sobs wrack his body for he has no more tears left.