One
The simple black key slipped into the lock with ease, just as it did every morning, and Loki turned it to the left, then the right, as he did every morning. The door pushed open, not emitting even the slightest creak, and Loki stepped into his studio.
The angular, arching ceilings were a familiar sight, climbing up to create odd shadows that seemed to swirl and ripple like waves onto the black stained wood floors. His studio was blazing white, so much so it sometimes hurt his eyes, but he personally had felt that it complimented the gigantic widow looking out over a grey New York perfectly well. Currently, the window was streaked with rain, and it's cool glass made the entire room feel chilled.
Loki stepped forward to the window and glanced down at the city, his eyes consumed the sharp angles of the skyscrapers before him, looking the same as everyday, dark and looming in that complex, glorious way that they always did. He glanced down at the street, which he had been walking on not ten minutes ago. A small smile crossed his face as he lifted his coffee to his lips and sipped at it.
A half-caf nonfat caramel macchiato, which he ordered from the Starbucks he walked to every morning. It wasn’t that far from his apartment, and he had long since convinced himself that he needed that daily exercise. The barista there, Charly, was quite the young woman. She spelled his name wrong every time, and he knew at this point it was on purpose. Today he had gotten ‘dumbass bitch’ on his cup, but he had just laughed it off. Really, Charly’s everyday antics were quite the refreshment.
Then he had walked to the 6:30 train, which he was perfectly on time for, and rode it to the train stop half a mile from his studio.
He proceeded to walk the rest of the way, quite happy to stretch his legs. 1147 steps was the average on how many steps it took him to get to work. He never really had anything on his mind while he walked, considering the simplicity of his life, so he counted his strides instead. Unfortunately, his walk to work this morning was the point that the furious downpour had started. Loki had ducked under his jacket, but he still hadn’t managed to completely keep himself dry. Even now, he was feeling quite damp and chilled to the bone.
Shuddering, Loki flipped on the thermostat and turned it up, already ready to turn it down again. Just because his studio was on the top floor of Brennaman’s Gallery of the Greater Arts, didn’t make it hard to heat. In fact, he found that it heated faster than any other studio he had ever worked in. Which really didn’t mean much, considering he had worked at this particular studio for almost six years, ever since he was 18. Honestly, it had been a miracle he had gotten a job as what he was. He had originally just been working in the gallery, as someone to clean and keep everything together, but when their current conservator had passed away suddenly, with ten paintings that needed to be done by the next week, Loki stepped in and helped.
Considering how long he had been here, and in this particular studio, he knew every single thing about it. He knew every crack and sliver. He knew that if you opened the far right cabinet, the upper left one would slide out of place in a matter of seconds (it had cost him quite a few black eyes.) He knew it took about 7-10 minutes of heating before he had to turn it down in fear of melting.
Loki padded forward to the black table in the middle of the room, which functioned basically as his desk. He used it for almost everything, excluding when he touched up paint; for that, he had a black easel across the room, right by the window.
On his table, there was a painting. It was a new one, not the one he had left there the night before. This particular painting showcased a woman in a flowing white dress, looking over her shoulder. Her blonde hair tumbled down her back but was tucked nicely behind her ear. Her eyes were shining a grey that he had never seen before. They were almost brown, but they had a certain shine of joy in them that made him smile as he ran his thumb over the side of the rough canvas.
The only thing that ruined the illusion of her being right before him was the large crack on the left side of the canvas, stretching over the entirety of it and almost reaching the top, which would have almost made it almost unsavable.
It must have been from the early 1900s, considering the style. Loki almost purred as he rounded the table, looking at the sweet portrait’s every angle. His eyes shone as they did when he saw a new piece that he could give the life back to. It was quite refreshing, working with broken pieces like this. You could always give it a part of your soul to fix it up again. Sure, it took time and effort, but it was truly worth it in the end, seeing it so prettied up again. It felt as though you were the one who originally painted it, every time.
There was a sticky note beside it, and in the neat scrawl of his director, he saw the words, ‘Fell on a chair. I expect this one back by the end of the week. It looks like it will pose quite the challenge.’
With a sigh, Loki stood, his eyes still glued to the woman on the canvas. He shimmed off the black, slightly damp jacket of his simple suit. He folded it over his arm and placed it on the white hook beside the dark oak door, as he had since the first day of his current position, and every day since.
He rolled up his sleeves as he walked back to the table, picking up the sticky note and setting it on the counter, his mind already on how he could fix up the painting, completely lost from the simple actions he found his fingers doing in the absence of his mind. He glanced over at the young woman on the canvas once more, a slight wondering in his mind. He could never help but wonder how and when the paintings he dealt with became actual paintings and not just figments of the artists’ imaginations. Everyone who did art could say they sometimes kept their works in their head, never to be seen, or heard, or even thought of again.
For this particular painting, Loki wondered if it was a portrait. Perhaps of the daughter of a rich father who had long since been forgotten, and now she lived only on the canvas, the only thing of her legacy left. Perhaps she was the artist’s lover, a pretty thing he met off the streets and called into his bed. Maybe the artist imagined her only in his mind. Maybe she was a figment of his imagination. And the client?
The client could have known the young woman in this painting as a great-grandmother, or even a woman related to them that they had never heard of or known. They could have even just bought the painting off the market, with no clue who it was or anything about her, except that they liked the look in her eyes, that same unbounded joy that Loki now looked upon.
As he mused, Loki found that he had already pulled the painting off of its stretcher, placing the birch square aside to be recycled, he knew that Joanna from level 34 was currently looking for some, for that same wooden project she was dreaming of. The one that had cost her hours of time, but was yet to be finished. Loki found that he often thought negatively of the artists in his building, as they all seemed to have ideas that were so big that they could never be achieved. He himself was content with his simple black and white studio, and the same routine he did every day. His work was meditative, even though the other artists called it unoriginal. Loki found the nature of his work ten times more beautiful than some sculpture from level 3, or a copied pencil sketch from floor 17.
Loki’s pretty brows furrowed from the thoughts in his mind as he dusted off the back of the painting, distaste clucking his tongue. He raised his head and spoke out to the device in the room which played music, which had been a white elephant gift from one of the office parties. It had held up surprising well over 2 years, and could still function. He told it to play his favorite playlist, the one he listened to every day. It was a collection of classical pieces from his favorite composers and orchestras, and it always lifted his soul in his chest, flooding inspiration through him.
As Gymnopedie no. 1 crooned through the speakers, Loki grabbed some of his favorite glue dissolving mixture and a pair of latex gloves, which he pulled onto his hands.
Loki pulled the single black, wooden chair in his studio to his table and sat down on it. He leaned forward to look at the painting, taking a wooden dowel with a cotton ball on it and dipping it into his dissolvant. With the same precise hand he always used at work, he gently coated the strip lining on the edge, so he could remove it.
As he worked his mind wandered, flowing over the sweet waves of melody, and the push and pull of the bass that vibrated in his chest. No matter how many times he listened to his collection of these 23 songs, he always found a new note that shocked him, in every listen.
Indeed, Loki took pride in his music. Really, he found that most people he knew preferred the mainstream composers, like Mozart or Beethoven. But Loki himself was more prone to listening to composers from France, such as Chopin, or Debussy. Honestly, he could not believe that people listened to that horrible German… noise. These songs, even to be considered as glorious was an understatement. They carried his soul on wings of high notes and melodies.
Indeed, anything other than what he listened to almost made his head hurt.
Loki softly bit his lip as he peeled away the strip lining, getting the scalpel he had left on the table last night to get under it and pry up the cloth.
Just as he was finishing the last side, a fluttering knock sounded from his door. Loki looked up from the cloth strip he now held in his hand, shocked.
He never got visitors up here. He was on the top floor, 40, and nobody really bothered to come up here. He was the only person up here, out of the two gigantic studios up here, he occupied one and the other, as far as he knew, was used as storage.
Loki straightened and pulled off his gloves, tossing them in the garbage while he walked towards the door. He pulled it open and glanced out of his studio into the corridor.
In his doorway stood Heimdall, the director of the building. The man was wearing his usual pressed brown tweed suit, with a golden handkerchief tucked into the front pocket.
“Oh,” Loki let out with his breath, instantly tensing up, “Heimdall, come in, please.” He stepped back and out of the way.
Heimdall stepped inside, closing the door behind him softly. “Loki,” He said, in that clear, yet mysterious way only he could emit. “I wanted to talk to you.”
Loki watched, nodding his head as his director stepped over to his table, his fingers brushing against the wood. His golden eyes examined Loki’s current work and then turned to look back at the worker.
“We’re hiring a new employee,” Heimdall said, leaning on Loki’s chair.
“Ah,” Loki responded, confused a slight bit. “Yes, of course. And how does this involve me?” Suddenly his eyes flashed as his mind chomped at the possibilities of the meaning of this. “Have you finally decided to develop a conservation department? Are you hiring a trainee?”
Loki had been the only art conservator all six years that he had worked here, and he had been encouraging the directors, as they came and went, to make a department for his work. After all, it was becoming more mainstream, and he really had hoped that would encourage them. He had been quite half-hearted in all his attempts to convince Heimdall, as he seemed the kind of person who couldn’t really be swayed from the will that was all his own. Apparently, he had been wrong.
Or so he thought. Until Heimdall shook his head. “No, Loki. I’m sorry. The man we’re hiring is a sort of jack of all trades, he won’t fit anywhere else, so we’re putting him in the other studio up here. You knew we would put people up here, Loki.”
Loki stared at him, dumbstruck. Yes. He had been told there was a strong possibility that there would be another artist moved up here with him. That was when the company was expanding rapidly and were hiring left and right. That was five years ago. Then the company had lost trillions when a plane of their most famous art had gone down into the Atlantic, and all of it was lost to the decay of the sea.
Then, they had started firing people left and right. Loki had figured at that point he would be alone on the top floor forever.
“A jack of all trades?” He stammered out, “What’s that supposed to mean?”
A slight smile crossed Heimdall’s lips, “It means that he does everything. Sculpt, paint, sketch, craft, design.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Well, I suppose that he does everything except for art conservation.”
Loki’s mouth stuck into a frown. “Well then he’s not really a jack of all trades, now is he?”`
Heimdall chuckled and nodded his head. “I suppose he’s not. But that was how he was marketed to me.”
“Marketed to you?” Loki asked, just a bit worried. “What do you mean? Is he being sold to you or something?”
Heimdall shook his head, running his thumb over his jawline. “No. I was just told by the old director that if I had the opportunity to hire him, I should do so. He recently left his sponsor so I reached out with an offer, which he accepted. He said he was glad to join us, and he’ll start next week.”
Loki scoffed, “Sounds like he gets more credit than he deserves.”
Heimdall’s eyes shone with amusement, watching Loki squirm. “Perhaps. He also is the son of a very rich man, who I’m certain will donate to us now that his son worked here.”
“Aha! So you just want him for the money!” Loki laughed out, “I should have known. Another rich boy with no talent that leeches off his parents even though he’s well past being independent. Great. I would prefer anyone over him. Even Joanna.”
Heimdall laughed broadly, his voice reverberating off the clean white walls of Loki’s studio. “The world runs on money, Loki. And this gallery needs it just as much as the next.”
Loki narrowed his eyes and sunk his teeth into his bottom lip. “Yeah. Of course. I just don’t think that he deserves a position here if you’re only hiring him for the money his father earns. I certainly won’t treat him like a professional just because his daddy has enough money that other people treat him like he is. I bet he doesn’t even do art... Or at least good art.”
Heimdall rolled his eyes and walked away from Loki’s table and towards him, patting the brunette on the back. “He actually is pretty good, Loki. I’ve seen his art myself. And that is why I’m hiring him. Not because of his father. The money is just a bonus.” With long, powerful strides, Heimdall reached the door. He turned back to look at Loki, his smile gone. “As I said before, he’ll be here on Monday. You have the weekend to get your attitude in check, you will not be the reason he quits. I expect you to be calm, collected and teach him the ropes of this company. No snark. No insults. Do not get on my bad side with this, Laufeyson. There will be no second chances.”
Loki nodded his head, his jaw squared, and watched as his director left him alone.
As soon as the door was closed, and ten seconds had passed, Loki let out a loud groan and collapsed onto his chair. He had dreaded this day for years. He had always known that eventually, someone would have to join him up here, but that didn’t mean that he had been looking forward to it. And now that he had the image of a fat, greasy, middle-aged man who thought he could do art even though he definitely couldn’t, Loki was even more determined to hate him.
Loki rubbed at his face, already contemplating how he could convince the man to quit without getting himself fired. He could always… just sleep with him. It wouldn’t exactly have been the worst thing he had done to his body. But no. Even the thought of it made him shiver. He would never destroy his body like that. It would be like painting himself in pig’s blood. Absolutely disgusting. It would stain him forever.
Or he could sell his soul to the devil.
Or he could just fucking deal with it.
Either way, it wasn’t fun.
And sitting here in his chair feeling sorry for himself wasn’t making him any money, anyhow.
With a sigh, Loki lifted himself from his seat and walked to the cabinet in the room which held the fabric he used for strip lining. He opened the cabinet gently, and removed the fabric as carefully as possible, not wanting to disturb anything he had placed in the cabinet. Really, it was quite the opposite of what he wanted to do. He wanted to shove the cabinet over and scream loud enough to deafen the entire state, but he didn’t. Heimdall probably wouldn’t appreciate such an action. Nobody would, really.
Loki glanced back at his painting and sighed. “Why can’t I be like you? Just simple and beautiful and completely frozen in time.”
Of course, there was no reply.
He huffed out a sigh and crossed the room, setting the fabric on the table and unravelling it a bit.
The only thing he knew for certain right now, was that he was dreading going to work on Monday.