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Loki had never quite noticed what was missing until it was gone. It had been torn from his hands before he could ever savor it.
Frigga used to hold Loki, cradle him in her arms, holding his frail body to her breast, and sing him to sleep. She used to hold his hands and call him special, smile as she taught him magic, kiss him on the forehead. Odin would let his chubby fingers clutch onto his one as they walked through golden halls, a hand clasping his and brother’s shoulders and looking at them in the same light, not in pity or anger.
Loki doesn’t know why things changed. He just knows that it was as if an uncrossable line had been drawn into the sand between him and his family. Perhaps the line had always been there and he had been too young, too naive, to truly see the truth for all it is. Not for the first time, Loki wishes he was in Thor’s place.
He wishes it was him who Frigga would wrap in her slender arms upon returning from another trip, kissing his head and brushing the dirt from his golden hair that mirrored her own, to be regarded in such a warm and positive light. Frigga would hug Loki as well, but it was never the same. He was an afterthought. Just an extension to his brother's shadow.
Loki learned to ignore this part of him, the small part of him that longed to be held, to be told it was going to be okay, until he was starved for affection. For feeling, for a connection. Anything. The hunger consumes his entire being leaving him desperate and broken, welcoming it in any form it came.
At first, it came from the subtle things he’d do. He’d bump into servants by accident while walking or happen to bump hands when reaching for the same things. He’d touch people while they spoke, a squeeze on the shoulder, a bump of the elbows, a general closeness in personal space. It isn't long, though, until the hunger grows too great, and Loki seeks intimacy through other means.
Male or female- it didn’t matter- would be taken into his room or he to their homes and that would be enough for a time. What passes between them is never real, his lovers’ adoration for him born out of selfish purposes and wants, nights that mean nothing in the long run that are eventually lost to the sands of time. But they chase away the ache, feeling bare skin to skin basking in the afterglow, their torsos pressed together, lips gliding across his, fingers tracing every inch of his body, and the want lifts for just those few blissful moments.
Over time, though, he learns of another way. A simpler way.
Sometimes he would step out of line and piss off his father just to feel his fist crack against his bones. Loki would always heal before the day would end and the bruises and bloody noses left behind disappear leaving only memories but in those moments, as his fist kissed his skin, the hunger disappeared. For a moment, he felt his father’s love, twisted as it was. He knows his actions are childish and that he should be better than this, yet he needs it to survive. He ignores the guilt that festers in his belly as his mother cradles his face almost mechanically in a gentle, soft hand treating the bruises that bloom across his skin, telling himself this is the only way, savoring those few moments. His body is not built for extreme fighting yet he trains with Thor every day allowing his brother to wail on him until he can barely move, his heart swelling every time a hand claps him on the shoulder, Thor glad to see him sharing interests in fighting, so blissfully oblivious to Loki’s inner plight.
Because Thor always had what Loki never did. Something he could never name because he's never known it. Something he wouldn't recognize even if it looked him in the eye. Something real.
He was alone, and would be until the end of his days and he preferred it that way. Affection was a weakness after all. A weakness he exploited out of his brother time and time again, preferring to stab others in the back rather than come to terms with his own feelings, never lingering long enough to hear the truth of the matter. He knew it was unhealthy, but that was the way it had to be, and always will be.
But then he meets Mobius.
He never saw Loki as a villain or a failed son. Not for what he could be but what he was. It was strange. New at best. Terrifying at most. Overtime, his walls began melting and Mobius soon became an anchor for him, someone- for the first time- in his corner, someone he could turn to and rely on. Loki hated it just as much as he loved it.
The ache he had sealed away had returned, begging for comfort, for touch, to feel that connection with another living being he never felt before. But Loki refused. Being vulnerable was something Loki never had the pleasure of being. He did the betraying not the other way around. As long as he kept his heart closed off he could never be hurt.
Mobius, on the other hand, is the stark opposite.
Mobius will place his hand on the small of his back, sometimes, or let their hands brush as they walk, and, occasionally, let their legs lazily tangle together as they eat, Loki’s foot resting comfortably on his, calves bumping. A touch to the shoulder, a brushing of the fingers, the playful boop to the nose, the adjusting of his tie; a million little touches that Loki files away, each and every time, for the tired, sleepless nights when he’s alone, and the weight in his chest twists into something unbearable. Sometimes they chase away the ache and Loki foolishly lets himself imagine that the arms he wraps around his torso are someone else’s. That the empty space in his bed could belong to someone else. He convinces himself that it's enough.
The first time Mobius holds his hand, Loki pulls away.
It had been pure instinct. Usually, if someone grabbed his hand that meant there was pain to be had, or an incoming attack. The brief touch had been so overwhelming. Nothing he had ever felt before. He could feel the warmth of Mobius’s fingertips burn into his skin, and it scared him. It truly, genuinely scared him.
Mobius only looked shocked for a moment before nodding. As if he had seen it coming. Loki half-expected the man to get upset, accuse him of being ashamed or scared of him like others had done in the past, yet Mobius just smiled and held out his hand for him to take.
No one had ever shown Loki that kind of patience before. No judgment, no snide remarks, no ulterior motive. He learned, and was willing to follow at the pace Loki was setting rather than pushing him into something he wasn’t ready for. Loki’s quite certain if he didn’t take Mobius’s hand then he wouldn’t treat him any differently. Which comes the hard truth; Loki wants to hold his hand. As Loki hesitantly took the offered hand, their palms slotting together, feeling a thumb brush over his knuckles oh so gently, he has never felt so connected with another living being before.
“Why?” Loki had asked him later once he’d gathered his nerves. Mobius paused, fork halfway to his mouth. They were the only two in the cafeteria, as usual. It always seemed as if it was just them. Loki found that he didn’t mind it all that much. “It doesn’t bother you? That I-” he feels the gentlest tap against his ankle. A silent gesture for him to take his time. “You held my hand.”
“I did,” Mobius hums. He shrugs at Loki’s unwavering stare. “Was that alright?”
And Loki’s lips are moving before he can fully register the question. “Yes.”
The smile he receives in turn is like nothing he has ever seen before.
Loki eyes the fingers absentmindedly drumming along the table’s smooth surface. He reassures himself that this isn’t seeking out comfort- rather, proving he was more than alright with touch. Slowly, as if he were trying not to spook an animal, Loki reaches across the table and touches Mobius’s hand. He bumps their fingers together and bites back a smile when their fingers intertwine together.
Whatever it was between them was strange and unfamiliar territory for them both, but Loki wasn’t afraid as long as he had Mobius by his side.