Chapter Text
It's a bleak and foggy midwinter day when Loki stops by at Mobius's house and asks if they can go and collect firewood together. They had arrived home from university for Christmas a few weeks before, after pursuing an illicit relationship with one another in the early autumn. Everything had been perfect leading up to the moment they arrived home. Mobius has isolated himself up in his room for the past three weeks, not even once heading into the village, just to ensure that his and Loki's paths don't cross. Loki has noticed.
Upon the first knock, Mobius didn't answer the door. He knew it was Loki, but he didn't want to see him. He knew why he was coming to see him, and he couldn't bear it. He was in the midst of completing an essay, and that could be an excuse. There wasn't another knock after that, and he thought himself lucky and continued writing.
A few minutes later though, Mobius could hear footsteps outside of his bedroom. He figured that it could be his father, perhaps coming to announce dinner. Considering he had been writing for a few hours, it wasn't too much of an overreach. It could also perhaps be his mother, as he did say that he'd go and collect some firewood before dinner, though he thinks she would've called him by now.
There was a consecutive quiet knock, and a slightly louder knock, and then another quiet knock on the old wooden door. Mobius knew what it was. Who it was. It was their knock, of course. His and Loki's. He'd never forget, though sometimes he does wish he could.
Mobius coughed before placing the quill down on his desk, "Come in," he said, his voice faltered slightly.
Loki opened the door then. It creaked in the silence and everything suddenly felt oh so isolated. He looked aggravatingly dashing. His long dark hair framing his perfectly wintry icy blue eyes. A dark green scarf was wrapped tightly around his neck, accompanied by a matching pair of gloves on his hands. He wore a black ulster coat, which Mobius thought suited him so well he must've been the muse of the man who created it. Followed by an equally dark pair of trousers and wellington boots. Mobius stared for a few seconds, he didn't know what to say.
"Good day, Mobius," Loki said to Mobius's apprehension.
Mobius looked down in embarrassment, and then back up, "Hello, Loki."
"Are you well?" Loki asked. Mobius could hear the concern dripping from Loki's voice. Most likely due to his radio silence since they had arrived home from university for Christmas, and even his awkwardness now.
"I am fine," Mobius shrugged, attempting to inconspicuously gesture towards his work, hoping that Loki would determine for himself that Mobius was busy and leave.
"Are you sure?" Loki pushed his question furthermore. Of course he did. Mobius should've known he would.
Mobius nodded, unsure whether could trust himself to say anything else. He watches as Loki welcomed himself further into the cold room.
"Would you mind coming for a walk with me?" Loki asked, "I'm supposed to be getting firewood for our family, and I've just noticed that you seem to be lacking some too," at this, he gestured to the empty fire by Mobius's bed, "Perhaps we could collect together?"
Mobius looked from his work to Loki, the closeness of his soft facial and quietly hopeful eyes made it very apparent to Mobius that he just couldn't say no. So quietly, he croaked, "Sure."
So now, Loki watches Mobius as he wraps a dark orange scarf around his neck and pulls on a dark brown coat. Mobius attempts to keep a large distance between them, barely saying a word as they prepare to leave. But once Mobius has pulled on his walking boots, Loki leans in closely, and readjusts Mobius's scarf. When Mobius raises an eyebrow at him, trying to ignore the heat he can feel rising in his cheeks, Loki quickly dismisses him, "It was crooked."
Mobius is quite certain that a scarf can't exactly be crooked, but he attempts to ignore that factor and instead focuses on leaving his house, in which the air suddenly feels uncomfortably stifling and claustrophobic. He almost leapt to push the door open, and led them out together with Loki trailing behind him. He debated getting a bag to carry the firewood in, but quickly decided against it as Loki did not have one.
They make their way through the fields, barely being able to see what is in front of them. The grass is high and frosty, it soaks their legs as they walk, and Mobius damns himself for not wearing Wellington boots like Loki, but rather a pair of much shorter boots that allows all of melted ice to drip down and soak his socks, the only provider of warmth to his feet.
They do not speak much initially. Mobius can sense that Loki is waiting for him to say something, but he knows that what he wants to say is going to hurt Loki. He doesn't want that.
Eventually, Loki appears to be bored of waiting, and he grabs Mobius's arm. It feels almost aggressive, but Mobius knows that Loki didn't intend on having it feel that way. Loki looks him deep in the eye and asks, "Why have you disappeared?"
Mobius takes a heavy breath of discomfort. They've stopped walking now and are stood completely face to face, Loki's hand is still firmly holding Mobius's arm. Mobius can only stand still as he feels Loki's hand slowly making it's way down to his own hand, joining them softly. Loki toys with Mobius's hand for a few seconds, as if waiting for permission, and then seconds later, they're kissing.
Loki leans down, allowing his lips to touch Mobius's briefly, Mobius deepens it. He feels overcome with emotion and need, kissing more roughly than he ever has before, gripping his free hand to Loki's cheek as if they're about to die. Loki seems to notice it too, because he's soon pulling away. He stands back, but allows their hands to stay joined. Loki beckons him again, "Mobius, please talk to me."
Mobius drops Loki's hand, moving away so there's even more distance between the two of them. He looks down and shakes his head numerous times, tears welling in his eyes. Mobius can't even make eye contact, "I cannot... I simply cannot do this," he says, voice hoarse and now trembling.
"Pardon?”
Mobius finally looks back up at Loki, studying his face for a few seconds. He looks so wounded, dejected, worried for Mobius. Here he is, baring his entire heart and soul, and Mobius is really about to do this to him? He hates himself, he hates himself so much.
"You and I."
The colour drains from Loki's face, "Are you breaking up with me?"
A sole tear falls from Mobius's left eye, "I'm sorry," is all he can say.
Loki has never looked so distraught, he blinks quickly and his lip quivers, “I love you, though.”
Mobius frowns, grabbing Loki tightly and pulling him into his embrace. He’s freezing cold, but Mobius keeps a tight grip on him. He’s shaking his head, though Loki can’t see him. He whispers into the air, watching the condensation of his own breath, “It’ll pass.”
Loki pushes Mobius away from him, his limbs move sporadically as an evident display of how disoriented he is, “I don’t think you understand, Mobius. I’m in love with you. This isn’t the kind of thing that comes and goes,” and his voice stops trembling, and he starts shouting, “Why are you denying yourself this?”
Mobius feels anxious that someone could hear them from here, even though they’re in the middle of nowhere, and it’s only just more confirmation that he needs to end this now. “I just, it’s wrong, Loki,” he says, taking deep breaths in between each word, “We’re not allowed to be in love.”
“I don’t care.”
“This isn’t my fault, Loki.” Mobius pleads.
“It kind of feels like it is.”
Mobius realises then that he just needs to go, they can have this argument a thousand times and it won’t end differently. Mobius has made up his mind, whether he likes it or not. “I should go. Goodbye Loki,” he says, turning around and not looking back again.
Mobius weaves through the long grass with more expertise, being a significant distance away before he hears Loki saying, “Goodbye Mobius.”
And when Mobius returns home without the wood for the fire, he blames it on not being able to find any. When his mother asks how Loki is, he says ‘well’. When his father gets back and asks him to join them for dinner, he refuses and tells him that he’s feeling unwell.
And when Mobius enters the safety of his own, fireless bedroom, he crawls under the covers and allows himself to be encased by the darkness. He covers his mouth as his lets out a silent sob, contemplating his earlier words.
“It’ll pass.” He said.
Mobius doesn’t think he’s ever told a bigger lie in his life.