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“For a guy who’s lived for aeons, you sure have managed to elude the finer subtleties of life.” Loki teases with a lopsided smile, his left cheek splitting into a dimple.
“Such as the extravagant affair of getting ready for a formal event?” Mobius looks down at his attire, a tuxedo that is deemed to be appropriate after a long series of rejected suits in a pile on their side. Loki’d still grumbled about how the finest of the fabric and design Midgard had to offer was lesser than a mundane quality of Asgardian leather.
Loki reaches down to tie the shorter man’s tie in a perfect bow for him with agile fingers moving deftly. It leaves Mobius wondering if Loki is not using magic knowing that it doesn’t work in the TVA. The riposte of "I can tie my own tie, Loki" fizzles out on the tip of Mobius' tongue.
"Stop fussing so much buddy, it's not my wedding!" Another arrow was apparently ready in the Mobius' quiver of comebacks that just shot out as Loki smooths out his lapels, the fabric on his shoulders, trying to make him more presentable. On a visceral level, they both know what it is. Loki is afraid. He's petrified that Mobius will slip through his fingers, leaving him, not recognising him. And he cannot go through that again. Seeing the same friendly eyes, vacant of recognition. He does have the time but not the strength to go through the same loop of making all those memories, to familiarise himself with his friend again, over and over in a loop.
So sue him for checking every once in a while with any and all nuances and appearances and opportunities he can grab to make sure Mobius is real. The whole setting is real and not just some illusion he’s put into by He Who Remains. Because he is dead. Amongst all the clatter of thoughts running their chaos, somehow Mobius’ words register. More so, the shorter man’s hands on his, thumbs tracing along the inside of his wrists, a subconscious action of grounding Loki. He’s more than thankful for that but even after everything, he’s still Loki and doesn’t do direct gratitude. So, a terribly in character and roundabout way it is. “If it were your wedding, I’d have made sure you adorned the grandest of the Asgardian leather. Not this tawdry little monochrome garb.”
“So you just assumed you’d be my best man?”
“Of course. Also, I’d be your best God! Picture it!” Loki sways around, hands flailing around in wild gesture, “How grand it would be? A literal God at your wedding!” Mobius laughs out loud at the theatrics.
He then really takes in this moment. For the heap of responsibilities that await them, there might not be many of them. This tender, gentle glide of playful remarks being thrown around. It all could be over anytime and the agent wants to cherish every one of them. Right here. With his best friend. The little reminders of why they actually are fighting. What they are fighting for. Putting their existence on the line. Such minute instances carved out, with sharp, meticulous strokes of the chisel in the chaos that threatens to swallow the reality whole.
“And how would you obtain that?”
“I’d borrow it of course. From ho- Asgard.” The correction doesn’t go unnoticed by either of them but they resolutely ignore it.
“You mean steal it.”
“Oh, Mobius! You and your asinine morals!”
“I can still put you behind bars, you know!” Loki mocks in faux horror, face morphed into a look of shock and disbelief that elicits a chuckle out of Mobius, laugh lines around his eyes crinkling adorably.
“After all this time! How could you say such a thing? ” Loki refuses to put down the charade. Being over-dramatic is the thing he excels at, which still makes Mobius fondly roll his eyes at him. That is an added bonus.
“Makes me smile.” Loki’s insides feel like a bubble at the mischievous glint in the other man’s eyes, fragile and tinged with shades of rainbow. Beatific. It is not a weakness, he realises, to care for someone, the desperate want to protect them, to cling to them - it is a strength.