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The look Sylvie gives him when she enters their temporary hide-out is extremely pointed, and Mobius briefly flinches under the force of it. He’s not used to being this easily rattled by something as simple as a hard stare from an angry variant, but then again, he’s never had his entire world upended in this way before. At least not as far as he can remember. And considering all the shit he’s gone through today – the shit they’ve gone through – he feels like he’s earned the right to be emotionally off-kilter for a bit.
Sylvie moves on to eyeing the huge haunch of unidentifiable meat cooking over the small fire. “Is it done soon?” she asks. “I’m starving.”
The older Loki shrugs. “We’ve never cooked one of these before.”
“Well, I’m a professional,” Sylvie briskly announces, and yeah, that’s a subtle dig at Mobius, casually reminding him what her life has been like since childhood.
She whips out a small dagger from seemingly nowhere, poking at the meat. “An hour more.” A pause. “You should go talk to him.”
There’s no need for her to say anything beyond that, they all know what she’s getting at. Still, Mobius hesitates, shifting in his seat.
Sylvie loses her patience almost immediately. “Now.”
There’s no help to be found from the other Loki variants, who studiously refuse to say anything even as Mobius sends them pleading looks. Unless of course the low hiss from the alligator was a show of support. In the end, Mobius sees no alternative option, and goes to do what he’s been told.
*
Loki is still sitting in the grass outside, huddled in his conjured blanket. When Mobius approaches, making enough noise as to not risk startling him, Loki only acknowledges him with a brief look, before returning his attention to the broiling clouds on the horizon.
He hadn’t expected this to be easy; nothing ever is with Lokis. So, with a beleaguered sigh, Mobius joins him. His muscles and joints complain loudly when he sits down, and he makes no attempt to pretend that they don’t, deciding instead to groan theatrically.
That, at least, makes the ghost of a smile appear on Loki’s face, although he doesn’t say anything.
“I’ve had a hard day,” Mobius begins, his tone humorously defensive.
Loki snorts. “I think we all have.”
“Well, yeah,” Mobius agrees. “But some of us are old.”
“Presumably.”
If he’s being honest, Mobius isn’t overly interested in thinking about the recently uncovered realities about his existence at the moment. The implications are just too terrifying, the scope of the consequences too wide for him to wrap his head around. So right now, he’s much more focused on simply getting out of this situation alive.
If he could somehow keep Loki safe as well, that would be ideal, but the chances of convincing him to abandon Sylvie’s quest are slim to none.
Which means that this may very well be the last conversation they will ever have, and the thought makes Mobius’ heart ache. There’s so much he should say, but he doesn’t know where to begin, and as long as Loki is being as uncharacteristically uncommunicative as he currently is, there’s nothing for Mobius to play off of, no nexus from which to elegantly steer the conversation in the direction he wants it to go.
As if he even knows where he would like this to end. Is he aiming for closure? There’s no way they can reach that in an hour. Comfort, maybe? Yes, that sounds more feasible.
Mobius takes a short breath and begins, “Hey, are you-”
“I saw you die.” Loki’s voice sounds brittle, like it will break at any second, but when Mobius looks at him, his eyes are still fixed on the horizon.
Mobius tries to keep his tone light, grinning when he says, “Yeah, well, turns out I’m harder to kill than you’d think.”
“You. Died.”
Mobius is halfway through formulating another blithe response when Loki suddenly turns his head, and if Mobius had thought the lack of eye contact was disconcerting, the intensity with which Loki stares at him now is almost frightening. Even so, he doesn’t look away. He can’t.
“I’m fine, Loki.”
Loki’s face twists. “You’re not.”
“Fine, I’m not, but I’m alive.”
Loki abruptly turns away, blinking rapidly. It’s not like Mobius hasn’t seen him cry before, but it feels like it would be intrusive to watch him break down this time, so Mobius aims his eyes at the ground in front of his feet instead and waits.
Loki’s body is tense to the point of trembling, but he is nevertheless able to rein in his emotions before he breaks down completely. A part of Mobius is troubled by this, the fact that Loki now feels the need to keep it together in front of him. He has to remind himself that their situation is different now. Everything is different. Loki can’t afford to fall apart right now, and Mobius doesn’t want him to.
“Loki?”
The god hurriedly wipes away the tears that escaped despite his best efforts. “No one should ever have to do that.”
“Do what?”
“Die for me.”
Mobius has to bite his tongue, quite literally, to keep from blurting out something counterproductive. Instead, he takes a few deep breaths, then says, “It’s not really up to you though, is it? What other people are willing to do for you?”
Loki doesn’t reply, and to be completely honest, Mobius doesn’t mind that much. He’s beginning to realize just how mentally exhausted he is, and he’s not certain that his words will even be enough anyway, no matter how eloquent.
They settle into a prolonged silence, not exactly comfortable, but not overly uncomfortable either. A gust of wind sweeps over them, rustling the grass, and Mobius shivers in spite of himself.
He feels Loki’s attention on him immediately. The god raises his hand, making an elegant swishing gesture with his fingers. The blanket wrapped loosely around him shimmers, and a split-second later Mobius is draped in it as well. The fabric is pretty thin, but it turns out to be windproof, shielding him from the cold breeze, and to his surprise, Loki is giving off quite a bit of heat, now that they’re both sat together beneath the blanket.
Mobius automatically shifts closer, seeking the comforting warmth of Loki’s body. His hand is braced on the ground and his pinky accidentally brushes against Loki’s. He freezes, wondering if he should quickly snatch his hand back, fearing he’s gone too far without even meaning to. But Loki doesn’t pull his own hand away. Instead, he turns it over and slowly opens it.
Mobius glances up at him, searching, but Loki’s gaze is still on the horizon, entirely unreadable. Carefully, Mobius slides his hand into Loki’s. Their fingers entwine without a word. Loki’s skin is warmer than Mobius remembers from the last time they touched, his fingertips lightly calloused.
“I don’t regret it,” Mobius says, because he feels like he needs to. Loki needs to know. “You’re worth it.”
Loki leans into him, lowering his head to rest on Mobius’ shoulder. Sitting like this, bodies pressed together from hip to shoulder, hands clasped tight, Mobius finds himself relaxing for the first time in days. Loki is still reluctant, but when Mobius squeezes his hand in encouragement, his whole body shudders as he finally lets go and melts against Mobius’ side.
“Mobius, I-…” he stops, hesitating.
“I know.” Another squeeze of his hand. “It’s okay.”
The tip of Loki’s nose is cold when he nudges it against Mobius’ cheek, but his lips are warm when Mobius obligingly turns his head to accept a soft kiss. It doesn’t go beyond that – it doesn’t have to. Mobius knows what Loki is trying to convey, and in that moment, Loki doesn’t need more than Mobius’ hand clutching his and a soft smile when they pull apart.
They stay huddled under the blanket, fingers tangled, until Sylvie eventually calls them back inside.