Chapter Text
NO ONE MOURNS THE WICKED
O hallowed halls and vine-draped walls,
The proudest sight there is,
When gray and sere our hair hath turned,
We shall revere the lessons learned,
in our days at dear old Shiz
**********************************
The docks are bustling with people. Flowing blue school skirts, winks of white socks under rolled-up pant legs. A murmur of laughter here and there, and tinkling bells of necklaces and women’s dulcet tones. Someone yelps as a friend from the year before leaps upon them. A blond man smiles as he embraces his two closest peers. The sky glows in the morning light. The air of a fresh new start, crisp as mint, is shining from the tall towers and swirling spiral stairs of Shiz University of Magic.
There’s a neat, sharp click on the dock. Followed by another.
Click.
Well-made men’s shoes, Munchkin sized ten and a half. Polished so perfectly black they resembled voidlike mirrors. Two, of course. The bottoms are silver metal, almost tap shoes, and make nearly as much noise. Refined like the modern connoisseur’s entrance trumpet: a simple way to announce your arrival.
Click.
Click.
The shoes stop, at the back of a crowd. A moment later, a soft thump rocks the floorboards, and a bag falls next to them. Worn out, also black, and stitched with green on the hems. It’s full of the kind of books people will pull out in coffee shops, and pretend to be mysterious as they hunch over the pages, eyeing surreptitiously for any good-looking strangers (only, these books are used as intended). Thick, clever, complicated books, meant for a mind that stretches like taffy across all surfaces and eats them up with vigor.
A hand reaches up. It taps politely on the shoulder of the person in front of them, a tall ginger boy with no spatial awareness.
Someone’s throat clears. “Excuse me, you’re in my way.”
The boy startles, and turns wide-eyed. “Sorry! I’ll budge over to let you across, I’m all over myself today. By the way, if you see a copy of Professor Hedger’s new assigned book, it’s probably mine—oh.”
The other blinks. “What?”
“Oh. Oh,” The ginger boy swallows, and moves back a step, his eyes wide as dinner plates. “Uh. Excuse me.”
He turns to leave, and a girl next to him runs into his chest. She pushes back, harried. “Watch where you’re going, Alvick!” She snaps, and her head swivels to the boy next to him.
She turns still.
Her mouth opens and closes stupidly, almost like a fish, and she gapes silently as she gropes for Alvick’s arm. Together, they both step back and press to the crowd.
It happens in increments.
More people turn in disgruntlement, catch sight, and go stupid. The polite ones stare while pretending not to. There are very few polite ones. Most are open-mouthed and some are laughing with their hands over their teeth, leering. Over in the corner by an expensive-looking horse and carriage, a tall blond man perks up and swivels his head, watching. Waiting.
“Oh my god—“
“How is that even possible?”
“Look at them—it? Is it an it?”
“Oh, how absurd!”
“What?” The center of attention asks. They turn around in a circle, heels click-click-clicking on the cobblestone harbor, and each time they lock eyes with someone, that person scrambles behind a friend, or gasps, or winces. “What? Is there something in my teeth?”
The crowd is at least six feet away at the closest spots. The bag has been forgotten, likely trampled upon. Some students are making faces, like children putting their heads between the bars at a zoo. Crude expressions and chill laughter.
The blond man by the boats comes up, finally. He raises his head above the backmost people, who begin to shift out of the way. He elbows himself forward, and finally reaches the front, just as the stranger turns around.
His hair is dark, thick, and softly curled. His eyes are sharp with polished intelligence. A clean-cut suit of pitch black, he’s all angular style and tall, lean frame. But from the top of his head to the bottom of his feet, the nails on his hands, there is something so incredibly peculiar about him.
He is blue.
The color of sky, or sapphire. Every color of blue, all continuously interrupted by long lines of white tracing down his arms and cheeks, delicate heritage marks, curling into patterns below his eyes. He would have looked beautiful if it wasn’t for the dangerous red of his eyes. He looks like an alien. He looks like the drawing of a monster that a child keeps under their bed.
He steps forward. The crowd steps back, scattering like birds when he comes close. He swivels to take in the whole giggling menagerie, and puts his (blue) hands on his hips.
His eyes meet the blond man, who is standing directly at the front of the crowd. The blond puts his hands in his pockets, and then pulls them back out again. He holds out his hand to the blue man, and then stops and quickly turns the motion into a wave, his eyes darting to the cerulean skin on his forearm. “Hello.”
“Hello,” The blue man responds, cocking his head just slightly. He looks dangerous like this, and the crowd titters as they inch back just enough to allow the two to have a conversation.
“Welcome to Shiz,” The blond says lightly, and his eyes, a paler, more culturally acceptable blue, are following the silver markings on the cobalt’s face. “I’m Thor Odinson of the Upper Uplands. I speak for all of us when we say,” He gestures to the crowd, who, even in the midst of their absurd gawking, nod eagerly. “We look forward to what an exciting future we’ll be having with you in our presence.”
“You tell him, Thor!” Someone shouts from the crowd, and soon everyone else is clapping, Thor half-smiling amiably and waving a hand at the person in the back who had said it. From the point of view of an outsider, or perhaps someone really stupid, it would look as if they were clapping in welcome for the blue oddity. But if they had paid attention, people had started to resolutely stare at Thor instead of the stranger, clapping for him, simply for saying less than thirty words.
The new man’s eyes tighten, but he says nothing. It’s like watching a blue satin wrinkle. He forces out a hand with a dry, political smile. “Charmed.”
The hand does not get taken. It sticks out awkwardly like the tall person in a friend group, and the others back away. Thor looks like he wants to blanch, and his hand dithers before silently sticking it in his pocket. The blue one waits, but when clearly no one is going to touch him, he pulls it back.
His smile drops. “Fine. We might as well get it over with.”
He blows out a breath and shakes his hair out, running a hand back through the unnaturally dark locks before puffing up his chest like a general about to give a speech.
“Hello. Hi, yes.” He flashes a grin sardonically. “My name is Loki of Ozgard,” He pointedly glares at a woman snorting in the back. “Yes, that may seem surprising to you, considering I do not look like you! Let me clear something up.”
A step. The crowd rushes back. He almost smiles, a sallow twitch of strange lips. “No: I am not cursed. No: I did not eat an overabundance of blueberries as a child. As a matter of fact, the inside of blueberries are purple, so get your assumptions straight. And yes,” He turns back to Thor. The kind of red eyes that could mimic fire have never looked so cold. “I have always been blue.”
They’re all appropriately awkward. Thor nods slowly. “Well. Good to know. Thanks.”
“You’re most welcome,” Loki responds in a scathing tone. He moves to the side, and the crowds fly away like birds around a street square, or the Red Sea parting. “I’m grabbing my bag, I’m not going to eat you, for the Wizard’s sake,” He snaps at them, and picks up his dirty book bag. There’s a footprint on the top. He rubs it off with the side of his immaculate sleeve, muttering under his breath, “Honestly.”
“Loki! Loki! Get over here! You’re not making trouble again, are you?” Loki whirls around as a middle-aged man elbows his way through the crowd. “Give me a bloody hand with the wheelchair.”
Loki rolls his eyes, and stalks forward, which is probably the only time that his distancing is beneficial. The people part enough for a wheelchair to roll through, carrying a thin, pale girl with long black hair. Her eyes are dark, and she wouldn’t be called pretty by conventional standards, but she is handsome enough. She frowns when she sees the crowd around Loki.
“What are you doing?” She says skeptically. “Don’t be weird. I’m trying to have a good impression.”
“Introductions. It’s fine, I’m incredibly popular and they all love me.” Loki waves at some random girl jauntily, who gives him a snooty look before moving off. “Do you have your luggage?”
She pats the box attached to her wheelchair, and Loki gives her a sweeping look before the corners of his lips curl up. “Are you ready?”
“For Shiz?” She looks almost giddy. “I’ve been ready my entire life.”
“Alright, that’s enough,” The man says from behind her wheelchair, and comes around the side with a huff. “Loki, go…do whatever you should do. You’re only here for one reason.”
“I’d like to stay with Hela,” Loki says coldly, and his hand tightens on the bag. “She is the reason I’m here. You quite literally never let me forget it.”
His father offers him a scrutinizing look, but says nothing and turns back to his daughter. “Today’s your big day,” He tells her. Hela beams, and Loki looks like he wants to roll his eyes, but refrains. “My big girl, off to Shiz. Here, I have a parting gift for you.”
He pulls something out of the bag in his hand, and presents a telltale box to her. Hela’s eyes widen and she carefully lifts the lid.
“Oh!” She gasps. Her father beams, and he watches as she pulls out a pair of black boots, lined with delicate silver and sporting just the slightest bit of heel.They glimmer in the sunlight with some type of mesmerizing cosmetic magic. Loki’s cheeks go a darker shade of blue and he resolutely looks away. “Father, you shouldn’t have!”
“Nonsense,” He pats the shoe, and then moves to patting her shoulder. “If I must part with you, it must be with the greatest goodwill I can bestow. Here, let me help them on.”
“They look beautiful, Hela,” Loki says stiffly. Hela gives him a plaintive look.
“Loki, come on. It’s my special day, can you not be as you always are for once?”
Loki lets out a silently frustrated breath through his nose and sags his head forward. “Of course. My apologies, Hela. They truly do look amazing on you.”
She searches his face before giving him a smile he reluctantly returns. Their father doesn’t glance once at Loki once he stands up, and he claps his hands, stepping back. “Give us a twirl, my dear!”
With the expert hands of someone very used to being handicapped, Hela does a full circle in her wheelchair, and the shoes glimmer in the light. Loki absently thinks that they might fit him. Their family is nowhere near wealthy, so the shoes must have been secondhand. They are loose around Hela’s heels. Loki might be tall, but he has small feet.
No. He tries to think logically. He has no need for boots.
Hela beams, which lights her whole face up like a marble statue suddenly moving off of a pedestal. The sallow paleness of her face seems to shine through with joy. Loki looks away so she doesn’t see his expression.
Hela and their father exchange farewells that Loki avidly ignores, and he only turns back when his father forcefully grabs him by the bicep.
“Watch her, make sure she comes to no harm.” He hisses, and Loki can see the raw desperation in his eyes, underneath the guise of anger. It makes his chest feel thick.
Did you ever think of me that way? Did you ever go to such lengths to want me safe as well?
He knows the answer, obviously.
“Of course.” Loki decides not to be scathing for a moment, only because he cares for Hela as fiercely as her father.
“I mean it.” His dad says. Some spittle lands on Loki’s chin. “There is one reason you are at this school, and I expect you to be through with it.”
“Of course,” Loki puts on the dry smile he uses when someone makes a note about his abundance of a certain primary color. “I live to please.”
His father watches him for a long glare, but when Loki refuses to wither beneath his gaze, he turns away and bends down next to Hela.
“My dear.”
“Father. I’m so excited! I can’t wait for my classes. I heard that the History teacher is a Goat, can you imagine? I wonder how he grades papers with his hooves—“
“I’ll see you in winter,” He rubs her on the head and chuckles when she playfully pushes his hand away to preserve her hair. “Stay safe. Be good. Learn and study. You’ll grow far, my darling. Future Governess of Munchkinland—I can see it now!”
Loki looks like he’s bitten a lemon, and he takes an unusual amount of attention to his just slightly crooked tie.
“I love you, my dear.” He leaves a minute later. He’s gone. Loki turns to Hela, who beams at him with a guilty tinge to her face.
“Don’t worry about it,” Loki tries to reassure her. “He couldn’t have gotten me boots. I clash with everything.”
**********************************
“Wait, wait. I got it.” Sif attempts to muffle her snickering, and Thor shushes her between his laughter as they send clandestine looks across the common. “Perhaps his mother had an affair with one of the ogres from outside the wastelands.”
“Are they blue?” Fandral frowns. “I’ve never heard that before.”
“They’re all sorts of freaks over there,” Sif explains. “Honestly, look at him and tell me that wasn’t the result of some marriage failure.”
“Oh,” Thor smiles conspicuously. “His father is the Governor of Munchkinland, isn’t he? I’ve heard those Munchkinlander families have all sorts of the worst scandals.”
“Blue cheese,” Hogunn grunts. They all swivel to stare at him.
“What?” Thor says stupidly.
“Blue cheese.” He gestures and Sif snorts when she understands. “Stinky, everyone has to pretend to like it, an odd color people don’t want to touch.”
“If he eats cheese so much that it affects his skin tone, I pity whoever his poor roommate will be.” Thor wrinkles his nose. The others burst out laughing.
“Who’d want to room with him?” Sif wheezes in between her snickering. “Perhaps they’ll shove him in the janitorial closet instead. The custodian might grab his face instead of that foul blue dish soap.”
Hogunn smacks her arm. Oblivious, she keeps talking. “We need more insults if he’s staying. Oh, I do hope he’s not. The freak looks like we could dump water on him and he’ll melt like an icicle. Wait, that gives me an idea—“
Thor catches what Hogunn has noticed. “Sif.”
“We need more blue foods, that’s the issue. Calling him a blueberry only goes so far. Or alliterations. What about cobalt calamity? That sounds like he was some smudge I got on my pants in art class—“
Thor cracks a grin at that one, but he still nudges her arm. “Sif!”
“What?” She turns to his line of sight. “Oh.”
Their blue oddity had been lost in the crowd surging towards the double wooden doors, and a regal, woman’s voice that had clearly worked in the education system for a long time came over the speaker.
“Students. Students! Welcome, new students! I am Madame Morrible, headmistress here at Shiz University. Girls, please enter the doors on the right to receive a warm welcome and your room assignments. Boys, the opposite side.”
Sif sends the trio of boys a miserable look as she strides to sweep up in the tide. “Let me know if anything fun happens.”
Thor waves her goodbye. As he turns to the left, following Hogunn, Fandral jumps into him and pummels him amiably in the shoulder. “Don’t worry about that blueberry sod, Thor! He’ll be gone in days.”
“I’m not worried,” Thor says. You know, like a liar.
“Sure,” Fandral doesn’t press it. That’s the good thing about him, even if he has a habit of saying whatever is on his mind. He doesn’t prod the sleeping bear (‘bear,’ not Bear, Thor has to remind himself. There’s a difference. Theoretically). “Also, you may not have noticed, but Volstagg is not among us this morning.”
“No, I definitely noticed that,” Thor protests dryly. “The fact that his stomach is not pressing us against the walls for lack of room is the biggest tell.” He’s not really being mean to Volstagg. He loves Volstagg, they all do. What’s a bit of teasing between friends?
“Well, I heard from a little birdie,” Fandral imitates a bird noise, and Thor rolls his eyes. “That our friend is touring the Emerald City.”
“What?!” Thor jolts, shoving off Fandral’s arm and whipping towards him. “You’re joking.”
“No!” Fandral’s eyes are just as wide. “His father is having a meeting with one of the architects for a new road or something that’s going to course through Oz. He’s taking the family on a day trip.”
“Is he going to take any photos?” Hogunn says in that gritty, emotionless voice that they all have grown used to by now. Hogunn is a softie. Especially for photography or Wilikinese baked goods.
“He better, or I’ll paint him green when he comes back, so we all get a little taste of the City.” Thor remarks. This sends the three of them into laughter. “Imagine! Green is almost as bad as blue—don’t you think?”
“Apparently, he suspects he’ll be invited to Morrible’s seminar.”
Thor snorts derisively. “Please. That bloody seminar is not as much about wealth and influence as you think it is. You have to actually learn things to be there, apparently.”
“Ooh, hit a soft spot there, didn’t we?” Fandral prods Thor with a grin. Thor scowls. “How’d that submission essay go?”
“It didn’t! It didn’t go.” Thor says in post-rejection disbelief. The three of them turn a corridor, and they reach the last hallway before the main hall, where they’ll find their rooms. Thor isn’t worried. He’s specifically paid for a private dorm. “She didn’t even read it, I think! I got back one of those letters that I think teachers write in abundance over the summer and leave in a shoebox under their bed for the school year. It just seems so….” He struggles for the word.
“Come one,” Fandral says encouragingly.
“Politely disrespectful!” Thor snaps his fingers. “And without any soul. I think I’ve recited the back of a menu with more vigor. And if you’d even gone a minute into my essay, you’d be too hooked to leave such a lackluster response!”
“What are you going to do about it?” Hogunn asks.
“What?”
“The Thor I know won’t leave something like that resting,” Hogunn squints at him. “I’d go right up to the Headmistress and demand a proper response.”
“I couldn’t do that!” Thor said desperately.
“Why not? My mum did.” Fandral shrugs. “Twice. I was allergic to peanuts back in tutoring and she demanded to know all the ingredients in the kitchen so I didn’t risk a single contamination.”
“Dude,” Hogunn says slowly. “Your mom scares me.”
“Wait!” Thor hits Fandral on the arm, and he stumbles. “They’re opening the doors. Shut up.”
Indeed they are. This would have been a very appropriate time for trumpet fanfare.
**********************************
“—and whether you are here to study law, logic or linguification, I know I speak for my fellow faculty members when I say: We have nothing but the highest hopes.”
Thor raises his eyebrows in a fake show of approval, looking around the room at the kids sponging up all of the Headmistress’s words. They’re going to be eaten alive.
“For some of you.” She continues, and this is met by a ripple of awkward laughter. Some faces crumple and Thor mentally assigns them a week before they flunk out of Shiz. Some people just can’t take the bumpy road to success. Thor does, but he doesn’t have to suffer; he rides above it in a horse-drawn carriage. Eating caviar.
“Professor Dillamond will now educate you on some student mandates we have in place for the school year,” She gestures to the back row of teachers, and after a moment of silence scuffling, the line parts and nothing comes out.
No, it’s a Goat, actually. Standing with his two front hooves on one of the chairs, he gives the class a sweeping look before jumping off of the seat and making his way down the center aisle. He is the only animal teacher.
Some students are exchanging glances, but Thor has eyes for one thing only. Headmistress Morrible is edging down the hall on one side, and he fdecides to edge the opposite direction, making a sharp about-face once he reaches Mistress Morrible.
“Hello,” He says brightly.
She glances at him out of the corner of her eye and nods, shaking the hand of a man next to her on the other side. “Hello—yes, it is wonderful to see you, Dean. We simply must go out for tea again sometime.” She looks harried. Good. Harried people tend to agree to things without thinking about them. Thor smiles politely at Dean and turns the corridor with his target. “Yes, yes, I’ll send you the schedules for free periods tonight.”
“Ma’am, I don’t know if you remember me. Thor. Thor Odinson of the Upper Uplands?”
“Can’t say I have—Marjorie!” She pats someone’s shoulder.
Thor blinks. “Well. Perhaps I can jog your memory. I’ve applied to your sorcery seminar. I’m sure you remember my essay…Magic Wands: Need They Have A Point?”
She frowns vaguely. “Oh. Um, yes, I do recall one as such.” Thor nods along eagerly, but she raises her hand to him. “But I do not teach my seminar every semester. If someone unique or truly special would come along—“
“That’s exactly it!” Thor says desperately. “I’m sure if you read my article more deeply, you’d feel much more inclined to—“
“Mistress Morrible!” A large lady with short blond hair appeared at the end of the hall in a teacher’s robe. “We require your attention with the seating charts. It appears there was a miscalculation. We accidentally alphabetized wrong and put I before E—it ruined the order of roommates!”
“Oh, I’ll be there immediately,” Morrible offers her an aristocratic wave and bends close to Thor, finally offering him semi-complete attention. “Listen, Mr Odinson. When I say someone special needs to come along, I mean someone special. Everything special about you was poured down your throat with that silver spoon you were born with. Thank you, but have a good school year without that seminar. I reserve spots for those with actual talent. I hope we do not meet again.”
Then she’s gone, down the hallways and out of sight until not a lick of her silver-blue robes remain in sight. Thor stands there, flabbergasted and offended as he can understand.
What the hell just happened?
**********************************
“Wait! I’m supposed to be the one taking care of her!” Loki tries to push back against the large Bear who is standing by Madame Morrible. The only issue with him trying to push through is that the other person is hesitant to touch him: resulting in an awkward dance as he attempts to weave around the Bear.
Hela shoots him a panicked look as the Headmistress takes her wheelchair handles in long fingers and starts to sharply wheel her away. Loki looks plaintively at Morrible. “Please, our father left me here so I could be with her, that’s—“
The Bear pushes him back gruffly, but Morrible sends him a plastic smile. “It’s quite alright, Mr Odinson. Your sister will face no danger under our care.”
“No, you don’t understand!” Loki presses against the Bear and seems to find it to no avail. He forces his head around the side instead, and tries to get another glimpse of Hela’s long, whiplike black hair, but she’s already almost gone.
Thor, over by his friends, sends Loki a side-eye that makes Fandral snicker. Thor can’t make himself watch Loki anymore. He’s making a fool of himself, and would be better off just letting Madame Morrible do her thing. She’s in charge of a school: she knows how to care for her pupils.
But Loki is still trying to wedge past, and then a second teacher puts a quelling arm on his shoulder that he shoves off in panic. “Stop! Stop!”
Thor turns his head away and pointedly strikes up a conversation with Fandral. “Did I tell you? I talked to Morrible, minutes ago!”
“Oh, what’d she say?” He looks more positive about it than Thor feels.
“She said no,” Thor says, which is hard enough to comprehend on its own. “She said no in a weird way though. Not a maybe, not a let’s think about it over tea, but a solid no. And something about spoons.”
“Gone a bit batty in her age, that one,” Fandral shakes his head sadly. “But you could still wheedle your way into this, I’m sure of it. Find the right moment. You need to get into that seminar.”
“You’re right, I probably should,” Thor muses. “Maybe with a pot of tea, or some nice biscuits. Bribery with food always works with the Departments of Education. My mother uses that trick plenty.”
The scuffle grows louder. Madame Morrible stops at the end of the hall that branches to the rest of Shiz and sends back a peeved look.
“You need to let me through! I can’t leave her here!”
“What is he even arguing about?” Thor glares at him and the ruckus he’s building up.
“I don’t know, one moment he’s fine, but then someone tries to get his little sis—you know, the one in the chair—to get to her room, and he has some weird attachment to her, doesn’t want her to leave.”
“At all?”
Fandral shook his head. “Is helicopter brother a phrase?”
Then Loki takes in a sharp breath and Thor can see something change.
“I said STOP!”
The guard fly back. Oz ripples down to the sinews of the earth.
And it does. Time stops.
But not really. That would be weird.
Loki is standing at the center of the courtyard, arm outstretched, and his long overcoat billows around him like a cape in one solid, cold movement. At the exact same moment, a ringing noise strikes the air like a gong, vibrating into the roots of the cobblestone floor and making marble columns rumble. It sends a chilling tingle up Thor’s spine.
Then everything goes really wrong.
Every chair, bench, and non-sentient object fly up into the air like rockets and stop, hovering, about three meters from the crowd. The students yell in panic and press back, covering their head for the onslaught of falling furniture that never comes. Thor looks around, bewildered, and takes in the sight of spinning vases, chairs upended and whirling around the ceiling in slow-motion. He gawks until Fandral pulls him away.
Madame Morrible steps carefully forward, her head spinning to take it in, looking much more in awe than Thor thought was appropriate, given the situation. Loki is still frozen with his arm out, his chest heaving, and soon his eyes seem to clear and his awareness grows. He pulls his arm slowly back and his eyes go around the room, staring at his own handiwork.
He swears under his breath and clenches his fist.
The furniture drops to the floor. Most people have scrambled back under the columns around the edge by now, so no one is hit by the marble busts or benches, which plop onto the ground in the exact formation they had been in precursing their defiance of gravity. Except some girl’s box of makeup, which spills into a planter. The same girl can be heard saying “Aw, man,” in the background.
The room is silent.
“Loki,” Hela says softly, disappointed. Loki looks at her with a guilty, nearly horrified expression. “That was my chance.”
She turns and begins to wheel away, and this time Loki lets her. He stares around hesitantly, and for some reason, he suddenly looks a lot smaller, curling into himself. This has been the only moment so far where he genuinely looks like he is afraid of what the others are thinking. Eventually his guilty gaze turns back to Madame Morrible, who stands the closest.
“How did you do that?” Morrible says softly, her head cocked ever so vaguely to the side. She’s now giving Loki an intense gaze like a child staring at a bug under a microscope. He winces.
“How did he do that?” Thor breathes, unable to comprehend it. Sif sends him a strange look, but he’s too busy staring at Loki. So is the rest of the class. Norns, what Thor would give for that kind of power. Hair-raising. Chilling to the marrow of his bones. And it smells unmistakably impossible, like a gap in the air that refuses to register in his nose.
“I don’t—sorry,” Loki steps back, but now the crowd is even more terrified of this strange ability than Loki’s skin tone. They press against the wall and Loki sends them a look as Madame Morrible follows Loki, getting close enough to stare at him with wide, sweeping eyes. “I’m sorry. It happens when I lose control—“
“Fascinating,” Morrible reaches out, and without an ounce of fear, takes Loki’s hand. He jolts, but slowly lets her, looking wary as she turns his palm over, inspecting the blue before pulling back and wheeling around to look at the room, which is very much not haphazard. “So this has happened before?”
“Yes, I’m so sorry. I don’t know why…” He trails off, and Thor is incensed by how uncomfortable he looks when Morrible watches him eagerly. That attention is what he craves. “I’ll control myself here, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize for that, boy!” She says, much more jubilantly. “Never apologize for talent! Talent is a gift. And my talent is to spot ones like yours, and nurture it.” She pays him amiably on the hand before pulling away with a much warmer smile. He looks like he doesn’t know what hit him.
Thor feels a burning in his solar plexus. He doesn’t know what it is, having rarely experienced it before, but it is jealousy.
“Student seating charts are on the wall!” She claps her hands twice, and suddenly loud music from the alumni band starts up in the corner, drowning out the shocked silence. People begin to inch towards the banners with little cursive names and assignments, their fear much more depleted now that Madame Morrible is facing the ‘danger’.
“And now you…” She directs her attention back to Loki, who looks a bit scared.
“Wait,” Thor says when Fandral tugs on his arm. “I want to see what happens.” Fandral gives him a look, but eventually shrugs and walks away, followed by the rest of Thor’s friends, except Sif.
“Are you going to ask her about the seminar?” She asks him, and he nods. They both inch closer to the duo in the center of the hall, neither of which who notice. Madame Morrible is speaking rapidly to Loki, who looks overwhelmed. Thor only catches bits of the conversation.
“I will require private lessons with you immediately,” Morrible says, which causes Thor to exchange a wide-eyed look with Sif. “And I’ll accept no other students.” She loops her arm around Loki’s elbow and starts to sharply lead him away into the main hall. Thor and Sif struggle to catch up.
“Now?” Thor hisses in a panic. Sif gestures him forward.
“Now, the question is where you shall dorm,” Morrison hums, patting Loki on his arm. “I’ve set up most of the seating charts, but if we could find someone who would be willing to share with you…”
“Ma’am, with all due respect, I’m sure I can handle a dorm on my own—“ Loki tries to put in, but she breezily ignores him.
“A magic like yours cannot be buried, my boy. I can sense it…the Wizard would be ecstatic to learn that such talent is being nurtured here at Shiz.”
Loki’s face seems to soften at that, and he almost smiles, like he’s not sure that she’s being truthful but wants to believe it anyways. “The wizard…?”
“Thor! Do it! She’s leaving!” Sif pushes him and he stumbles forward.
“I’m sure one of the students here would be delighted to share a room with such a budding mind—“
“Headmistress Morrible!” Thor declares, and he forces himself to her right side, Loki being ardently shoved out of the way. He shoots Thor a look and hefts his bag over his shoulder, trying to wedge his way back into the conversation.
“Mr Odinson! How very kind of you,” Suddenly, the headmistress beams and pats Thor on his arm, catching him off guard.
“What?” Thor says stupidly.
“Yes, I heard you requested a single room—I’m glad you decided to raise your voice.” She brings Loki forward and they exchange awkward eye contact, Thor very aware of the vague horror on his face. “Do me a favor and show your new roommate to his room, please.”
It takes them a moment. Then it clicks. “No!” Both Loki and Thor yelp at the same time, and then immediately snap their mouths shut.
“What in Ozgard has gotten into you two?” She frowns, and gestures to her Bear companion.
“Nothing,” Thor hurriedly brushes it off. “Thank you, ma’am. It’s good to see you, ma’am.” Loki just nods vigorously, his face looking congested with the feat of slowly realizing how horrible his school year is going to be, and politely trying to hide that revelation. “I hope you’ll consider rereading my essay, by the way. I think there may be some talent in there you missed—“
“Good bye, Mr Odinson,” She says, her voice going frosty. “As I said, show your roommate to his quarters. Have a good week.” She turns sharply on her Gilikenese espadrille heels, and disappears down the hall. The Bear follows her, along with a migration of wind blown teachers.
Thor squeezes his eyes shut for a second, allowing himself to recuperate before turning to Loki (his roommate) with a pleasantly clear expression. “Well.”
“Well.” Loki responds coolly. Why do his eyes have to be so bloody red?
**********************************
The walk to the dormitory is awkward. Thor glances over whenever Loki isn’t looking, and every time, Loki notices and pretends not to. By the time they reach the door to their shared room, the back of Loki’s neck is hot from the constant attention. He waits and lets the blond man open the door just to get out of his eyesight.
Loki is going to tire of this very quickly.
“So this is my—our dorm,” Thor says hastily, and steps aside to let Loki in. “I mean, it was supposed to be just mine. I very specifically requested one for myself this year.” His voice is politely annoyed.
“Wow, um…” Loki blinks in whiplash, and almost turns back around and walks straight back out.
The dorm isn’t bad, all things considered. The front balcony lets in plenty of natural light at the right angle to be pleasantly woken up to in the mornings, and there’s two nicely made beds with comfy-looking sheets.
That’s about it for the parts that Loki likes.
Across every available surface, the room is bursting with clothes on hangers, all in expensive-looking swishy fabrics. At least three hairdryers in varying levels of eccentric design are plugged into the walls, a full body mirror lined with gold, and boxes upon boxes of goodies and toiletries litter the floors, shelves, walls, and storage units in the ceiling. Loki thinks he can just barely make out the second bed in the corner, behind an unopened box of exercise dumbbells.
The worst part is that everything save the clothes are—
“Pink?” Loki turns to Thor, his eyeballs feeling like they’re about to bleed out (not that anyone would notice if they were a little more red).
Thor shrugs, looking defensive. “I like pink.”
“Then why aren’t you wearing it?” Loki gestures at his outfit, which, while fabulous, still doesn't follow the school dress code. Loki doesn’t think the rules would have allowed double-breasted blue jackets with the monogrammed Upland family seal on the back and front. Or the eccentric cut of his jeans.
“Ooh, it isn’t really my color,” Thor winces. “A bit too bright for my…skin,” His eyes flicker to Loki’s face in a way that is definitely not at all sneaky. ”I just enjoy the way it looks, so I made sure I could see it every time I woke up in the morning.”
Loki feels like he might vomit. “With the amount of dress robes in here, I’m amazed you’d even be able to wake up without smothering in satin.” Loki plucks a green cloak off of the front of a dresser and puts it in front of himself, swirling to let the pleated bottom flow out. He raises an eyebrow at Thor.
“Can you stop touching?” Thor scowls and takes the robe back. “Besides, it’s not really your color either.”
“I like green,” Loki parrots defensively.
“It…” Thor lets out an explosive breath. “It clashes though.”
“Clashes with what?” Loki says innocently, and watches Thor struggle for a kind way to say it. He’s going to make him voice it. It’s better than the awkward stares.
“Your…” He sighs. “Your skin, you know it does—oh, don’t wear more black,” Thor pleads when Loki pulls down a suit jacket, sticks his arm through the sleeve and waves at Thor. It’s too big, which isn’t even the worst problem with it, apparently. “You look terrifying in black. With all the blue and red, you’re like a colorblind stoplight.”
“Maybe that’s what I’m going for,” Loki juts his chin out. Thor rolls his eyes and tugs back the jacket.
“You’d do so much better with browns and whites, honestly,” Thor looks up and down Loki’s body, and he frowns, getting the urge to fold his arms. “Tone down that blue, maybe brown corduroy pants, a nice cream shirt—except it doesn’t work well with the eyes. Why are they so red?”
“I cry blood,” Loki says flatly, and hits Thor on the side of the shoulder when his mouth falls open. “Oh come on, stop being so gullible.”
“Just not black,” Thor repeats, ignoring it. “And your hair would be just fine if it wasn’t pulled back all the time. Is that why you wear black? Because it matches your hair?”
Loki touches his ponytail in offense.
“No, it’s because I like to cosplay a sleep paralysis demon,” He shoots Thor a glare and shoves away to his sad little alcove. He throws his bag on the bed lazily and turns his attention to the boxes that teeter towards falling on him if he plans to sleep in here.
“Wait,” Thor says, and he rolls his eyes to himself before turning around. Thor steps forward and his eyes flicker around the room before he bends in close. “How did you do that?”
Loki knows exactly what he is talking about. “Do what?”
“You know what,” Thor retorts. “The thing with the…” He waggles his hand at the closest furniture. “What was it? Pre-planned? Did Morrible do it? Why’d she decide to take lessons with you?”
Loki momentarily debates lying out of his teeth. But he’s not stupid, he knows what the hall had looked like. There’s this ambitious hunger in Thor’s eyes that makes him nervous.
“It’s not fake,” Loki says in aghast offense. “That’s been happening to me since I was a child. Would you rather it was fake, so I could teach you all my little secrets?”
“Look. You can help me,” Thor says quietly, and Loki finds it funny that now is the only time that he’s looked Loki completely in the eyes. “I need to be in Madame Morrible’s seminar.”
“Why?” Loki asks.
“Don’t be difficult,” Thor whines. “For some reason she’s obsessed with you now, and I think it’s because of your magic. That’s what it is, isn’t it? Can you do it again?”
“What? No!” Loki turns back to the bed and opens the drawstring on his bag. He shoves one of Thor’s boxes on the floor.
“Can you not mess with these?” Thor moves around the bed and puts the box on a shelf that Loki had been planning to use as his own.
“It’s my bed.” He retorts.
“Just tell me how you did it!” Thor grabs the next box Loki practically throws off of the bed, and Loki scowls at him, shoving away the curtain of cloaks to stalk into the center of the room. “Stop touching everything!”
“Why do you have so much stuff?” Loki hisses under his breath, and sweeps a box of hair products off of the vanity to grab an abandoned box of complimentary Shiz toiletries from the back that were left for him. It looks positively sad.
“I need to know how! You think you’re special because you know something I don’t—“
“No, I think I’m special because I’m pretty sure out of the two of us, I’m the one who’s been compared to a blueberry my entire life,” Loki shoves past him and into the shared bathroom. He starts pushing all of Thor’s products into the sink and muttering under his breath. He needs to get out. The pink and glitter is going to end up in all his shit for the next six months.
“Oh, can you be serious for ten seconds?” Thor stands in the doorway like a plaintively aggressive bodyguard.
“I’m not showing you anything! I don’t know what you’re trying to get me to do!” Loki slams the lid closed on his box, and ducks under Thor’s arm back over to his pathetic part of the room. He flips his bag over and dumps the meager possessions onto his bed. Everything else that resembles something Thor-ish, he throws on the floor.
“Stop! Leave it alone!”
“Why do you leave your stuff everywhere?” Loki snaps. “If you don’t want me burning glitter off of my trainers later today, then don’t leave glitter all over my things!”
“I need to know, I’ll stop bothering you once you tell me! Why do you have to be so difficult?”
“I want your stuff off of my bed!” Loki slaps a box out of Thor’s hands when he tries to replace it on a shelf, and Thor retorts with another box stacked on top. “Can I have more than a square meter of bedroom space?”
“It’s not even your room!”
“It is now, apparently, seeing as you couldn’t keep your bloody mouth shut—“
“Look—look, listen. All I need is,” Thor bolts around the side of the bed and blocks Loki from reaching for the ‘shared’ closet in the center, which is very clearly bursting to the brim with socks. Who fills a closet with socks? More importantly, who fills a closet that they’re supposed to share with socks? “All I need is a demonstration. Then I’ll be out of your strangely colored face.”
“Get out.” Loki turns and tries the floor to ceiling window to the balcony instead. It’s locked. Because the outside is stuffed with a slew of folded-up, hot pink beach chairs. This looks like where Barbies go to die.
“It’s my room. I won’t get out!”
“Then get your stuff out! I don’t want to hit my head on the newest assortment of designer Upland clothing when I wake up every morning!”
“Oh, and what did you bring?” Thor cocks his head tauntingly. “A handbag full of clothes my grandmother would wear to her own funeral? It’s not my fault I want to have fashion taste!”
“I want your stuff out!” Loki repeats loudly.
“Then tell me how it works!” Thor says, even louder.
“No!”
“Or maybe you’re jealous? God, you’re so petty—“
“Didn’t you hear me, or did it not get past that mane of stupid hair?” Loki throws his arm out and knocks a bust Thor’s own head off of the vanity. “I want your stuff out!”
The air makes a twang like a recoiling rubber band. There’s a snap back to the present, and Thor’s hair blows past his face. The dorm is filled with the wooden sound of dozens of suitcases achieving vertical and, quickly afterward, horizontal, flight. A thump, following by about sixteen more, and a little tinkle as the last shoe buckle slams into the left side of the room.
Silence.
Every inch of boxes, trophies, suits and silver medals, hair dryers, and anything even resembling the smallest amount of glitter, has risen into the air and slammed into Thor’s side of the room, covering his bed, floor and nightstand until it teeters close to the ceiling. Loki’s side is clean down to the monogrammed Shiz carpet, except his singular bag on the bed.
Thor stares, finally at a loss for words. Loki rolls his eyes and stalks past him, until he reaches the last object left of Thor’s on his side of the room, a little pink hatbox.
“There,” Loki spits. He hits the side of the case, and it tips off the shelf onto the ground. Thor watches it fall, and stares up at Loki with wide eyes. “I showed you the magic.”
He kicks the box for good measure, and stalks out of the room, leaving a flabbergasted Thor behind him, who is still swiveling around the room to take in the sudden lack of a mess. Slowly, his expression fades from awe into shrewd thought, and he picks up the hatbox, brushes it off, and sets it on the vanity.
Not like he would wear what is in it. His granny always bought him the most hideous hats.