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Loki’s face presses into the crook of Mobius’ neck. There’s the salt-sweet of sweat, the over-warm from his layered outfit. They can feel the press of Mobius’ hand against the back of their head. Loki’s fingers twitch against their legs.
“You’re getting sick,” Mobius says. It’s the third time in thirty minutes. Loki opens their mouth enough to skim their teeth over Mobius’ neck.
“Gods don’t get sick,” they reply.
“Loki—”
“No.” Loki slides their hands under Mobius’s shirt. The skin there is warm too. “I’m not sick.”
Mobius exhales slowly. Loki can feel the barely-restrained frustration. Loki isn’t sick, they’re not. Gods don’t simply get sick.
“I think you are,” Mobius says softly. He runs his fingers through Loki’s hair, catching on the tangles. A shudder runs over Loki’s spine. Their skin prickles with goosebumps.
Loki grumbles, but they don’t say anything. This is where they want to be: curled in Mobius’ lap within their TVA apartment, on the couch before the artificial fireplace. Not debating being sick, because they aren’t. Sickness is not something they can afford.
(Last time they were sick was centuries ago. Room deep in the bowels of the castle, poster bed shrouded in black. They’d been too weak to sit, even, head cupped in Thor’s rough palm as he raised a bowl of broth to their lips.
Their head had ached too much. Candles had burned low, wax dripping hot into the gold-plated dishes. The room had smelled of orange and bergamot. The drapes had stayed shut for a month.
Thor had seldom left their side. When one tried to pull him away, he’d taken a vow to protect and nurse health back into Loki.
Loki had trembled beneath the soft, clumsy care of their brother.)
“Turn the lights off,” Loki says. “My head hurts.”
Mobius does, with the click of a remote’s button. Loki sinks down further into Mobius’ lap. Faint light shines in through the windows. There’s no true day/night in the TVA, only the human mind’s desperate need for routine. But there is light—glowing, artificial, round.
Loki presses their lips to the skin of Mobius’ neck. His pulse flutters and skips as a butterfly on the wind. Loki parts their lips, lets their tongue dart out. They hear a soft sigh fall from Mobius’ lips. Mobius’ hand slides down to Loki’s lower back, cradling the curve of their spine.
“I’ll take care of you,” Mobius whispers. His breath ghosts over Loki’s ear.
He is kind enough to stay silent when Loki’s tears drip cool onto his skin.
Loki’s fever hits in the night.
They come to wake slowly, twisting in the sheets. All they can feel is sweltering heat. A pained moan sounds and they twist and shove, trying to dislodge the blankets. Sweat sticks the fabric to their legs.
“Hey, hey.” Mobius’ hands, pressing against their arm and hip, holding them still. “Relax. Deep breath. What’s wrong?”
His eyes are cloudy with sleep. The shift of his mouth shows his concern. Loki whimpers, curling their legs to their chest.
“Hurts,” they force out, the word trailing on the back of a gasp. It’s almost childish, whining like a babe—though the last time they were sick, they had not yet crested into manhood. They know not how to be sick any other way.
The back of Mobius’ hand presses against Loki’s forehead. A rough pant falls from their lips. They lean into the pressure. Mobius is warm to their chills.
“You’ve got a fever, honey,” Mobius whispers. His hand slides away. Loki’s head tips forward to press their face into a pillow. Mobius’ hand lands on their shoulder. “I’ll get you some water, see if we have any nausea medicine.”
The bed dips and rises as he climbs out of it. The door creaks open and shut. Loki curls into a ball and tells themself that this is okay.
(“You have to eat, Loki.” Thor’s voice, soft with concern. If Loki looks, they know they’ll see a frown on Thor's lips.
“I’m not hungry.” Their own voice was weak, frail. It was barely more than a coarse whisper.
“You must keep your strength up,” Thor insists. “You’re too thin.”
Loki cannot find it in them to reply. Thor turns their head with a careful hand. A lantern burns at the bedside table. He holds a spoon to Loki’s lips.
“Eat,” he says.
Loki does.)
The light from the hallway outlines Mobius in gold when he returns. He stands for a moment in the doorway, head tilted to the side. He is wondering about the tears on Loki’s cheeks. He thinks they are from pain. He would not be right, but he would not be wrong either.
“I brought some water and plain toast, if you feel like eating anything,” Mobius says. He keeps his voice soft. Loki swallows. It burns.
The bed is enveloped in shadows, the hall light spilling across the floor past its foot.
Plain toast to mean topped with only butter, Loki finds, rather than cinnamon and honey. Mobius sets the plate on the bedside table and holds the cup of water out. The glass is cold against Loki’s hands. Mobius sits on the edge of the bed.
The silence of the room is suffocating. Loki drinks from the glass to pour noise into the air. Their stomach roils with nausea.
Mobius hand raises. He brushes a stray tear from Loki’s cheek.
“What’s wrong?”
The last time I was sick I thought I would die.
My brother held my hand and told me he’d follow me to Valhalla and drag me back. I told him I wasn’t going there.
He said he’d follow me anyways.
He lit the fire in my room and brushed my hair. He put flowers in the vases at my window sills. I confessed every terrible thing I ever did. He told me he was sorry.
I don’t know how to love you. I have never had a friend before.
“I’m tired,” Loki murmurs. They set the water aside. Their hands shake.
Mobius shifts over until their sides press together. Loki rests their head on his shoulder.
It’s heavy, all that they carry. Loki will never see their brother again. They wonder if his hair is still braided with a lock of theirs. He’d have gotten it from their gold-plated brush that was a gift from Mother. He would have sat at Loki’s vanity and tangled their hair together slowly.
Thor always had clumsy hands. He never did excel at fine work.
Loki wonders if he cried.
“Go to sleep,” Mobius says. “Maybe you’ll feel better in the morning.”
They curl into the blankets together. Loki takes hours to fall asleep. Mobius stays awake with them the entire time.
When their eyes close, and their mind quiets, they dream of a bright banquet with overeager Thor spoiling himself with mead and Mobius’ hand clutched in theirs.