#efoyisk

❝ — what's this about ? ❞ though the smile trickles over his face. mobius goes to check the clock on the tempad, groans when he realises it's been a while since he's been stuck here, pouring over the files. time doesn't work like it does on the null time-zone despite the establishment of the resurfaced multiverse. in fact, it's more confusing than ever to try and reframe it here in the tva — still, there is somewhat a reconfigured system now where your minutes are counted when you're clocked in.

and according to the blinking digits across his screen, it seems mobius have been stuck in the archives, trying to catalogue all the old files, for three hours straight. yikes.

❝ careful. ❞ he says to loki now, eyes crinkling in the quiet glee he's realising he's started reserving for the god. it's probably nothing, or mobius hopes it comes across as nothing. just something fond that happened to shape his face. that's all. ❝ you know what they say about the way to a man's heart. ❞

❛ i'm tellin' you, there really isn't a quality of life without skin ... ❜

gosh, is it good to be back on land. or, well, as land as the tva and the null-timezone could be, anyway. the ground is steady under his feet. and it helps that there isn't a million branching timelines trying to have its way of shedding his skin into pieces. anyhow, mobius heaves a laugh of his own, half-relieved and still buzzing with adrenaline; his chest full from the expression on loki's own.

he's- there's still so many things mobius wants to ask, wants to really talk to him about — alioth, the other lokis, sylvie, the man at the end of time, does anything hurt at all, and he better not be goddamn lying because they both know it well by now mobius won't buy any — but the overwhelming pang that the god's there at all, that he came back, like mobius always knew he would, feels like mobius had had the honour of admiring ten jet ski models up-close. no, twenty. with all its shape and sizes and different motors and with its each unique features.

it makes mobius feels like the trip on the time loom worth every second, even the ones he waited. or, really, especially those.

loki goes on though; barrelling through. his words are slurred from one word to another. he's on attack mode. or rather, a survival mode. a planning mode. a ready-to-go mode, picking up on every details quick and sufficient to figure out the best way to escape, to live through, to make it out alive. it hurts mobius a little despite all the flattering words he's trying to tell him - and it is flattering, the ol' time agent ( exactly how old, though ? mobius doesn't even know. should he have known ? ) can feel his own face softens by it all, but —

❛ hey, hey, hold on. come on. ❜ he grabs loki by the arm, a habit they seem to fall into since he's crashed right back, and reels the god in. ❛ take a breath. you barely had any since you came back. how- i mean. ❜

a pause. mobius licks his upper lip, eyes sweeping once at loki's expression again — he can do the quick-thinking too — before he nods, seemingly having come up with exactly he has to say.

❛ you know b-15's on that. anything, she'll let us know. but you- i want you to get looked at. or at least- i don't know. take a shower. eat some snacks. have you had anything to eat out there? i doubt he-who-remains cared about refreshments unless there's some hors-d'œuvre you're not tellin' me about. how about this, i'll get you some new clothes. pants. anything you want. you get yourself clean, sorted, and we'll go straight to b-15 - if she hasn't come to get us first. how about that ? can we do that ? ❜

a greedy creature, the cloud — if only there is something to be done. there isn't. the child wastes no time. he takes alligator in his arms, and he scours and finds and seethes, until somehow, somewhere, he manages to make his way back to the tva. he demands for mobius, the only name he could care to recall, though no one could tell him where the man's gone to. another agent has explained to him what happened instead. they showed him yggdrasil. they showed him time, which expands. and grows. and brims with possibilities.

an endlessness. a power he knows only one has ever held.

when the child exits the all-heinous and constricting tva, he could barely acknowledge where he is. no, to the sky he calls instead. a child of frigga still, the young prince prays with a remarkably arrogant tone, though laced with franticness one with only a keen ear would notice: ❛ loki at the centre of yggdrasil, o' the god of all time. hear me. answer me. ❜ and then, simply: ❛ speak, for i demand your audience. ❜

there is supposed to be a celebration today — in new asgards.

a celebration to welcome the summer solstice, they say. something the asgardians have adopted when they come to earth. hedda, that's the tourist guide who had once dreamt of being a scholar in asgards, told mobius the last time he was there. we were tired of simply... surviving, i suppose, she had said in fluent asgardian, a language that's tough on the tongue, and the basis of old norse. mobius had liked how it sounded when he heard it in collective. he wishes he's spoken it more with loki.

so our queen decides for a, how do you midgardians would say... and at this, hedda switches brilliantly to english; quick-witted, earnest, despite the very fact that she had to change languages at all must be devastating at first. a constant reminder that the asgardians, despite finding peace in this new land, are refuges. if they had a choice, surely they'd love to return back. surely they'd wanted nothing more than the home they knew. a day off! she finished then, before regaling mobius about all the activities new asgards would be involved in.

mobius isn't sure if he's fit for a celebration, but he promises hedda, enja, and erik he would come. all the staff at the museum who had known him simply from the frequency of his visit. maybe he ought to feel more embarrassed by it, but he couldn't. doesn't. ( he's too tired to. and, anyways, mobius thinks he likes them all. erik's mother was once the royal tailor. she would go on and on about all the clothes she'd made for the allmother. enja's ancestor was part of the valkyrie. hedda's father died in ragnarok, but he died defending asgards, and that was a great honour. )

mobius is trying to wear his tie when he hears the knock.

he sees a shadow when he looks over his shoulder from the kitchen where he's trying to tie his tie. maybe this is an occasion where one should be looking at the mirror in the bathroom to do so, but mobius has already worn socks, and he doesn't want to get them wet. plus, he likes the kitchen. it's the only place in the whole house where natural sunlight can genuinely pour in; the only place he hasn't put a blinder in when he constructs it. the living room is clean enough too, of course. he spends his time reading there, but it's shrouded by shadows. mobius only ever reads by a lamplight.

anyways. mobius doesn't know who is at the front door. it might be verity, though she'd usually call him by now. who else could've known he's here? the old construction people he had in contact with? the electrician? mobius goes to it, and he opens—

it's loki.

or... or a variant, maybe. mobius' heart is pounding. it pounds so hard, mobius could hear it in his ears. they look so— he thinks, but doesn't finish it. it hurts to. so he shakes his head, chases away any thought of familiarity and starts reasoning. he hasn't aged still, you know. still the timeless man despite the years passing. it's empty, being somewhat immortal like this, with nothing to do. but he doesn't have the energy to fully dedicate himself to the upcoming war, even if he should. but mobius uses his quick thinking now, remembering all those times he'd approached a loki variant, hoping to- to entice something. to recreate what's gone. but...

but he always, always walks away. it never works. it won't work. he doesn't want them, a statement he will never tell any of them. and yet it's true, because who he wants... who he wants is gone. and there's only one of that. he's reconciling with that. he's trying to.

look. listen. it isn't like mobius has got anything against his friend's date, except, you know, isn't it a given for you to dress nicely — and appropriately — for a romantic night-out ? and this is loki for god's sake! brilliant, mischievous, charismatic and born-in-royalty loki. of course the date has got to be nothing short of spectacular. they oughta wow the god, sweep 'em on his feet and all that, and dressing well ? dressing well ? that's barely brushing the minimum.

but mobius can't say all of that, because if he does then maybe that'll sound weird, and he doesn't want to make it weird, and surely the burnt of the whiskey'll help, and— are you alright ? comes the god's query, and mobius almost chokes around the liquid he's swallowing, before he shakes his head, waves a hand away. indicating : i'm fine. mobius smiles, and it's still friendly. apologetic, almost.

❝ no, sorry. don't mind me. ❞ ( it's me you should've been smelling like. ) ❝ maybe i'm drinking these too soon. what were you saying ? ❞

his grey eyebrows crook together.

he's sweet, the god of mischief, though admitting that feels— ... mobius doesn't know. misplaced might be the best word. treacherous is another. which is funny, really, because mobius knows he's light with those: compliments, he means. and praises. and he likes giving those. he likes telling loki all those things; especially likes seeing the way the god's eyes light up just a bit brighter when the words settle, but that's exactly why it's an achilles' heels, isn't it ?

sure, loki certainly isn't complaining about all the extra affectionate attention right now, but mobius is sure all of the crude variations of ' control your pet, mobius ' remarks are gonna caught up to the god one day, and - well. and then they'll know. which, in the light of everything that's happening, might not be so world-shattering as mobius is making it out to be, but still. he's sweet though, the time agent thinks quickly, hands in his pockets. and mobius should really say no, they've got other things to worry about, but —

❝ you've ever been to a well-celebrated intergalactic night club before ? usually it isn't my style, but ... given our recent setbacks, ❞ damn dox and her followers, and damn him for not catching up to brad's scheme sooner. ( maybe he really is losing it. what sort of analysts doesn't analyse ? ) mobius punches in the coordination; the time door buzzes. ❝ i think a drink and some loud music is warranted. ❞

it is unbearable this gnawing beast inside of him. must hunt, must feed, must quell this burning hunger that scratches at his throat. lately, he's been feeding on animals. large animals, mainly bears and hogs. it was far better than the scraps and vermin that cazador used to feed him. he would give astarion a small fly or a disease infested rat that would leave the vampire spawn sick for days. it always amused cazador. even now, astarion can hear that sick dark chuckle of his. the elder vampire loved to torture his pets and feeding from such creatures never satisfied astarion. some days, he would be kept in a cage with an empty stomach, feeling as if he was decaying with each passing moment. limbs would grow heavier and tired. there was little use to thinking about the past now. he's been lost and will never go back.

the safest way to protect his secret was to sneak out late at night and feast on whatever he could find. tonight, the spawn finds a squirrel. not the best find, but he will take what he can get. the rodent's neck is pressed against his fangs, already crimson eyes turning a shade darker. it took no time to drain the small creature, before smelling something rather sweet. so sweet, but not sickly. the rodent is forgotten on the forest ground. he turns with a bit of blood running down his chin, only to find who he knew was the source of such a scent. ❝ sneaking up on me behind my back, are you? now, must i prepare for a village mob to arrive with pitchforks and fire? i'd rather a wooden stake right now. only those worthy enough will be the cause of my second death. ❞