i. Rock Me Like a South-Bound Train
The train ambles steadily over the tracks; the repetitive sound almost soothing to Loki. His head is pressed against the cool glass of the window, knees drawn up to his chest, and arms wound around them to keep himself stable as the train lurches forwards. A grey hoodie is pulled up over his head, obscuring the bright shock of short, red hair beneath it. With his bright green eyes and a few splattering of freckles, Loki thinks he makes a believable, if not fetching, ginger. He believes, perhaps, God made an error in giving him darker hair in the first place. Probably spilled something and couldn't be bothered to fix the mistake that was Loki Odinson. Or Laufeyson now, he supposes.
A stewardess passes by him on the way to her seat, the same woman that had helped him with his luggage earlier, and he nods to her in recognition with what he tries to convince her is a friendly smile. She smiles back, showing her teeth, and moves on. It strikes him as strange; humans. They can smile at strangers who come in and out of their lives, yet they hardly ever stick around. They're there and then they're gone. That's all there is to it. There must be some sort of deeper meaning behind it, but he doesn't feel like wasting time to think it up.
His arms slip from around his knees with a sigh, his legs splaying over the seat across from him. There is supposed to be another passenger there, but through a few lies about his rather protective father meeting him at the next stop, he has the seats to himself, and it's about as comfortable as one can be in coach. From the pull out table in front of him, his phone vibrates again, moving a few inches in the process. He already knows who it is, but can't stop himself from looking anyway.
As expected, it's Thor's bright grin and even brighter eyes that lights up the screen, and despite himself Loki feels a pang in his chest for what seems like the hundredth time. He pointedly ignores his phone until it gets too annoying for his taste, and then he presses end call, trying to inform the idiot that his phone wasn't off, he was only ignoring him, and he should really cease calling unless he wants Loki to break down or get the train back home simply to hit him. Nearly ten seconds later, his phone notifies him that he has five missed voicemails, eleven missed calls, and ten text messages. Loki turns the damned thing off, stuffing it into his bag with a sour look.
For a moment, he turns his head to stare out the window blankly, his arms curling around himself before his chin drops back down to his chest. He hadn't expected to have any sort of regret or guilt about leaving, but Thor has a way of making people feel like they just kicked his favorite puppy and then peed in his Cheerios. He has to himself of why he booked the 4:30 AM train to Atlanta, Georgia in the first place, not that he can easily forget it.
After glancing around, as if expecting to see Odin or Thor stomping down the aisle to fetch their wayward sibling and son, he slips his headphones back in and presses play to the soothing sounds of classical music. It always sounds so much better than the grainy scratch of a human voice. There was more emotion to it, though not many ever seem to agree with him about that. He lets the relaxing chords on a piano lull him into a much needed sleep. Hopefully the purple bags under his eyes would disappear by the time he traveled the two days to Atlanta. It might make him seem more dignified when he decks his blood father in his face.
Train food, as Loki discovers, is actually worse than fast food and that takes a hell of a lot to get to that level.
At one point, they get stuck in Iowa for a few hours. A man is carted out on a stretcher; the ambulance waiting to take him to the hospital. Loki heads outside for a cigarette stolen from Fandral a few weeks ago along with at least twenty other passengers. There seems to be an unspoken agreement among them as the smoke curls through air. The air is hot; the land desolate. It's a place Loki would never want to live in his lifetime and he almost pities the poor people that do. He sits down cross-legged on the side of a blindingly green hill, nose crinkling as he takes a drag of the cigarette. It is not calming in the least, but he will credit it for being distracting.
A man sits next to him, legs crossed in front of him. Loki glances over at him, though makes no effort to actually start up a pointless conversation. The man has shoulder length black hair tied up in the back, warm brown eyes, and a bit of stubble. He has a longer face that vaguely reminds him of a horse. Still fairly attractive, he decides, but Loki's interests lie hopelessly elsewhere. He tips his hand, a cigarette between two fingers, and doesn't really look at Loki although it's obvious what he means. Loki considers ignoring him until he leaves, but instead he digs a lighter out of his pocket and lights it for the man. He nods at him in thanks while Loki returns the lighter to its rightful place.
"Svadilfari ," the man speaks up after a few minutes of silence.
"Loki," he returns without looking at Svadilfari again. The silence stretches on again.
Nearly nine minutes later, the ambulance has left and the clamor has quieted a bit. An overly cheery voice informs them that they have five minutes until the train leaves again, and Loki unfolds his legs from underneath himself. He drops the bud to the cement right next to the hill, stamping it out with his shoe before heading towards the door without a backwards glance.
A hand comes down on his shoulder when he's about to step on and he turns around to see the stranger again.
"How old are you, anyway?" And oh hell no. Loki's eyebrows shoot up.
"Sixteen." It sounds like a warning before he twists out from the Svadilfari's grip, a disgusted look crossing his features before he disappears up the stairs back up to the seating area. He doesn't hear footsteps behind him, and he assumes the man belonged in another compartment. Honestly, some people can be such assholes.
For the next hour, he listens to a book on tape and promptly falls asleep, the taste of ash in his mouth. He rather loathes smoking.
a/n: Written in July when I was on a road trip. Based off of Wagon Wheel by Old Crow Medicine Show. Next chapters will be longer.