They are, Loki has decided, completely incompatible.
Thor is a fundamentalist Christian, the pastor's son in their Washington hometown, a button-down Jesus freak with a cheap set of medals clasped around his golden throat. Loki's a pale-skinned music devotee, torn black clothes and long black hair, an oddity in the small town parochial highschool they both attend-Thor because he has always been expected to, being groomed to take his place as pastor, and Loki because of his parents' forcible 'suggestions- they are also attendees at the small-town parish, although not nearly as fanatic as Thor's parents are.
Loki contemplates these things, he really does.
They are miles, lightyears apart in everything that matters, and this, Loki thinks, is why his lips should not be pressed to the firm golden skin of Thor's pectorals. Why they should not be steadily travelling lower.
Judging by the moans ripping themselves from Thor's (lovely) throat he's thinking less about their irreconcilable differences, and more about Loki's tongue twisting teasingly in his belly button-Shit.
"What is going on up-"
Mariah Adinson stands in the doorway, pinkly lipsticked mouth open, hair nearly standing on end in her righteous rage.
Loki wonders, in the small part of his brain that is not mentally hurling obscenities, what this scene looks like to her: Thor, her perfect son, stretched on his bed, shirt pushed up and hair dishevelled, moaning at the sensation of Loki mouthing at his hip-Loki, the freak, the weirdo, that every mother tried to keep her kids away from.
if they weren't in such deep shit, it would almost be enough to turn him on-more than he already is, anyway.
Thor is frozen underneath him, and Loki places a protective hand on his bare stomach. Light caresses, barely visible, the tips of his fingers brushing over smooth muscle. He himself seems to be the only person in this tableau who's moving- and then he's not. Mariah, Thor's mom, is screaming someone's name. It's a high-pitched yell, and at first anger garbles her voice enough that it's difficult to tell what she's saying-the name of their church pastor. Her husband. Thor's dad, Tom Adinson.
Who keeps a shotgun under his bed.
Then Thor moves-maybe he's remembering the shotgun too, Loki thinks. He wouldn't shoot Thor, but he'd sure as hell blast Loki's head off for 'defiling' his son. Loki can hear footsteps coming up the stairs, urgent and powerful. Thor slams the door shut, shooting his mom an almost apologetic look-and turns the lock. The lock that should have been, would have been turned in the first place if they hadn't been so goddamned convinced that Thor's parents were asleep.
"What are you doing!" Loki hisses. "I appreciate the thought, but this'll just make it worse on you, you know what your dad gets like when he's angry-" Thor grabs him, pulls him close in a strong embrace, and as much as Loki wants to yank away and just open the fucking door, save us all a lot of trouble, lie his head off to protect Thor-he relaxes into Thor's arms.
"They have a key," Thor murmurs, burying his face in Loki's hair. "They'll be in here in a minute, and God only knows what my dad will do to you. If I let him."
Loki runs his hand down Thor's hip, breathing deep his scent. Wind and sunshine, cut grass, and Talking Rain cologne that he knows Loki loves.
Loki smells of stone.
His hand continues its downward journey, and meets something unexpected- a cluster of jagged metal objects hanging on a ring from Thor's belt loop.
Keys.
Car keys.
"You idiot," he mutters, half to himself. "How could you forget this?" Thor looks down. "Yeah, they're-oh. Oh. But we can't."
"The hell we can't. You saw your mom. Think your dad's gonna be any happier? We need to get out of here, your parents need some time to process this, it all works out. Come on, baby."
Loki clicks the carabiner off Thor's belt loop. Tosses the keys in his hand.
"Come on. Your parents will be in soon. Make up your mind." He whispers the last bit, brushing his fingers tantalizingly close to Thor's fly.
"This is a terrible idea, Loki."
Loki grins like a devil.
"Oh, I know."
After hasty (the key was already clicking in the lock) grabbing of clothes and wallets, a clumsy leap out the window, and finally, terrifyingly-the moment when Thor's pickup almost didn't start- they were flying down the road, Thor in the driver's seat and Loki taking shotgun, flicking through the crappy radio of Thor's old pickup.
They drive for what seems like hours, stopping once for gas, otherwise in complete silence. Through the Columbia River Gorge, and out the other side, until they reach a tiny town on the edge of nowhere and check into the Ramadan Inn, a shitty little motel, the sheets suspiciously stained.
Neither of them wants to talk about what to do next.