He ran the pad of his finger down the mane of the small horse, feeling the cold surface push back up against him, obeying Einstein listlessly. It was a precious thing, cast in once vicious but now faded swirls of purple and pink, a gilded gold tracing in scratchy straights the expanses of the hooves, the shine of a saddle. Its face, well thumbed and half burnt, worse a expression reminiscent of pure narcotism, half lidded eyes and a almost lusty fullness to long cheekbones, so contrary to the expected sharpness. The mare's mouth, merely a slash of black, quirked upwards on one side, the other smudged away by time, bringing a hint of faint humour to its frozen face. He couldn't say if the horse had been loved in its time, or hated to the extent of destruction, but there was a stillness about it, about its potential, that pricked the surface of emotions - breaking the tension and allowing everything, every feeling, to flow free, to fill the space where another once stood; holding this horse in their hand, wondering where it had been.
Sentiment.
Loki spread his fingers, allowing the horse to dive sideways and fall awkwardly through the newly formed gap, face spinning to turn upwards before it hit the ground with an affirmative thump. It stared at him, its half eyes, lazy and alluring all in one, and the edges of Loki's lips turned downwards. It wasn't the horses fault he was - he was a - it wasn't the horses fault. The horse was just a chunk of finely carved wood, and Loki was just a bag of shapely flesh. Wondering which one he'd rather be, he lifted the horse once more, setting it gingerly on the shoddy table where he'd found it and checking its badly scorched legs could support it before letting it go. It stood, as proud as a narcotic figure could be, back where it belonged.
A shiver dragged its bony fingers through the notches in his spine.
He pulled at the bottom of his sleeve, glancing down at his watch. It was two am; the night was young - yet the hopeful ache of sleep tugged at his conscious, utterly bone deep and sawing its way further. It had been for days, now, biting down on his brain in a bumb embrace, sharp teeth dragging down on his attention span, his memories. The last week is a foggy mess, a misty wreck of places and people, of fists and leather pants. Then there's the horse, in vivid detail, night after night behind the carnival tents, looking up at him like no one's ever looked at him before. He can't pinpoint it, can't work it out and it's been a week of grey skies and white painted clowns and no one's asked about the black bags under his eyes. He's not glad and he's not upset; it's just a dull bleep on ground zero, the signal to the end of the line. Up and over we go, the Castlefield Viaducts are calling to him, calling for his blood - but he's not a man, and they're not the sea. He'll live another day, if his eyes don't close on him.
Or, if Odin doesn't find him out of bed at two am.
It's with a great deal of self control he stops himself from sighing, forcing himself into a city's equivalent silence - cars, people, the murmur of the carnival as they pack away all the outside stalls. They'll be gone next week, and he'll never see the horse again - and he's okay with that, with it leaving. He doesn't need an anchor in his life, doesn't need something to keep him here when he already has every reason to stay. He won't write a poem about it, and he won't remember it in a year, but for now it's there and its bizarre face twists to something like comfort when Loki's eyes blur for tears over daddy dearest - and that, that's more than anyone else is offering. A burnt piece of wood is the highest bidder, the largest profit margin - and if that isn't Loki's life in a metaphorical nutshell, then Odin loves him. Dearly.
Loki pulls his jacket closer and steps out towards the apartment complex, leaving the half moon eyes to watch his progress from the elevation of a three legged table.
He'll be back tomorrow.