It's a bed.
A soft, queen-sized bed covered in olive drapes and emerald pillows. It sits at the center of the room, a grounding force that immediately seeks out your attention amidst the remaining furniture. Like the bed, the room is a flourish of various shades of green, darting haphazardly along the spectrum that by all means should pulse chaotic but actually reads like familiar, like home.
Loki purses his lips. His keeps his hands at his sides, clenched and taut and sweaty, and doesn't say anything.
Beside him, Anthony clears his throat. He stares at the back wall, at the windows, at the bathroom, anywhere but at Loki. "You said you liked green", he murmurs quietly.
An invasive, scalding blue taints his cheeks. With a jerk, his hair falls in his face and conceals the blush like a scolded child. He crosses his arms over his chest and huffs.
Anthony makes a noise in his throat, then turns to leave. "I'll, uh, I'm just gonna go now." He crosses the far-too-large room, pausing only when he gets to the doorframe. His fingers grip the wooden purchase, the knuckles gone white, and he opens his mouth to say something.
Loki, at last, turns and faces him. He knows what he must look like; pale and gaunt and sickly and repulsive. It's not the look of a Prince, let alone the man who once strived to rule this miserable speck of dirt. But for all that, every time Loki looks into Anthony's eyes, he finds not pity or disgust or hatred but tenderness and longing and hope. It's almost scary just how much lies in wait within those weary auburns.
"Yes", Loki says, and he does not recognize his voice.
Anthony lingers within the door. He holds Loki's eye, not as a matter of "Who Will Look Away First?" but a matter of "How Long Can I Keep You Here, This Close To Me?" He draws his nails, chipped and bloodied, against the wooden frame and inhales. He bites his lip, blinks, and Loki thinks, You could stay.
Here. With me.
But Anthony doesn't hear that, so he just nods and, finally, looks away. Loki does the same, and the room's lighter yet also so very heavy.
"If you need anything, just scream at the ceiling", Anthony eventually says. "'Night." And with that, he nods, turns, and leaves for his own quarters.
"Good night", Loki call out after him. He turns and takes a seat on his bed.
It's softer than it looks. Warmer, too. A bit jolting compared to the past few months but he adjusted before, and he supposes he can do it again.
He crawls underneath his blankets. He's pulling it up and resting it along his body when his fingers graze his chest and the Led Zepplin t-shirt clinging to it. The shirt, it's not his; it's Anthony's. Loki doesn't have any clothes, or much of anything, on Midgard, so Anthony offered to lend him some. He'd been adamant about buying a new wardrobe entirely, but Loki had insisted. He rolls onto his side, curls underneath the blankets, and tugs the collar of the shirt to his nose. He breathes in, and it's nothing but aftershave, motor oil, electricity, and just Anthony.
Loki closes his eyes. He lets the weariness from, well, everything wash over and tug him down. As he's falling, he bunches the collar in his hand and dreams of cascading water, big, frantic eyes, and desperate, naked hands.
There've been worse nights.