Loki took a deep breath. Then he heard his name announced - "Soloist, Loki Odinson" - and stepped onto the stage.
The light on the stage was blinding, blocking out any chance at seeing the audience, though he knew Thor would be waving anyway. His appearance was greeted by polite applause from the audience, and a few shouts and hoots from his brother. But he didn't hear it.
He was focused entirely on his performance, on the cello resting beside the chair that was set up for him, with a spotlight shining on it and a black music stand with the sheet music for the piece he'd be playing tonight.
As if he didn't already knowing every note by heart.
He swept into a low, practiced bow, without making any conscious decision, acting out of habit and muscle memory, and then moved to his chair.
A deep voice announced his name once more, there was more applause, and then the crowd quieted for the next piece.
The conductor approached the podium as Loki prepared himself. He nodded once to the man, letting him know that he was ready, and then they were off.
Loki allowed his eyes to close as the familiar music washed over him. Every chord, every rhythm, every syncopation was perfectly rehearsed, and it sent chills through him to his very core.
He opened his eyes as he felt the anticipation rising inside him. He cue was coming, so close, so soon... The music rose, and then he drew his bow across the strings for the first time, and it sang for him. His fingers moved automatically, playing themselves for that Loki was consciously deciding how to move and form them. He'd done this before so many times, the piece was familiar to him, winding up and down with the orchestra behind him.
And then it was over, and Loki found that he didn't remember a moment of it.
That was good, though. That was preferred. He never remembered his performances, not if they were any good. He only noticed things when they went wrong. When a note was hit out of time, when an accidental was missed, when, god help whoever it was because he would find the culprit and flay them alive, a chord was out of tune. He noticed those things and they tarnished his entire performance.
But when he came out of a performance and realized that he didn't remember a damned thing...then he could breathe, assure himself that everything had gone as smoothly as possible, and he could appreciate and believe the compliments he would be showered with after the concert.
His name was announced once more, and he stood, bowing with a practiced flourish, and left the stage. He was sweating profusely, as he always did following a performance, and he needed to get out of the bow tie and jacket and pretty much most of his tux. It was stifling, and he needed to cool off.
This was one of his least favorite parts of performing. All the buildup to him, all the time and practice, his body would wind tighter and tighter leading up to the concert, and then once he left the stage, it was like everything just let loose, and that culminated in him sweating profusely for a few hours afterward.
He ducked into a practice room and quickly stripped, using a cloth he'd brought to dab at his forehead and lower back, then pulled on a loose t-shirt and thin cotton pants. He knew that most people would be dressed up for the concert, but if he was quick, he could meet his family in the lobby before the audience let out and be gone before anyone even knew.
Before going to meet his family, he ducked into the bathroom and went immediately to the sink. His hair was getting long, longer than he generally wore it, but he found that he actually sort of liked it. Right now, it was falling forward, the raven locks framing his face. He turned on the sink and used some water to slick his hair back from his face, and then placed his hands, dripping with cool water, to his overheated cheeks. He was so hot, still sweating, but looking in the mirror, his eyes were bright and happy, happy in a way that only music and performing could make him.
He slicked back his hair once more, dried his hands, and walked out into the lobby. He heard them before he actually saw them, Thor's call of "Brother!" echoing across the room.
"Hello, Thor," Loki said, smiling, then looked at his parents. "Mother, Father."
"You played beautifully, Loki," Frigga said, stepping forward to hug Loki.
"An amazing performance," Thor declared, hitting him on the shoulder - hard enough to bruise, Loki mentally noted - when he pulled out of Frigga's embrace.
"I loved it," Jane piped in, standing beside Thor, the small woman totally dwarfed by his brother's massive size. Loki liked Jane - maybe. Thor had been sort of keeping her to himself, so he hadn't actually had much opportunity to interact with her, but he thought she seemed nice, and he knew she was an astrophysicist, working on her Ph.D, so she certainly had some major pluses in Loki's book.
"Thank you," Loki said, smiling as he looked at them, though, his eyes tightened a bit as his gaze fell on his father, who had yet to utter a word. "All of you. It means a lot, truly."
"We're always glad to be here and support you," Frigga said, the turned to her husband. "Isn't that right, Odin?" She said this with a sharp edge to her voice, one that left no choice for Odin but to answer.
"Yes, of course," he said hurriedly, averting his eyes.
Loki resisted the urge to roll his own. His father had never been all that supportive. He hadn't ever actually said anything, not really, but it was clear from the way his eyes twitched when Loki mentioned his music, or the barest clenching of his jaw, that he didn't think it was a worthy career, not for one of his sons, at least. And he certainly didn't see why he'd had to pay so much money for Loki's education just so that he could be a musician.
His mother, however, had always been supportive. She'd had Loki in music lessons since the day she came downstairs and found him sitting at the piano, experimentally pressing the keys to try to make a song. He'd started out on piano, then moved to viola, and then, after months of begging and pleading, she'd given in and convinced Odin to get him a cello for his birthday. He was fifteen when he received the cello, and he'd hardly missed a day's practice since.
Thor had been amazed by Loki's music since day one. Always more of a creature of force, it was no surprise to anyone when Thor had gravitated towards football and wrestling. But when they were younger, he would slip into Loki's bedroom as soon as he heard the first notes of Loki tuning his cello. He wouldn't make any sound, and Loki never acknowledged him. Thor would listen to Loki play, watching him with eyes bright with amazement at the beautiful sounds his brother was pulling from the instrument. Thor thought it was magical, though he never actually told Loki that. He figured Loki must already know.
It had been years since they'd done that, but they'd yet to speak of it to each other.
Thor clapped him on the shoulder again, and Loki winced slightly. He'd been practicing for hours before the concert. His shoulder was sore, and Thor's abuse wasn't helping. "Brother, Jane and I were going out for drinks after this, would you care to accompany us?"
Loki bit his lip, considering for a moment. While he'd certainly love an opportunity to get to know her better, he was tired, and desperately needed a shower. "Hmm, I think not. I'm tired. I'm going to get some takeout and go home."
Thor nodded. "Are we still on for lunch the day after next?"
Smiling, Loki laughed. "Of course. I wouldn't miss it for the world. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to bid you all goodnight. Thor, Jane." Loki maneuvered out of the way of another one of Thor's blows and went over to his mother. "Goodnight, mother."
"Goodnight, my son." She pulled him into a light embrace, then released him, grimacing slightly. "You're all sweaty..."
"I always am after performances, mother, Ever since I was a child."
She laughed. "Go, go, take a shower while you're at it."
Loki grinned and turned, walking towards the door. He waved back to them and said, "Goodnight, everyone."
Loki walked out to his car, shivering against the cold, and immediately turned on the heater, pressing his hands up against the vent to warm them. He saw that people had just started exiting the building and quickly put his car in gear and pulled out of the parking lot.
As he drove, he mentally ran through a list of restaurants he would pass on the way back to his apartment. He settled on a little hole-in-the-wall Chinese place he'd been frequenting since he'd moved into the neighborhood. He knew the employees, and they knew his order - mandarin chicken with two veggie eggrolls, please - so he just had to show up, wait for them to fill the go box, hand them a twenty - keep the change - and he was off. It was easy, he saw no reason to change from his routine, it worked.
The man behind the counter greeted him with a grin as he entered and he smiled tiredly.
"The usual, Mr. Loki?" he asked, already reaching for the box and the spoon in with the mandarin chicken.
"The usual, yes," he said, nodding.
"You look tired, Mr. Loki," he said, not rudely, just an observation.
"Ha ha, yes, I am. I'm planning to go home, eat my chicken, and sleep for several days, at the very least."
The cashier laughed and finished filling the takeout box, then set it on the counter. He was just reaching for the eggrolls when a man ran into the restaurant. Loki turned to look at him, arching an eyebrow and taking in his tattered appearance. He was wearing several layers - a cotton jacket with a zipper under a scarred leather jacket. Beneath that was a brownish t-shirt. His jeans were dirty, torn, and too big for him, kept up with a canvas belt. His hair was long and greasy, dark blondish, and his facial hair was the sort that was obviously more from lack of upkeep than an actual attempt at growing it.
Loki eyed him for a moment, then dismissed him, figuring the man's appearance was none of his business. The cashier was eyeing the man too, he noticed, but all Loki really cared about was that his food was ready. He didn't have time to think about every crazy person who walked into a Chinese restaurant. He handed over the money, told him to keep the change, then wished him a good night.
"Goodnight, Mr. Loki," the cashier said with a smile and a nod.
Loki was gathering his food to leave when the man shouted, "Everybody freeze!" His hand, which had been in the pocket of his leather jacket, pulled out a gun, which shone dully in the light of the restaurant, and Loki eyed it, not liking the uncertain shake of the weapon in the man's hand, or the way his finger was curled around and tensed on the trigger.
"I want all the money in the register, you hear me?" the man was saying. "I know you've got at least a couple hundred."
Strangely, Loki's reaction to this was one of overwhelming annoyance. He'd had a long day, and a stressful few weeks in general, and all he really wanted was to curl up underneath a blanket, put on reruns of Whose Line, and eat his chicken until he passed out on the couch.
The cashier nodded and said, "Okay, okay, I'll get you the money. I just need to-" He nodded to the register.
The robber nodded, and used the gun to gesture to the register. "Okay, but keep your hands where I can see 'em!"
The cashier reached over and hit a button on the register. It opened, as expected, but what wasn't expected - to the robber, at least - was the loud bell that sounded whenever the drawer was opened. It surprised him, and just that little bit of surprise was enough. His finger curled tighter around the trigger, and the quivering weapon discharged.
The next thing Loki was aware of was a sharp pain biting into his shoulder, then he was on the ground, his body feeling like it was on fire, but at the same time it was oh-so-cold.
Everything faded to black.