I expect there's going to be a sudden rise in cases of spontaneous combustion after this chapter. Just.
Call it a hunch.
After how people reacted to last chapter.
Enjooooy~~
Chapter 9
I can't cook, though I'm trying to learn. That's why you can't come over for dinner.
It has been three weeks.
Then you come over, I'll cook for you.
Luke is nearly certain he's going mad.
Noirs, I love noirs. They are fascinating. Have you seen any?
Because he has to be (there's no other explanation) to still be going to eat with Steve, to look forward to when he next sees the blue-eyed artist-volunteer-motorcycle nut, to mentally be mapping (all the time) what notes Steve's voice hit most often (D-flat, F, A-flat, the D-flat major chord and Luke's personal favourite, the only one that keeps a hint of sadness to it)(though sometimes, when they meet after the library where Steve volunteers with children, it's all C-major, C-E-G uncomplicated happiness that infects Luke in a way he almost hates (but really loves)), to want to trace his fingers over the lines of Steve's hands, those broad hands that make Luke's slender ones look nearly effeminate (especially after Steve has been drawing with charcoal and they are vivid with the dust staining them).
Not many, they came after the ice. You have a few? We can watch at your place; can you at least make popcorn?
Because there is absolutely no logical reason that his stomach warms and twists like a satisfied cat when he sees Steve (it must be a mortal response because he has never felt such when he was a prince and a god), no logical reason that he finds himself counting time (one-two-three, one-two-three) until he sees him again, hears his voice again, gets a text from him again, no logical reason for this burning curiosity (love) to see what Steve will do next. Because there is no way this is real and no way he is not dreaming since no one is this stable or this interested or smiles for Luke in a way that makes blue blue blue eyes twinkle.
You have paint in your hair. Green paint. It is a good colour on you.
And he has to be going mad because he finds it is difficult to shut up about Steve, finds it is difficult not to instinctively turn and compare how this moment with Lethe or that moment with Olek compares to a similar moment with Steve (and there are not enough similar moments (and that only makes him want to spend more time with Steve, to experience more with him), he wants to change that).
Yeah, the kids went a little wild today.
It feels like drowning and flying at the same moment.
(and a kiss pressed to his lips, arm briefly curled around his waist, and he is too mortal because his heart is fluttering like a trapped bird and he can't stop smiling)
XXXXXX
He walks into his apartment and freezes because something is off.
Someone has been here.
Someone has been in his apartment
(He never leaves the remote that way, it always goes on the arm of the couch, there's a smell in the air he doesn't recognize and Lethe never moves things when she uses the spare key he gave her if she needs to borrow something from the kitchen (because it's not like he's at all competent with the things she's convinced him to buy)).
Someone has been here.
He closes the door softly behind himself and takes a few cautious steps inside then stops. He listens but there's no noise (except maybe there is and he's missing it because outside the sound of cars and people is drifting in through the windows he left open because it has been such a nice spring day).
This hurts in a way that he can't describe, hurts the way that (those plans no longer matter) before did, a betrayal, because someone has been here and it was not Lethe.
The kitchen is untouched (or he thinks it is, he should have cleaned, because he just left the sifter and the mixing bowl out to soak in the sink and rice flour spilled on the counter).
His bedroom is untouched.
But the other room, the one he uses as a studio to compose and work in, the door is open (he never leaves it open), just a little, just a fraction, not quite settled back in the frame and the smell he can't place travels here and his stomach knots—
There are two roses sitting on the piano.
One's petals are parchment yellow, the tips all dusky pinks; the other is all peach and glowing sunset reds. Both have woody stems, sharply thorned, and they are bound together with (velvet) forest green and (silk) deep blue ribbon. His hand is shaking as he picks them up—underneath there is a small little square of paper.
One of the thorns pierces his finger as he picks the paper up. It is a charcoal sketch of a wrought iron table and two chairs and he stares and stares (it is so familiar), trying to learn how to breath again, because this is Steve's artwork (he has not been betrayed (darkness and poison and self-hate that he could believe that so easily hover in the back of his mind)) and Lethe must have let him in and shaking he sinks to the floor and stares at the drawing, presses the roses to his face and breathes them in (so he doesn't cry because of the panic welled so fast and hard in his chest)(he cannot breathe).
The two combine slowly once the panic eases and he realizes it is his (their) favourite cafe, out of the way, with a rooftop patio bursting with roses of parchment and peaches and sunset hues, his favourite corner to sit in pictured. He drops the roses and darts out the door, barely remembers to grab his keys—the cafe is not that far away.
Steve is waiting for him when he gets there, sketching some and staining his hands with charcoal, and there's already a pot of tea sitting on the table and those blue blue eyes sparkle when they spot Luke. Luke wants to yell at him, wants to be so angry, wants to let a little of the hurt out, that Steve invaded his space when he was not there.
And yet.
He just stands there, staring at Steve, not quite able to come up with the words, because that sparkle is also mirrored with concern, a recognition that a boundary was crossed that should not have been, and the apology is already forming on Steve's lips as he goes to stand (and no one has ever known when Loki is upset without his words).
Luke sits down in his favourite chair at his favourite cafe across from his favourite person before Steve can apologize (because Loki has so much more to apologize for than Steve ever will) and pours himself a cup of tea (mint green) from the pot. Steve frowns a little, but it soon eases back into that easy sweet smile that makes Luke's heart glow, and that glow, he holds it as close as he can, as tightly as he can, because it makes the rest of the anger melt, makes the rest of the panic still bubbling in his chest ease—that smile is a light that banishes his shadows and fears and worries for a while and surrounds him in comfort.
He trusts (loves) that smile.
"So," Steve starts, running a hand through his hair the way he only does when he is nervous, leaning forward towards Luke, "I was wondering if you would want to make this somewhat official."
Luke still knows nearly nothing about mortal courting customs (and Steve is not courting him, they just enjoy each other's company). He takes a sip of his tea. He glances down and smooths out a wrinkle on his shirt with one hand.
"Official how?"
Steve is not courting him.
"Well, I don't know how they do things where you're from, but. I wanted to know if you would like to go out."
He frowns at Steve because they go out all the time, every week, every day nearly.
"I wasn't aware that you needed to invade my home in order to ask to go to dinner, Steve," he says (mentally hisses at himself for his petty, petty anger).
"I mean, steady. We used to call it going steady." Steve is watching his face carefully, blue eyes searching the way he searches things when he draws, trying to place the details and map them out. "Not married, just.. exclusive. Testing the waters more, telling people 'I'm taken' when they ask, you are mine and I am yours. Boyfriends."
It clicks in his head and he has to set the teacup down very abruptly, sharply, a little of the liquid sloshing over. He can't meet those blue blue eyes; he pulls his hands away and into his lap, runs one over the other, smooths wrinkles out of his pants, tries to breathe and tries to make his heart stop stammering and tries to figure out if he's drowning or flying or both, like one of those fish they saw at the aquarium that leap out of the water. He tries to say something and he can't, just opens his mouth and then closes it again sharply and looks everywhere except at Steve.
"We don't have to," Steve says a little too quickly, leaning back in Loki's peripheral and Loki already knows that Steve is trying to keep from crossing his arms or running a hand through his hair.
There a million questions on the tip of his tongue, a million and one things he can say.
"Why?"
He glances up, slightly, towards Steve, but still doesn't meet his eyes, he absolutely can't right now. Because this is far too good, far beyond anything Luke would ever ask, and he still hasn't told Steve anything, not really, and yet. Steve looks a little startled at the question so Luke plows on.
"I mean. Why." (Eloquent.) "Why me. I hardly think that." (Silver-tongue.) "I mean, that is very nice and it's a bit of a question and I just don't get why you would want that. With me."
He's looking back down again, sits up straighter and smooths out wrinkles from the front of his shirt once more. Wrinkle-free material indeed, and he scowls a bit at it.
"Because I like you."
And there it is, hanging in the air, simple and stated as if it is fact, law, a command handed down from Odin himself. He can't help but look up at Steve now, Steve who is leaned forward again, arms resting on the table, watching him, flicker of concern and something not unlike fear. Fear. Waiting. Waiting on Luke's answer because Luke hasn't said 'yes' or 'no.' It's absurd.
(No one told him being mortal would be so difficult.)
"Supposing," he says very cautiously, "I say 'yes.' What changes?"
His stomach twists at Steve's (wide, hopeful) smile and it's absurd to think Luke would ever say no to anything that he asks.
"Well, not much, I imagine. You have to tell me when your birthday is, though, instead of dancing around it."
"Is there… anything else you would want to know?" (And he's baring his throat, he doesn't want to be asked, doesn't want to say anything about 'why' he's in New York and what's going on and before, but this is something else and too good and Steve is courting him, and if he's going to lose him he'd rather it be now than later)
"No. Anything else you want or need to tell me, you can in your own time." Steve still looks so hopeful. "Even if it is about five minutes after the rest of us."
"I was late once, that hardly means I'm always late." He tries to scowl at Steve, but a tiny smile still touches his eyes. He takes an even sip of his tea. "May 1st."
He might melt under the smile that blossoms on Steve's face, the joy and triumph and sheer happiness of it. It catches and he smiles back as Steve grabs the hand not holding the teacup, as Steve's fingers intertwine with his; he can't help but squeeze tightly (scared to let go), terrified that Steve will vanish and that he will wake from a dream turned nightmare in the early quiet morning of Asgard. Steve squeezes back, reassuringly, and presses a kiss to his knuckles, still grinning as goofy as a school boy, still unquestioning and patient and perfect.