Chapter Text
~~o~~
New York City, USA
Present day
~~o~~
"Are you sure? Because I can come with you." Leah coughs into the crook of her elbow (she always does; she claims it's because her mother is a nurse and reminds the rest of them they're being disgusting when they don't follow her example). "I'm fine. Really."
Loki rolls his eyes. Leah’s been running on fumes for days now. They all have, yes, but she's the only one who'd come into the show with a nice case of bronchitis. "No,” he insists. “You go rest. I'll just go down to the lobby bar... I'll be back before you know it." He has no intention whatsoever of spending his entire evening cooped up in this hotel - it's their last night in town, they're leaving the country in two days, and everyone else (including the dictatorial little ass of a designer, who won't ever let his models drink because they might end up bloated) is at the wrap party - but if he spills any of that Leah will never agree to dividing and conquering. "Please," he wheedles, putting on his best sadly worried face. "Just go to bed. I promise I'll text if I need you."
He watches her all the way to the door of her room. It isn't until she's safely inside, with the swanky golden "resting, quiet please" tag swinging from her doorknob, that he dares turn his phone off.
Loki doesn't bother getting dressed to go out. He'd cleaned up carefully after his last stroll to the end of the catwalk – regardless of the many other rules he religiously disregards, his skin is a business asset; he’s always careful to treat it accordingly - and jeans and a t-shirt suit his current purposes nicely. He doesn't plan to be out and about as Lang D'Argent, supermodel, darling of cameras everywhere; he just wants to escape this part of the city unscathed and get an increasingly rare chance to be nobody.
Nobody with a drink in his hand, pretending to watch pointless sports in a seedy bar somewhere, preferably. The kind of bar where he won't be recognized... or hit on.
That's usually where Leah comes in especially handy. She's the best, well, reverse wingman in the business. Whenever anyone gets too friendly, she's right there reminding the unlucky loser - male, female; his androgynous looks draw everybody - that Loki is off the market.
Which he is, but not because of Leah. Not because of anyone… at least, not anyone who exists in his life anymore.
Just two more days and he'll be home in Norway, away from this place and its hard, hard memories. Done with another fucking season.
~
It's warm out outside. Too warm, on top of which it’s raining lightly. Loki grits his teeth; his hair goes fucking insane in this kind of humidity. Which will only help all the more with his quest for anonymity, true. Still, that doesn't mean he can't hate it.
He shrugs off the doorman's offer of an umbrella and heads out into the night.
The bars up this high are not options. Most will be packed with people from the fashion show. And if he somehow manages not to run into someone who knows him, he'll still be swarmed by paparazzi. On top of which he'd rather be read as young and gay somewhere it's going go be less of a liability. A few blocks down, a couple blocks over and he trots down the steps into a subway station. Union Square will do for starters; he'll probably end up in the West Village somewhere.
He's out on West 13th looking for a hole-in-the-wall place – a neighborhood joint that's busy but not packed - when out of pretty much nowhere the skies open up and it starts pouring. Loki sprints for the nearest restaurant awning and ducks underneath, raking back his wet mop and breathing heavily.
"May I get you a table?" The host is older. There's no flicker of recognition in his face. Loki wipes his eyes and looks inside. The little restaurant is nice and dark, with a long bar on one side and a tight mess of tables towards the rear. There are plenty of people inside, all sitting in groups chatting. Perfect. The food smells good, too... spicy, greasy. Heavenly.
"Sure," Loki says. The place is making him hungry. Leah would approve of him eating anyway. "No," he adds when the host inquires politely. "It’s just me. I'm not expecting anyone."
His small wooden table is half-hidden behind a column, which is all the better. And while there actually is the requisite battered TV over the bar, Loki quickly decides people-watching - courtesy of the long mirrors lining both walls of the candle-dotted dining room - is the more appealing option. He orders a bottle of prosecco and some fried zucchini chips and settles back against the low booth to enjoy what's left of his shitty, soggy evening.
"Mmm," he hums to himself. Not like anyone would hear him over the buzz of a couple dozen conversations anyway. The zucchini is just fabulous; it's bad for him in every conceivable way and it hits every spot he's ever had. He may not have room for anything afterwards. Not that that’s a problem, anyway.
The dipping sauce is fiery. Delicious, yes, but hot to the point of pain. Loki flags down the waitress for a side of tzatziki - fuck tradition - and a refill on his prosecco... and then closes his eyes and thinks about what it might be like to literally melt into his surroundings.
~
"Sir?" The host catches Loki sucking spicy oiliness off his fingers, one after another. "I'm sorry to interrupt you. The man at the end of the bar would like to buy your wine."
Loki groans to himself. He sneaks a look in the mirror.
The guy is big and straw-haired, in a dark shirt and a low bun. He's looking down at the beer bottle between his hands. Back when Loki'd had a type, he would have fit it. Except that's all over now. Loki groans again, out loud this time.
"Tell him thank you, but I'm-," he starts.
"I'm sorry," the host says again, "but he insisted. Says he isn't going to bother you; he just wants to thank you. Apparently you remind him of someone. Someone he loves and misses dearly, he tells me. Someone who died."
Loki sighs. He's too worn out for this. "Sure," he says. He can't turn a story like that down. He does know a thing or two about what it's like to lose someone, after all. "Yeah. Okay. Tell him thank you for me."
~
The guy keeps his promise. He nods at the host but never turns to look into the dining room and doesn't try catching Loki's eye in the recursive funhouse chaos of the big mirrors. He just drinks his drink and minds his business.
Satisfied, Loki abandons his careful watch and turns his attention back to his meal.
Except the mood is- ruined. All he can think about is- is unrequited love and bitter abandonment. Of everything that had been lost to him long ago, before he'd dropped off the face of the earth. Before he'd been discovered - right here in New York, just a few blocks away - and reincarnated into modeling.
The whole rest of the bottle of prosecco only leaves him (drunk - after all these months on the tour, he's once again the kind of lightweight he normally mocks shamelessly - and) all the more maudlin. He knows it’s stupid, because everything is done and gone, but he’s fucking devastated all over again anyway.
~
"I should get going," Loki tells the host as clearly as he can manage. Standing without swaying is taking nearly all his attention. He fakes a smile and nods towards the empty seat. "Looks like the coast is clear now."
The host nods. "Indeed. Thor left at least half an hour ago now."
Thor. No. It-it can’t be. "Wait," Loki huffs. He can't breathe, even. Not with all the air punched out of him. "What did you say?"
"Thor," the host repeats, peering at him intently. "Hey, are you okay? Do I need to get you a cab?"
"No, thank you. I’m fine,” Loki lies. “Have a nice night." He drops a fifty on the bar with shaking fingers and races out into the rain.
Of course there’s no one in sight. Half an hour. In a city this big, that’s an eternity. Somehow Loki even manages to round the corner and make it a halfway down the block… but he can’t make it any further. He drops heavily to his knees on the wet sidewalk and screams.