Chapter Text
It’s another one of those nights.
The music’s too loud, too vulgar, and reverberates in his head almost painfully, making it hard to think.
Everyone’s a little too drunk to really talk to, and none of them seem too interested in talking to anyone in the first place, not if their behaviour’s anything to go by, and it’s hard to know where he’s allowed to rest his eyes in this veritable sea of twisting partially-clothed bodies he isn’t really familiar with.
Not that he’s adrift in the middle of it all, no. He’s standing on the periphery of a circle of friends that don’t really belong to him, listening to a half-shouted conversation Bucky’s conducting with some people he knows and Steve is vaguely acquainted with by now about something Steve’s not really interested or involved in.
He really wishes he was at home doing just about anything else right now.
“Who is that?” Stark asks over the noise and across what someone else was saying, and heads turn to see who he’s looking at, because for some reason Steve doesn’t really understand, where Stark goes others seem unable not to follow. It doesn’t really appeal to him to be one of those people, but because Steve is already there and he may as well take part, he looks as well.
Steve catches glimpses of inky hair and pale limbs and textures he can’t immediately place or reconcile himself to having actually seen, between other bodies in motion but not part of them. It’s not much but it’s enough to give him some idea, and to give his gut some other ideas, mostly along the lines of ‘yes’ and ‘now do something about it’.
Thor cranes his neck to get a proper look and seems rather embarrassed when he does, although from what Steve has observed ‘prone to embarrassment’ isn’t really the first thing you’d associate with Thor, and dutifully informs present company that,
“It’s my brother,” but adds, “Sorry,” as though that were somehow a Bad Thing, and Steve is pleased when Tony waves a hand and says,
“Not a problem,” but he bristles inwardly when, “you should never apologise for an ass like that,” is tacked on to the end of it because Steve knows how Stark means that and it’s not a Good Thing at all.
He doesn’t get a chance to say so, not that anyone would pay attention if he did, because there’s a sudden rise in the prevalence of long, pale limbs and inky hair and large, soulful, wonderfully green eyes right in front of their little group, and Steve’s gut wholeheartedly approves and doesn’t really get why Thor looks so uncomfortable with this development and says,
“Loki,” so stiffly. Loki either doesn’t care about his brother’s tone or is used to it, and just tells Thor,
“I’ve come for your keys.” His voice is surprisingly clear in this muddied, offensive loudness, despite not being pitched to compete with the noise. Steve has to struggle not to let his baser instincts approve the words,
“You can have mine,” and is very relieved when he manages not to speak at all.
Meanwhile Thor is instructing Loki on where to retrieve his keys – his jacket pocket, in the hall somewhere, or maybe the living room, he’s not sure – and Steve interrupts and says,
“I’ll show you. I hung up his jacket.”
Loki’s eyes scan Steve thoroughly and seem to find him acceptable for the task, because he smiles a little on,
“Why thank you,” and follows Steve readily through the crowds completely ignoring Stark’s ill-mannered whistling.
They’re almost at the front door where a multitude of jackets are strewn, hung, and draped on to and over everything, when Steve feels a hand on his shoulder and realises a little too late that he’s been pulled into the hall bathroom and the door is now locked and Loki is kissing him like it’s all he really wants in this life, and the bottom drops right out of Steve’s stomach and he finds himself opening up under Loki’s ministrations without a second thought.
So beautifully thoughtless is he rendered that he’s almost shocked when Loki pulls back a touch, somehow still immaculate when Steve’s sure he’s probably a panting wreck personally, and his smile this time is warm and pleased and he says,
“I thought you’d like that,” and Steve swallows and has no idea what to say.
Thankfully, he doesn’t need to find anything to say at all, because Loki resumes kissing him, only in a slightly different way, and if Steve knew anything about kissing he’d swear up and down this is the sort of kissing you do with people you intend to make love to, but of course that can’t be right.
Ten minutes later when Loki slides down to kneel in front of him and opens Steve’s jeans, Steve still can’t decide whether he’s surprised, downright shocked, or just utterly scandalised. A part of him also hasn’t come to any conclusion regarding whether or not he’s just having a very vivid and protracted hallucinatory experience, so there’s that.
Five minutes after that, it’s all he can do to gasp the odd life-giving breath here and there and hope he doesn’t die of asphyxiation before he can finish, although given Loki’s apparent penchant for teasing and control, it seems a dim sort of hope.
Three minutes later and his entire body has short-circuited in one big unreserved ‘yes’ to everything that makes up the world.
Roughly two minutes after that, the various shattered bits and pieces of his mind register things like the softness of Loki’s hair between his fingers and the genuine contentment in those very green eyes, and the fact that Steve’s now sprawled on the floor with Loki twined around him looking both smug and delighted.
Steve’s completely beyond speech, but Loki doesn’t seem to be in need of it anyway, and while Steve tries to sort through the overwhelming sense of everything being so much better than it ever has been to get to the totally confusing but relevant-seeming question of ‘why’ and ‘what even’ which is so far in the minority in the face of how marvellously satisfied Steve’s whole body feels that it’s not even funny, Loki tidies them both up and picks them off the floor and cups Steve’s face in both hands and bestows several very gentle kisses on him that feel like a kind of gratitude wrapped in a reverent leave-taking, and Steve’s hands go to Loki’s elbows and pull him in and they just sort of stand there, connected but not.
It’s as pleasant as it is completely outside Steve’s frame of reference for anything, ever. That’s probably why the first thing he does manage to say is,
“The keys...” which he immediately regrets because how is that still relevant to life, and Loki’s smile is impish when he curves it around a darkly amused reply of,
“They’re in my pocket.”
Steve doesn’t really see how that makes sense, but after the turn his evening’s already taken he supposes he wouldn’t be too shocked if God himself came down from heaven to make a noise complaint at this point, and in any case Loki’s not laughing at Steve but at something else entirely, and as long as that’s quite clear, Steve doesn’t really care for much else.
“Good,” he says, and Loki looks just thrilled and kisses him again, and well, Steve can work with that.
It’s when Loki sighs and pulls away that Steve remembers that the world probably hasn’t yet stopped turning and that life probably goes on and that he can’t really see a way for this not to somehow become very suddenly very awkward or for Loki to regain his sanity and start regretting everything that’s happened in the last half hour or so, but Loki just says,
“Thank you,” and unlocks the door, and then, pausing slightly before he says it as though it almost slipped past his lips without his consent,
“Honestly.”
And then he’s gone and Steve has to take a few very steadying breaths. When he finally manages to walk into the hall, he’s forgotten all about why he’s here and has no idea what time it is or what his plans were for getting home. He just fishes out his jacket from the piles of others on top of it, and escapes into the cool night air.
It’s easier to breathe, here, and the stars are very clear tonight, and his blood sings through him and reminds him all over again, and he can’t help thinking how surreal it feels, but at the same time how little he regrets it, if at all.
He’s home and getting undressed in his own bathroom before he really feels the shift in him, and he ends up staring at himself in the mirror, shirtless and with the residual slight and uneven tan from a recent summer filled with long, too-hot days and not enough sunscreen making him rather less sickly-looking than usual in the light over the mirror, and he looks at the frankly disbelieving expression on his own face and then the puffy pinkness of his lips and the dazed, satisfaction-drugged cast of his eyes that prove it wrong and thinks, well.
That escalated quickly.