Hello.
After popular request, a continuation of chapter #49 is here, filled with pain, drama, tears and anguish (of course you expected that, though)! The happiest of birthdays to our favourite fictional character Loki (though in this story, his birthday is quite miserable).
(also, when I say 'popular request', I mean it)
Anyway, just so you know, the trigger warnings for this chapter include rape and sexual assault, eating disorders and gender dysphoria.
At this point, I want to clarify that I am not genderfluid, so if I have written something--ANYTHING--that is inaccurate/offensive about the genderfluid experience without realising, please, please, PLEASE just tell me. DON'T dismiss it, please. I promise I won't be mad at you. Seriously, just go in the comments and tell me, "You know what, Anthea (or Eve)? The '[...]' part of this story is wrong/inaccurate/offensive because [...]. You should have written '[...]' instead." I won't be mad--I will be thankful FOR LIFE.
Published on December 2022
...
The cells proved to be excruciatingly lonely; that, of course, was no surprise to Loki, who had found himself locked up in the past, but still, to be prepared for an unpleasant situation rarely makes it any better. In Loki's case, it actually made it worse. He knew that, no matter how friendly his cellmate was and how much they talked, the loneliness would consume him, like it had done before, when he was trapped inside Thanos' clutches or when he was locked inside Asgard's dungeons.
And as if being deprived of his freedom wasn't enough already, he was struck with a situation in which no one seemed to want to talk to him except for Millard Halpert, his cellmate. And okay, Millard was not bothersome most of the time, but it was clear as day that his and Loki's common interests were few to none at all, a fact that didn't help much in conversations.
"You still haven't told me why you're here," said Loki, lying down on the top bunk and staring at the ceiling. It was dirty, he had noticed, and humidity created peculiar shapes here and there that reminded him of something different every day.
It had been roughly a year since Loki got sentenced, and he knew that it was Millard's second year in the lock-up. "I've told you I don't want to talk about it," Millard grumbled, and Loki could feel the bunk bed move as he shifted in his mattress.
"Well, you made me talk about my reason for being here."
"You weren't exactly reticent about it."
Loki could hear the sound of pages turning--Millard was reading something, and the god's distracting questions annoyed him plenty as anyone could see. Still, Loki wasn't prepared to give up for the day. He turned to his stomach and, shooting a glance at his own book that lay open beside him, he went closer to the edge of the bed.
"Oh, come on, Millard! I beheaded someone--it cannot be worse than that." His voice remained nonchalant, but the pang of guilt that always caught in his gut when he reminded himself of the atrocity he had committed said otherwise. "You've got a nine-year sentence, which is shorter than mine, which means that-"
"For fuck's sake, can't one read in silence when you're present?" Millard cut him off.
Okay, now Loki started to realise his attitude was rather selfish, but his curiosity was still strong, and his persistence could be described as commendable if it weren't so annoying. He hung his head low and huffed, and then he turned on his back again and continued staring at the ceiling; the shapes on it now reminded him of rose petals scattered on soil.
"You killed someone, didn't you?" All the energy that he had moments ago had been siphoned in split seconds, and his chest rose and fell slowly as if he was holding his breath in between gasps for air.
"Fucking hell, I-"
"Didn't you?" Loki repeated, making his tone more assertive.
Millard huffed. "Fine, I did! Are you satisfied now?"
The bed creaked as Loki squirmed, and his hands came on top of his stomach, picking at each other. "Satisfaction is not in my nature."
"Openness is not in mine."
Loki was silent for a few moments; on the ceiling, it was as if the shapes were changing before his eyes, moving like a living organism, and for one more out of thousands of times, he wondered whether seclusion had made him lose his mind. Now that his curiosity had been satisfied, he regretted his insistence on getting an answer. What Millard had done wasn't his business anyway; they were cellmates, not friends. Loki had no friends--not real ones, and not anymore. Damn, sometimes he wondered whether he even had a brother.
Only Y/N ever visited--nobody else seemed interested in him. In this long, lonesome year in prison, Loki had only survived because he had held onto his love for her and the hope that he would get out someday and spend the rest of his life with her. In this year, his existence seemed to be slipping away, like the sands in an hourglass. Only Millard and some of the prison staff ever talked to him, none of the other inmates, and he wondered whether this was their way of punishing him without putting themselves in danger (because everyone knew he was the strongest person in that hellhole, and they didn't dare to mess with him).
"What did you feel when you did it?" he mumbled then.
Millard didn't seem excited at the question. "I am not your therapist, Loki, and you are not mine."
Loki ignored him. "Because I felt nothing. I was so angry, and then I pulled that trigger, and every emotion disappeared as if feelings were sucked out of me. And even after that--even now, I barely feel anything. It's just minutes and hours and days and months of emptiness, with only small breaks of pain and guilt that-" He stopped abruptly, and his brows came together. "I don't know what's going on with me. Usually, I speak about emotions much less."
"I suppose, when you feel less, you want to talk about it more," Millard said.
Loki frowned, his stare not leaving the ceiling. "Yeah. That makes sense."
Millard did not respond, and the silence stretched into a thousand moments, generating a thousand thoughts in Loki's head that would never be said out loud.
~-~-~
Y/N was pacing the floor of the bookstore late at night after all the customers were gone; this was the place where she had seen Loki for the first time--the place she had first talked to him. That day still was so vivid in her memory, as if it had happened yesterday--all of her memories of him were still so clear and strong.
Yes, she remembered it too well... It had been a cold day, the wind outside had been howling, and she was working like every other day, arranging books on their shelves and cleaning up. She remembered the moment he had walked in, pushing his hair out of his face, his jacket wrapped tightly around him and his hands stuck in his pockets, as he had walked to the cash register.
Recognising him from literally every news programme that played on TV the moment she raised her head, and recalling every "Mass murderer gets amnesty for his crimes" headline, she had frozen for some seconds, staring at him as he approached. He had noticed her expression and had seemed weary of it. He had done his best to ignore it and smile.
"Good afternoon," he had said. "Dreadful weather today, isn't it? That wind's howling like a banshee outside."
Y/N had been speechless for a few seconds, but then she had managed to shove her fear to the side and even force a smile on her face. "Yes, indeed. How could I assist you?"
"Is this, like, a bookshop/coffee shop? Like, I can buy books and sit here to read?"
"Um, yes. And you can... have coffee, or tea or... whatever it is that you like while reading." She had laughed nervously. "But I assume you've figured that out already."
"Yeah." He had looked around. "Yeah, I think I'll stay. Where do you keep the classics?"
And that had been their first meeting. After that, for a few months, they didn't talk much, but Loki had become a regular, as he would come at least twice a week, get a tea or, less often, a coffee and sit for hours reading, and he would purchase a book once a fortnight. It wasn't until that little coffee accident that they got closer.
It had been another cold day, and Loki had placed his order for a coffee before sitting at a table by the window. Y/N had prepared the coffee and carried it in her hand to bring it to him, but as she came closer, she had stumbled at the edge of the carpet, and the cup had fallen off her hands, on her coat and on the floor, on Loki's shoes and on the carpet.
She was mad at herself for a moment, and for a moment, Loki was mad at her too, but he was quick to shove the feeling aside and get up to help her. She slurred an apology and offered to make him a new coffee, but Loki didn't seem to care much about that.
"Take off your coat and put mine on," he had said, picking up the black jacket that he had placed at the back of the chair before.
"Oh, it's fine, you don't have to do this."
He had insisted. "It is awfully cold for you to not wear a coat, and you cannot serve customers with stained clothes." With a few more tries, he had eventually managed to convince her.
The sleeves had been too long and the jacket overall too big for her, but when she had worn it and adjusted it, all Loki could think was that this jacket didn't belong to him anymore--it was hers now, for it looked better on her than it ever had on him, and better than it could ever look on anybody else; He had tried to tell her so--not that she looked like an angel in it, but that she didn't need to return it to him, that it was hers now. Y/N had insisted, though, that she had to give it back to him, and she had suggested exchanging numbers so that they could communicate about it. She had looked straight at him when she said that, as if her gaze reached all the way down to his heart, and the rest of the world had just faded away. Loki had never believed in instant love and never would, but what he could guarantee was that he was intrigued by her that very moment her eyes met his, and so the moment she had asked for his number, something deep inside of him had ached and yearned and hoped--for what, he didn't know. Very few times had he ever felt so alive as that moment, and that moment was only the beginning.
Oh, he was so beautiful--still was beautiful, and it had been so cruel, so unfair, to not be able to see him, to lose years together as he remained young and she faded away. He'd told her of something he'd once told his brother, and every day that went by reminded her of his words--"This day, the next--a hundred years are nothing. It's a heartbeat. You'll never be ready," and she knew he hated himself for being right.
Where had the years gone--the beautiful years that they were together, and not apart? And their love--the powerful love they both had for each other--why couldn't it warm up her heart?
It was late, though, and Y/N knew she had to return home; tomorrow, she had arranged to visit Loki at the prison, and she needed sleep to be able to function in the morning. She took her coat from the hanger behind the cash register, put it on and went out the door.
It was dark outside. As she locked, her eyes kept darting around, searching for any moving shadows or suspicious noises, but it everything was quiet and unmoving. Her shoes clacked against the pavement as she walked along it, heading home. Ever since that dreadful day when Noah had tried to rape her for a second time, and Loki had killed him, she had become paranoid about her surroundings; she could never relax, even for a moment. Every little sound made her jump, and she always feared walking outside at night, even when she knew that Noah was no longer there to harm her. After all, there were thousands of people like Noah, and it only took one to ruin her life...
Y/N reached her house and pulled out her keys. A faint light shone through the living room window--she had forgotten to turn off the lights again. Lately, she found, she tended to forget lots of things. She cursed. The house was awfully quiet when she entered it, and for one more out of thousands of times, she wished she could be with him--oh, how much she missed Loki!
She ate crumbs, and after cleaning up the kitchen under the dim light of the bulb that barely worked, got into bed, where she curled into a foetal position, exhausted and forlorn, just like every day since Loki's arrest. A few minutes of lying there in silence, and soon, the first tears rolled down her cheeks, accompanied by a piteous wail that made her ashamed of herself. She cried a lot, the familiar sorrow bubbling up from the depths of her soul, making her head hurt and her eyes red and itchy and uncomfortable. Almost every night went by the same way; by the time she had run out of tears, it was past two in the morning, and she'd lie there, unable to sleep, her mind a mess of random despondent thoughts racing around in circles.
But she couldn't stay sleepless; it was Loki's birthday tomorrow, and she had promised him she would visit--it was already arranged, and anyway, she wanted to see him. With that thought, she wrapped herself tighter into her blanket, and after a lot of effort, she managed to drift off.
~-~-~
Loki sat at the small table with his hands on his lap and looked around. Just by looking at him, you could tell he was not in a good state; his eyes were sunken and the skin under them dark as if he hadn't slept (and perhaps he had not), while his unevenly cut hair that reached his jaw were unkempt and messy. The most concerning part of his appearance, though, was what he was trying to hide by keeping his hands under the table: the scratches on his wrists, still fresh from last night, positioned right around the metal wristbands that suppressed his magical powers.
Glancing at the guard, he gripped the edges of his sleeves and pulled them down. Where was Y/N anyway? She usually was here before him--what stalled her now? Would she even come? His eyes went to the door and stayed there for a long moment before turning the other way; if only he could just stand up and walk out, step through it and be free--escape this place, escape his actions, the memories that haunted him, and be with her.
That thought was what pulled his gaze back to the door--where was she, anyway? Had she even wanted to come all those times she had--had she wanted to see him? Did she, still?
His stomach hurt, and momentary dizziness caused him to sway a little, but he pushed through the malaise and went back to staring at the door; skipping all those meals was obviously not a good idea, but what else could he do when only the sight and smell of food made him nauseous? No wonder he had lost so much weight over the months he'd been imprisoned here, and no wonder his pants felt loose around his waist and his shirt hung on his frame.
Finally, after what seemed like forever, the door opened, and a guard walked in, accompanied by Y/N. Upon seeing her, Loki's tired eyes brightened up, but his lips couldn't stretch even into the weakest smile. He got up, embraced her and gave her a quick, close-mouthed kiss.
"Hello," she said as they sat down facing each other. "I'm so sorry I was late. I was caught in traffic."
"It's all right," he said, gripping the edges of his sleeves tighter as he put his hands atop the table. "You were only late by a few minutes, and you are here now."
Y/N remained silent, looking at him. It had been two weeks since she had last seen him, and yet somehow in that short time, he seemed to have grown skinnier, paler and even more hollow-eyed. His hair was a bit shorter than when she had visited a fortnight ago, and when she looked down at his hands that were gripping at his sleeves ever so eagerly, she could see they were clean but scrawny and shaky. All those months of staring at the prison bars had affected him--and were still affecting him--more than she had imagined or hoped--and he had eleven more years of imprisonment to go; how would he even survive if he kept treating himself that way?
"You should eat," she said. "I can see you don't eat as much as you need."
He nodded, shrugging his shoulders. "Food doesn't get down as easily as it used to. It's like prison food doesn't agree with me lately, you know? I don't know if it's the food or..."
He broke off and stared at the table. She looked at him, and he looked back at her, his gaze distant. There was a pensive melancholy to his expression, a deeper sadness that she was seeing more and more now. She ached for him, craving to take away his hurt and give him a reason to smile happily (because he smiled sometimes, but it was not happiness) again.
"You got a haircut," she finally said, changing the subject.
"Yes, and a terrible one at that."
"Oh, it's not-" She cut herself short when she noticed the change of hair length at the two sides of his face. "... not too bad?"
It was hard for Loki to smile, Y/N had noticed, and almost impossible to cry; he lacked that calming power of a smile and the cathartic expression of tears. But laugh--oh, he could laugh, and it came out croaky and choked and thick, as if laughter were like being choked to him. And that was the kind of laughter he burst into now, averting his eyes from her as he did so. When he was done laughing, a huff escaped his mouth, and his shoulders dropped.
"I've been here for a bunch of minutes and haven't wished you for your birthday," said Y/N a while later, after his laughter had died down completely. She avoided saying 'happy birthday' because she knew that he wasn't happy. "I delivered your gift yesterday--has it come?"
"Not yet. What is it?"
"A book."
Here, he managed a wan smile. "Would you tell me what book, or should I wait until it arrives?"
"It's a surprise," replied Y/N. "What's the point of a surprise if I tell you before it even arrives?"
Loki's mind, which always had the tendency to work in strange ways, a characteristic that had intensified during his incarceration, took Y/N's phrase and made a rhyme to it--one much darker that the one she had said. What's the point of a life if it is kept in shackles? He did not falter, though, maybe because he had no tough façade to crack. But as his mind worked, the conscious act of gripping his sleeves weakened, and soon the fabric slipped through his fingers, leaving his wounded wrists exposed. Y/N didn't take long to notice, and her eyes widened as her mouth fell agape. Loki put his thoughts in order, then looked at her, then down at his wrists, and eagerly--but not quickly--he gripped the edges of his sleeve again and pulled them off the table and onto his lap.
"That's... not what it looks like."
Y/N swallowed the lump in her throat. "What do you think that it looks like to me?"
Loki looked at the door. "Self-harm. It's not, or at least it's not what people have in their minds when they think of self-harm. I was not trying to hurt myself." Here, Loki emitted a 'though I've thought of it many times' for the sake of sounding convincing. "These things"--here, Loki lifted one hand and gestured at the magic-suppressing wristband--"can drive me insane."
"To the point of scraping your skin off with your nails?"
"It's so much more than just magical powers," Loki mumbled. "They're part of me; they show me the way; they help me deal with tough things; they help me deal with my... my dysphoria." Loki stared at the floor. "Being genderfluid and a shapeshifter has been, throughout my life, a blessing. I know that, while my gender identity changes often, it doesn't have much impact on the way I look, and I can feel like a woman while, at the same time, I have no problem with the pronouns people use for me, I put on masculine clothes and keep myself looking masculine with no problem. But here's the thing; gender dysphoria doesn't come to me often, but when it hits, it hits hard, and that is the reason I change my appearance at those times. Most of the time, I feel comfortable when I look like this"--here, Loki gestured to his person--"but sometimes I want to crawl out of my own skin to get rid of this masculine appearance I was born in. So, yes, I am so lucky to have the ability to change my form, and I realise that most genderfluid people who experience dysphoria don't have that. And I feel for them, because I remember how things were for me before I learnt to shapeshift, and now more than ever I have that uncomfortable sense of being in the wrong body because in here, I cannot shapeshift."
Y/N could do nothing but stare. "So, you were trying to get the wristbands off..."
"I wasn't even thinking when I did this," Loki whispered. "I wanted to take them off just for a moment; just so I could change my appearance. Things have been this way all week, and I can't stand it, especially when I'm forced to wear these damned clothes that don't have a trace of femininity. I've been feeling very dysphoric for some time now, and it's as if this place is designed to make it even worse."
Loki--to whom, in this part of the story, we will henceforth refer to as a woman and say 'her' for 'his,' and 'she' for 'he' out of respect for her current gender identity--sniffled, and wiped her eyes, even though they were dry, with the back of her hand.
"I'm sorry," Y/N managed to say. "I know confinement is tough for you, and going through this as well... I wouldn't wish it to my worst enemy, let alone my wife."
Loki's head turned toward her, eyes gleaming with pleasant surprise at the sound of the word 'wife,' and the slightest bits of gender euphoria penetrated her being, blooming as the seconds rolled by. "Do you have any idea how much I needed to hear that?"
"Hear what?"
"Wife. She/her pronouns. Anything feminine addressed to my person. I cannot tell a damn person in this place to call me a woman--not that I talk to many people, to be honest--without the fear of facing dire consequences."
Y/N sighed. "You know I've always respected your gender identity and the fluidity of it." Loki smiled. "That's my girl--I love your smile."
Loki smiled wider. They continued their discussion with lighter spirits, and that day, Loki managed to eat without gagging, something she had not managed in several days.
~-~-~
For the sake of keeping this story short enough for it to be possible to be read in a few hours, we will make a large time skip. We will go from Loki's first birthday in penal confinement to the fifth year, and specifically at the month of January, at a certain afternoon of solitude in his--now Loki's gender identity had shifted to that of a man, so we can use 'he' and 'his' pronouns again--cell. Millard Halpert was absent, as he had gone to the same room Loki usually met with Y/N to see his mother who had come to visit him, and it was raining outside, as Loki could see through the window and hear through the walls.
The rainy weather made Loki rather desponded, but not in the stereotypical way it supposedly makes people sad; Loki liked rain. Yes, in fact, he adored it, but caged behind a locked door, without keys in sight, he could only listen as the raindrops poured outside, and felt as though every raindrop was a punch to his chest; a reminder that he was in here and not out there; that he couldn't walk in the rain; that he couldn't dance and laugh under the heavy raindrops with Y/N as they had once done (and who cares if they'd both had a fever the following day--they'd had fun that day, and it had been worth it).
No, Loki had to sit here, in this cell, and stare out the window when he wasn't reading or read when he wasn't staring out the window. He had been doing the second one--reading and not staring--for a while, but his eyes had grown rather dry. He turned his head from the book, but unwilling as he was to look at the rainy sky once more, he looked the other way, at the bunk bed. Then his gaze went to the sink, and he got up to drink water. He leaned over the sink, drank a few mouthfuls and washed his face, and particularly his dry eyes, and then when he was done, he straightened his back and spun himself around, facing the bunk bed once again. His eye fell upon the book atop Millard's pillow--it was Oscar Wilde's "The Picture of Dorian Gray," the uncensored version--and then to the bookmark that stuck out of the pages, around halfway through the novel. This bookmark, Loki realised, was not really a bookmark, but rather a photo used as one.
Loki always tended to be curious, so much so that Y/N would compare him to cats, and so he approached the bunk bed, sat on Millard's mattress and, after a few seconds of hovering over the book, his hand reached out and took it. Pushing aside the concerns that he was invading Millard's privacy, he opened the book carefully to the place where the picture was; it was a photo of Millard and another man smiling at the camera with their arms wrapped around each other's waist. Loki's fingers touched the photo, but then he retracted his hand and closed the book. He was about to place it back on the pillow when a thought crossed his mind; when Y/N gifted him books, she usually wrote a small note on the first page. What if...?
On the first page of Millard's book, there was, indeed, a note, written in small, pointy letters.
Happy birthday, my beautiful angel. May this book be a reminder of my love for you and of all the joy and laughter you've brought into my life.
Love always, Austin
Loki closed the book with a swift move but held it on his lap rather than putting it back into place. The book was a gift, then. From a lover? A partner? A husband? Millard was reading it all the time--was it that he liked it too much, or did this fondness for this particular novel have a deeper meaning? Loki, too, valued the books that Y/N had gifted him, but Millard seemed to hold onto this one as if it were a treasure--as if it was all he was left. And, coming to think of it, only Millard's mother came to visit him. No husband, no partner, not even a close best friend had ever come. Had this Austin guy left Millard, then? Had he abandoned him? Had he died?
He didn't have much time to elaborate on these thoughts; the cell door opened, and before Loki could put the book back in its place and get up, Millard stepped inside, and a guard closed and secured the door behind him. His eyes went from the book on Loki's lap to Loki's face and then back to the book.
"I didn't mean to pry-"
Millard cut him short. "I fail to see how you could be looking through my personal stuff without the intention of prying."
Loki placed the book atop the pillow and stood up, becoming very aware of his almost unhealthily lean frame all at once. While he knew that his Jotun genes made him physically stronger than Millard--even in this state of bodily lassitude--he was too aware of how much better-built Millard was, and it had an intimidating effect on him. The two of them stared at each other for a minute.
"I'm sorry."
"For what?" Loki swallowed.
"For invading your privacy. And..." Here, Loki looked down at the floor. "And for whatever it was that tore you and Austin apart-"
"How can you be so certain we were torn apart?" Millard asked, frowning.
"He'd come to see you if you hadn't, wouldn't he?"
"Perhaps he does, but I've been lying to you about whom I'm seeing."
Loki raised an eyebrow. "You don't, though, do you? I can usually tell lies apart from the truth. Besides, you value this book he'd gifted you too highly--and it's an amazing book, don't get me wrong, but you treat it as if it's all you have. Of him."
Millard walked forwards; Loki stepped back. Without batting an eye at Loki, Millard lay down on the bed. Loki wavered, then he reached the bed with slow steps and climbed to the upper bunk. He pressed his back against the wall and brought his knees close to his chest, and then, eyes staring at the ceiling, the shapes on which now reminded him of ocean waves.
"Death," he heard Millard say.
"What?"
"It was death. Death tore us apart."
"You mean-"
"He's dead. Gone. Kaput. A carcass buried six feet under." Millard stopped, and then a long sigh escaped his lips. "That's why I'm here."
Loki faltered. "Did you...?"
"I didn't kill him, no. I could never--contrary to what many murderers say, you cannot kill someone because you love them, and I..." Here, the bunk bed moved slightly, and Loki could imagine Millard budge. "I loved him. I still do. Ironic, isn't it--that he's gone but my love for him isn't?"
Loki, who had lived his share of deaths of loved ones, shook his head in disagreement, forgetting for a moment that Millard couldn't see him. "I don't think it's ironic." Millard didn't comment on Loki's remark. "What happened, then?" the God of Mischief asked.
"Austin was killed at a hit-and-run," Millard responded. "There was a police investigation, and soon the person who had done it was identified, and the authorities issued an arrest warrant and began looking for him; I got to him first."
The shapes on the ceiling were once again shifting before Loki's eyes like shapes in a kaleidoscope, and he couldn't take his eyes off of them. "Someone hurt the person you love, and you killed him for it."
"Yes."
"We're not that different, then, are we?"
"I suppose we are not."
The shapes stopped changing, and Loki's mind snapped out of the peculiar thinking stage it was in, and more rational thoughts than the ones that came to him before began to creep into his head. "Why were you so reluctant of talking to me about it?" he asked, turning his head to the side as if looking for Millard's face.
"I was reluctant of mentioning the part which concerns my sexuality," Millard admitted. "While I find no faults in it, I am not open about it or comfortable with discussing it, for it is something for which I can receive hatred, and I don't want to face anyone's unfair judgement."
"I'd be the last to judge," Loki said. "I am not straight. Or cisgender."
"Oh," Millard said. "That... That is reassuring."
"Have you not had many people in your life to... not judge?"
"No, not many," Millard replied. "I have my mother and a handful of friends who knew. And Austin... But I never really told many people. I've been afraid I'll make myself vulnerable to pity or criticism if I did."
"If it helps, I don't pity or criticise you for it."
There was a small pause, and when Millard spoke, Loki could hear the slight tremor of relief in his voice. "It does help."
They spoke no more, and Loki's gaze went back to the ceiling; back to the ever-changing shapes and patterns.
~-~-~
Here, we will make another time skip to Loki's seventh year in prison, which also happened to be Millard's last. The reason we make a pause to a certain event of this year is this exact fact, and the aforementioned event is Millard's release from jail. This is a milestone in Loki's time in confinement, and even in his life for a very simple reason: Millard had been Loki's only companion during his stay in prison, and he was aware that his absence made it all the more solitary. He didn't know what his new cellmate would be like, but he didn't imagine he would be on as good terms as he was with Millard; he didn't expect him to be a friend... like Millard had been. For yes, Millard had become his friend--it is impossible to deny it now--and Loki knew he would miss him; he would miss the long conversations about their struggles; he would miss the discussions about books; he would miss the times Millard talked about Austin and Loki talked about Y/N; he worried that Millard would have nobody to reassure him like Loki did when he thought of Austin's death.
On the day of Millard's release, Loki's nerves were on edge. Every time he heard a door open and close--or any sound of movement for that matter--he would look up from his mattress and check that the prison door was shut and the door to his cell was bolted, that Millard was still there, under his bunk. At some point, he decided to get down from his bunk and give his friend a proper goodbye before it would be too late.
He got up, drew a few sharp breaths, straightened his back, and climbed down the ladder, his ankles wobbly from his physical weakness; he had lost even more weight, and his once-proud frame was now emaciated and unsteady. The floor felt cold under his feet, and he turned to look at Millard; he was sitting in his bed, his things all packed except for "The Picture of Dorian Gray," which he held open on his lap. He looked up from it when Loki got down, and both of them found themselves staring at one another for a few seconds.
"So," Loki started, putting emphasis on the first word, "you will be out of here soon."
Millard let go of his books and put his hands on his knees, nodding. "Yes. Until the end of this day, I will be a free man." He sighed, getting up from his bunk. "It's been a pleasure to know you."
"You too," said Loki, and he made an attempt to step forward, but a wave of nausea overcame him and he had to put his hands in front of him to steady himself. Goodness gracious, he really had to eat more. Millard noticed, but before he could say anything, Loki spoke again. "Will you write?"
"Of course. And visit--I will try to visit you now and then."
"I'll look forward to it," said Loki, and then he extended his hand.
Millard looked at it, reached out his own to take it but finally decided against it, opting to lean over and give Loki a hug instead, an action that was met with surprise but also with warm approval. Loki's thin body almost collapsed in the embrace, and it could be wondered whether it was because of emotional overload or his physical weakness.
"Your time will come, too," Millard reassured him.
Loki pulled away from the embrace. "Oh, but not soon enough," he argued. "But nevertheless, I am happy you're getting out of this hellhole."
"I am, too," said Millard, and then he smiled at Loki.
And just at that moment, the door of the cell creaked open, and a guard stood by the door. "All right, Halpert, time to go."
Loki's face fell; Millard looked over his shoulder at the guard, then at his packed things and then back at Loki. In seconds, his escorts would lead Millard out of his cell and to the van that would take him out of the prison... And then Loki would be alone--even with a new cellmate, he would still be alone.
"I wish you the best," the trickster said.
Millard took his luggage in one hand and his book in another and moved towards the door, then stopped, turned around and looked at Loki. "Good luck."
And then he turned around, and the door locked behind his back, and Loki remained standing there, alone in his cell.
~-~-~
Y/N was home, eating late dinner in the loneliness of the kitchen. Even after seven years of living like this, it was still so unusual to be alone in the house, without Loki's presence, with this weird silence that filled the air like the sound of the wind. Only one long-term good change had come during all this time; she had found a therapist, and she had managed to banish her uncertainty and fear of every moving shadow; she was getting better, and she wished she could say the same thing for Loki.
But she couldn't--heaven knew he was only getting worse as the years went by. She recalled the last time she had seen him, about ten days ago, and shivers shook her body; he wasn't just thin, he was frighteningly skinny. His clothes were too loose on him, like bags hanging from his bony shoulders and arms, hiding the bones that jutted out. But, just by looking at his sunken cheeks and his gaunt arms, it was crystal clear he was starving herself. The first thought that crossed her mind when she had seen him walk towards her was how far he was from needing hospitalization and how far he was from organ failure. He had looked at her, and his eyes that once used to glow with his inner warmth and vitality were now glassy and vacant like those of a corpse. His once soft skin was stretched over his skull, his hair was stringy and his thin lips cracked and pale. The very sight of him brought her stomach to the ground.
She finished her meal, took the plate to the sink and then sat back at the table and reached out for the envelope she had placed there before; Loki's latest letter. She tore it open and began reading.
Dear Y/N,
I would have written to you sooner, but it's been somewhat difficult for me to write lately; the words keep failing me, and even my hand feels weaker and heavier every time I lift the pen to the paper. But even if I did write to you sooner, I wouldn't have much to say. Things move slowly in here, as I have told you many times, and only occasionally does something happen that breaks the monotony of penal confinement. I try to stay positive and try not to dwell on the knowledge that I barely ever get to see you or talk to you anymore, which is almost more crushing than this isolation, but most of the time I find myself repining for you, and I cannot help it. I hear your voice in my head all the time, and my body aches with longing to hold you.
I miss you, and I have this worry that I will not make it out of here; it is a ridiculous but terrifying thought, that I will spend my final days locked up in here, helplessly awaiting my demise. My heart hasn't been full ever since I got sentenced, and I fear it never will be again.
But I do have some good news--partially good, at least; Millard was released just a few days ago, and he is now a free man and no longer the prisoner of this entire godforsaken mess. I said partially, though, because ever since his departure, I'm getting rather lonesome; my new cellmate barely ever talks to me, and even if that wasn't the case, it is hard to build a friendship out of nothing with a stranger, and I don't think I have the strength or patience to do it all over again. I miss Millard. But I'm happy for him, I wish him well, and I hope his time on the outside is a joyous one. I wish I could go out, too, breathe in the fresh, clean air that I so dearly miss and look at the night sky, at the uncountable stars that glow like candles in the darkness. And be with you--how much I wish I could be with you! How much I wish I could hold you like I used to, kiss you and tell you that I love you and I will always love you. Writing it isn't enough; saying it only twice a month isn't enough. I am at a loss, and nobody loves me here, and tears burn my eyeballs but don't run down my cheeks; I feel them scorch my lids when I close my eyes but I cannot cry--why can't I?
I am jealous of Millard, of his freedom, and my heart aches because of it. My body, too, aches; I think I might be sick, or is this feverish sense a result of my acute desire to be with you? Here, as I write this, I have all your letters beside me, and they are all that keeps me company in this place. Oh, my dear, I have been good in here, very good, and the only think I have high hopes for is that, when I become eligible for parole next year, my application will be accepted. And when I come home, darling, I shan't have your letters, shall I, but I shall have yourself, which is more and better, than I can even think.
But sometimes when I feel rather badly, I think my hopes might be false, I fear that I am not good enough and that the universe will punish me by taking you away for even longer; for it's been very good that I can write to you and call you and even see you once in a while, but my heart craves for more, Y/N--it craves for your constant presence, and for that you're always in my dreams, and it's hard to get up when I awake and realise it was all a fantasy.
But I've been sitting here writing for a long time, and this letter is becoming lengthier than intended. So, I shall finish writing this soon, and so will I.
So, farewell, for now, Y/N... I enclose you my heart and a kiss gently laid on the paper which is so much drier than your lips and so much whiter than your skin.
Loki
Y/N finished reading the letter, and then she brought it close to her face as if the ink carried the aroma that lingered from Loki's touch, and then she held it as though she waited for him to step through the page and into her arms, her eyes caressing every stroke of the pen on the paper. Then she folded it carefully, put it back into the envelope and got up.
She walked to her bedroom, opened a drawer and placed the letter there; inside, there were many more of Loki's letters, all of them full of creased lines from so many times of being folded and unfolded; his letters were like songs to her, and she heard them every day. Tomorrow, she thought, I shall write a response to him.
And with that thought, she changed into her pyjamas and went to bed.
~-~-~
This is the last large time skip of this story, we promise. In this instance, we travel forward in time to the eighth year of Loki's sentence. As readers might remember, it is the year Loki became eligible for parole, so the event we will deal with takes place in the meantime between Loki's application for parole and the reception of an answer. Before we proceed, it is important to clarify here that, due to Loki's genderfluidity, the trickster's gender had once again changed, and we must remind the reader that, even though they usually felt comfortable with any appearance or pronouns, when they got dysphoric, they had an overwhelming need to change their appearance (if not shapeshift, at least wear feminine clothing), something they were unable to do in prison. As mere observers of the recorded events who cannot influence them in any way, the best we can do is use 'she' and 'her' pronouns when we refer to Loki just like we did somewhere above. Of course, we would use these pronouns for Loki in any situation if she asked us to, but now, for her, it is even more vital, because, at this point of our narrative, she can do nothing to express her gender identity.
Loki was curled in her bed, tucked into her thick blanket. Beneath her, the mattress was soft, but not soft like a mattress, but soft like a cloud--like something she was sinking into and losing herself, losing the world, losing her mind... She tried sitting up, but she found herself unable to; she tried to lift her hands, but the best she could do was drag them atop of her stomach. Her fingers went over the metal wristbands, then to the skin around the wrists, and she could feel the dry wounds and the bruises from where she'd tried to pull them off last night.
She opened her eyes, but the light that filtered into the room made her regret it, and she closed them again. She was feeling weak, tired, dizzy...
Skipping all those meals again was a terrible idea, but she couldn't help it, she really couldn't. There was no way she could get out of bed now, not in this state, not without collapsing in a heap. And she was cold--she was too cold to shiver, so she felt frozen, trapped under her blanket, weak and frozen and helpless and unable to move.
She made one more attempt to sit up, but her efforts only took away more of her strength; she opened her eyes again, and the room began spinning around her, faster and faster, blackness rising up to meet her. She groaned, a moan of pure, terrible, absolute agony, and then her ears began ringing and the walls around it started to shift--not so much shift, but disintegrate--and Loki didn't even try to fight it, or stay still, she just turned her eyes to the ceiling, to the shapes there, and she could see the circles swirling, expanding, shaping themselves into an image that reminded her of Van Gogh's "Starry Night." Then the world vanished around her, and she found herself falling into an endless void.
~-~-~
Y/N was at the bookstore when the prison called her. "Your husband is hospitalised for showing severe symptoms of anorexia. His heart is in a critical condition." Her stomach turned, and a gasp escaped her mouth. Terrified, she hung up and rushed to close the store and get a cab to the hospital Loki had been admitted to. She arrived just as the doctor walked out of the room, and from the corner of her eye, she saw Loki in the bed, pale and thin. She tried to get inside, but the doctor stopped her and told her she had to wait outside. A few minutes of pacing up and down in the waiting room, and finally the doctor was ready to talk.
"He has lost so much weight. I was told he was found unconscious, barely breathing." Y/N looked down at the floor, tears starting to form in her eyes as she listened. "His heart rate is dangerously low, and so is his blood pressure. I got him set up on IVs to bring his blood pressure up. He is in a pretty bad shape." He paused. "It seems that he has been starving himself."
"The prison was killing him," she choked out. "He'd tell me food made him sick, he didn't want to eat it, and I could do nothing about it."
The doctor nodded. "Yes, I was informed that he was refusing to eat; I am afraid that this had been going on for a while, but the prison made no effort to get him help until now."
"It's been happening for years," she wailed, and then a sudden wave of anger overcame her. "They couldn't have cared less that he was starving himself, they couldn't care less that he was slowly killing himself!"
The doctor said something that Y/N's brain didn't register, and she shook her head and hid her face inside her palm as she tried to steady her breath. Then a nurse came out of Loki's room and approached the doctor.
"He woke up," she said, "and has been asking to see his wife."
Y/N looked up at the doctor, worry still clashing in her eyes. "Is it alright if I talk to him?" she asked.
The doctor nodded and escorted her to the ward, going inside as well to check Loki's vitals. Y/N made her way into the room and sat on the edge of his bed. Loki was lying on the bed, breathing in and out steadily with closed eyes, which fluttered open and were followed by a smile upon Y/N and the doctor's entry.
Y/N reached out for Loki's hand; in her grip, the fingers were bony and cold and fragile, and so her squeeze on them was firm but gentle.
"Hey," she whispered, and leaned down, trying to smile through the tears that were forming in her eyes.
Loki's dried lips parted slowly. "Hey..."
"I missed you," Y/N whispered.
"Me too," Loki said again with a voice small and quiet.
"My dear husband," Y/N murmured, gazing into Loki's pale face and blue-green eyes that somehow seemed to have lost their vibrance.
"Wife."
"What?"
"Please, call me wife..."
"Oh, my dear, of course, of course!" she leaned over and kissed Loki's forehead. "Of course, my wife. Of course, my love. Anything you want. Anything."
Loki's lips parted slowly. "Tell them to get my wristbands off," she whispered. "I have self-healing powers... but they cannot work unless..."
Y/N's eyes focused as she nodded, and then leaned over and placed a soft kiss on Loki's forehead, then her nose and her lips. Even though the rest of her body was cold, her lips were warm--so warm and so lovely, like liquid velvet. Loki let out a small breath when their mouths parted, and her hand moved inside Y/N's grasp, fingers curling around Y/N's own.
"Rest," said Y/N quietly, looking into Loki's eyes. "Rest, and I will take care of everything."
There was a quiver in Loki's chest, and for a few seconds, the hushed whisper of her breath was the only sound in the chamber. Then she nodded, a tiny movement that Y/N barely managed to register.
"I love you," Loki whispered, gazing at Y/N like she was the only person in the world. "I love you so very much."
Y/N's skin tingled with adoration. "I love you too."
Loki didn't linger there. "But I need to get them off," she said, pulling her hand off Y/N's grip and tugging at the wristbands, the wounds around them dark and dried. "I need to... Please, just talk to them--tell them how much I've struggled!" She let out a small cough, and then a sniffle. "And they must listen, they must," she said, shivering and looking up at Y/N with a sad expression. "Or I must suffer more--but I can't do this anymore, Y/N! I've been so weary of waiting and enduring, again and again, I've closed my eyes and tried to forget the times when magic would rush through my veins like a second heartbeat, but it never goes away--oh, never!--and it's been like I'm missing some vital organ and it needs to come back--it must!"
Y/N nodded, and her hand went to Loki's cheek--and only when her thumb wiped away her tears did the Trickster realise that she had been weeping. "I will tell them everything, and I will not stop until they fulfil your wishes." At that moment, a nurse came into the room, carrying a tray of food. Y/N looked at him, then turned her face towards Loki again and said, "You must eat."
Loki, who understood the severity of her state but had, over the years, developed a disgust for food, wasn't thrilled. She nodded, though, and her eyes stared intently at the tray as the nurse set it down. "Yes, I will."
"I will leave you to it, then," said Y/N, standing up. "I'm going to speak to the doctor."
She laid a gentle kiss on Loki's head and then she turned around and exited the room, leaving the fragile Goddess of Mischief all by herself. Loki propped herself up with her weak arms and sat up, her eyes wandering off to the window. She stayed still, watching; oh, how large this window was, how much wider and broader than that of her little cell! If only she could get up to admire the view--but that was hardly an option. With all those IVs and tubing stuck up to her right hand and her overall weakness, she was bound to stay put. In the meantime, she became aware, as she looked out the window, of a peculiar sense all over her body--something like tingling and shaking, as if she had been connected to hundreds of wires and electricity ran through her, as if she was a harp and someone tugged at her strings.
It was the premonition of change--a sign that, like stagnant water in which mucus has started gathering gets suddenly disturbed by rain and pours after a long time of immovability, her dull, lonesome life was not going to be the same anymore. Whether the change was good or bad, she didn't know. She hoped and prayed with all her heart for the former, but her heart palpitated in fear at the thought of the latter. All she knew was that she had to be ready for everything.
~-~-~
Perhaps we lied about the time skips. To our defence, though, we said "large time skips," and a couple of months isn't much, is it? Nevertheless, we shall move on with the story now. Loki stayed in the hospital for two months; after constant pressures from Y/N and the doctors' insistence on Loki's severe physical condition, a judge ruled that the magic-suppressive wristbands shall be removed, at least temporarily, from him (Loki's masculinity was back, so we are allowed to use the respective pronouns Loki used when he identified as a man). The change in Loki's state after their removal was dramatic; his healing process quickened; his weight began going up, closer and closer to being healthy; even his psyche improved, though he still wasn't exceptionally happy about anything.
During his stay at the hospital, he was approved for parole; still, when he was discharged, he had to put those awful wristbands back on and return to the prison, for paperwork needed to be arranged before his release.
He wrote the following letter to Y/N during that period:
Dear Y/N,
Right at this moment that I am writing this, it is late into the night, and I have woken up with strange thoughts in my head. Imagine--to see, I have crawled onto my bed close to the window so that the moonlight can shine on my paper.
My love, it is as if you are wandering away from me, farther and farther, with every passing day, hour, minute, and second. It tires me so much to wait for you, and though I have tried to get your thought out of my head because it pains me to know you are far from me, I find it impossible. When I read your letters, I can hear your voice in my head, and it seems nugatory to write to you when I know how it is to sit beside you and talk to you and listen to you--when I know that correspondence could never compare to that. But I will take it, my love, I will take all I can have of you. Give me strength with your letters, Y/N, give me hope and love and peace. I need them now more than ever, for I can swear that these few months after I was approved for parole are longer than the first eight years of my sentence.
I wish I get out of here before the snow begins to melt and the first spring flowers bloom. I do not know how I can bear being locked in for another spring; just think of it--think of the world being reborn and nature brimming with beauty; think of how April's breeze gives a flair to everything in its way; and then think of me confined in here, unable to enjoy all this beauty and longing for it--isn't a lonely person even lonelier when nature's grace is everywhere but they cannot savour it?
The only part of nature's beauty I can savour from here is that of the moon; every night, I look at it through the window and let it shine on my face, and I hope you'll look at it, too, and let the same light shine on you, and that will somehow create a connection between us.
But, dear Y/N, I think I tired you enough with my thoughts. Do forgive me, do try to get all I say out of your head and don't let it affect you; there, as you read my letter at night, put it aside and lie to your side and rest, close your eyes and dream as if I had never written you all these upsetting things.
Hoping to be on your side soon,
Loki
As one can understand from this letter, even though darkness was still prominent in Loki's mind and heart, small, dim glimmers of light slowly had begun to enter him. And though things still were tough, he had hopes for the future.
And soon, just a week after Y/N got the letter above, Loki was free. Well, free--when we say free, we mean on parole, which has some very specific and strict conditions one has to follow to get out of prison. But at least he was out of that damned cell, and he was with Y/N again. He had admitted his defeat and savoured the bitter taste of the consequences, and like a knife runs through flesh, the bitterness had eaten away at his entire being. But now all was over, now the wounds were healing and life went on.
All's well that ends well; we might've thrown a couple of lies here and there, but about that, we're honest.
...
Perhaps you noticed a slightly different narration tone. Probably because I'm currently reading Virginia Woolf, whose writing style is a bit more playful--at least in "Orlando".
Anyway, I hope I'll manage to post the next chapter in time.
Until then, I'm wishing you the happiest of holidays <3