don't know how to get along with myself Who: Nish and Rafael What: A culmination. Where: Nish's apartment, 502 When: Tuesday, April 18th, evening
Rafael had not contacted Nish until the effects of his latest bump had entirely subsided. He had drunk a bit more of the mead from the third floor on the way up to see her, but that hardly counted; he could go to her mostly sober, check in on her once more, and hopefully then find the courage to tell her what had long needed to be said. Now standing at her door, he pulled uncomfortably at the sleeves of his shirt -- one of three long-sleeves he owned, this one black -- and knocked again. She had confirmed via text she was home, but his anxious mind told him he had come at the wrong time, had chosen the wrong day, had dressed inappropriately for the occasion. A thousand reasons to turn tail and run back downstairs, back to his own defiled home, flooded his thoughts. But he stayed where he was, staring at the closed door, willing himself to follow through.
Nish had been painting all afternoon, touching up an old one she’d started a few days ago, of a golden city from a distance, the one she’d seen in her shared dream with Chris. She hadn’t known at the time, but she knew now, that the place was called Asgard, and it was a place that Loki knew well.
’There should be a spire there, on the right, behind that house,’ he said, and she felt him as if he was standing behind her, pointing to just the right spot. She grinned.
“Backseat painter,” she muttered, though loaded her brush with a little more paint and got to work on the spot he’d mentioned. After she was satisfied with the image she sighed and put down her palette, reaching for the mug of mead she’d brought with her and taking a long draught. After the other night with Jayati on the third floor, she’d gone back this morning with every pitcher she could find, filling her fridge with them so she could drink while she was home. One was sitting on the table next to her mug, still mostly full.
A knock at the door interrupted her, and she knew it must be Rafe. She set her mug down and picked up a rag from the table, wiping paint from her hands as she walked to the door. “Hey,” she said when she saw him, stepping aside to let him in. She smiled, but it was guarded, taking in his expression and then frowning just a little. “What’s wrong?” she asked, concern written on her features and one hand lightly touching his arm.
"Nothing," he lied. He smiled, and it almost seemed sincere. Once inside, he turned from her, taking his time quietly closing and locking the door behind him. He remained there for a moment, reassuring himself the door was locked and inaccessible to her nearest neighbor. That done, he turned to her, drawing a slow, deep breath as he studied her. He nodded down to her paint spattered hands. "Did you find a new hobby?"
She followed his eyes and smiled. “Yeah,” she said, looking up at him. “It’s...kind of your fault, actually,” she said playfully, “the group...they suggested I explore my dreams...well, nightmares,” she added with a shrug. She had so few good dreams anymore that the few she had were refreshing. She tipped her head for him to follow her, heading into the dining room where she’d set up a desktop easel, currently displaying an almost-finished Asgard. Even now she could see little details that were wrong, and she resisted the urge to grab the palette knife to fix them as he watched.
Around the room, leaning against the walls, other paintings were set out to dry - a coiled snake dripping poison from its fangs, several canvases devoted to a dark cave with a man tied to a stone in the center, a shadow in the shape of a man offering a choice of two dark doors, and a hawk flying swiftly with a nut clutched in its talons.
She bit her thumbnail as he followed her into the room, standing nervously in front of her current project but not looking at him, part of her not wanting to know his reaction to them. Looking at them now with the fresh perspective of another person, they looked dark and disturbing, and she worried about what he would say.
But Rafael only looked pleased, and perhaps even a little impressed. His smile was still small, but it came easier than before. "I'm glad you're doing this," he said, moving closer to the painting portraying a man bound to a stone table. It resonated with him in a way the others did not; it stirred in him the memory of a dream of shared grief, and a blind stranger whose name he had spoken but now could not recall. He leaned down, peering at the prisoner's partially obscured face.
"Art is very good therapy," he said. "I've heard people say it's a kind of exorcism. Letting things out, you know, so you can move past them." He straightened up, his hands sliding deep in his pockets as his gaze returned to her. "Are they helping?"
She watched him zero in on the darkest of her paintings and bit her lip. “I’m not sure,” she said honestly, shrugging as she considered the image of Loki on the stone. Try as she might, she couldn’t get the face right, so she didn’t try anymore. It was as if...each time she did, it was different. “If anything it’s making them more vivid. These ones...it’s the dream I have most often. Sometimes it’s him on the stone, sometimes it’s me.” She swallowed then, eyeing the bonds holding him down, the venom dripping on his face, emotions rising in her at the memory of it. The anger, the injustice, and yes, the fear. She took a deep breath and sighed it out slowly, turning to pick up her mug and take a long drink from it.
Rafael straightened up and moved to her, taking the mug from her hands when she lowered it. He did not chastise her; instead he took a long pull from it, too, draining the cup of its contents in a single go. He sighed when he set it down, his gaze already casting about the room in search of another. "Keep at it," he said, his voice soft. "Maybe vivid dreams are what you need. Really face whatever it is you're trying to deal with."
His advice was more than a little well suited to his own situation, but he forced this thought from his mind as quickly as it had come. He moved away, into the kitchen, where he found still more stolen mead in the refrigerator. He poured them another mug, full to the rim, and made his way back to her side. After another long sip, he handed the refreshed mug over to her. There was so much to say, and yet he could not find the courage to say it now.
"Why don't you take a break. We'll have some mead, watch a movie… just relax for a while."
She wrapped her hand around the mug, but her fingers lingered on his for a moment, reading his face closely with her eyes. There was definitely something different about him today, but it was something she couldn’t name, though she felt she should be able to. The feeling that had been growing in her over the past few weeks seemed to spike, and she understood, feeling that separation grow even more between them. Normally, she would pull him to her at this point, kiss him and try to soothe him with her touch, but that feeling told her not too, that it was too late for that, and instead she pulled away. She took the mug from him and drank deep, smiling softly at him once she finished.
“That sounds good,” she said quietly, her expression guarded. She turned towards the living room, bringing the mostly full pitcher of mead with her and setting it on the coffee table. “I’m amazed the tv still works,” she said with a slight grin, flicking it on, “how do you get electricity out of grass?” She settled on the couch with the remote, one leg curled under her and the other drawn up to her chest, resting the mug on her knee.
Rafael shrugged. He sat down beside her, near enough to touch, if she wanted. He did not reach out on his own; to do so would have felt like a lie. He watched as she flipped through channels, one story blending into another until they all became a blur. Sucking mead from the swell of his lower lip, he found himself wishing he had gotten high beforehand, after all.
"I can't explain any of this," he said. "I suppose if whoever did this can know and publish our secrets, and ship in crocodiles and swamps, keeping the television working isn't hard." He picked at a threadbare spot on his jeans, worrying at a loose thread until it frayed further. "It makes you wonder what else they can do."
She paused in flipping channels, looking over at him. “You saw those, did you?” she asked, frowning slightly. “When I heard...I was so scared...I was so sure Abel had found something else on me. But it’s strange...it seems to be about everyone.” She thought about the one that had bothered her the most, about the part of her inside that was waffling between staying alive and going back to drugs. And the other one she saw, the one with Rafe’s name in it. She wanted to ask about it, but at the same time the look on his face told her not to.
The moment Abel's name had crossed her lips Rafael's jaw drew tight. He heard the scraping of his teeth in his head; he caught his tongue beneath one canine, hard enough to draw blood. He managed a quiet sound of affirmation, but the tension in his posture did not let up. After an uncomfortable shifting on the sofa and a clearing of his throat, he found words again. "Yes… at least not all of them had names. Maybe yours is still safe, you know? Still a secret."
She looked over at him and nodded slightly, noticing his discomfort. “It’s nobody else’s business but yours,” she said, not quite forcing the issue of what she saw on that pillar, but letting him know that she had seen it, and she wasn’t judging. There had been another too, one that didn’t have his name on it, but she was sure sounded like his voice, saying something similar to what he’d told her once before.
She set her mug down on the couch beside her and let her hand lace with his, squeezing it lightly. She turned back to the TV, hand still in his, and finally got frustrated with the choices. She turned on Netflix instead, pressing play on the last thing they’d watched together: Planet Earth. Tossing the remote aside, she picked up her mug again, draining the last of the mead and then refilling it from the pitcher on the coffee table.
He kept his hand in hers all the while, returning that brief, tight squeeze. With his free hand he took the refilled mug, downing liquid courage. Feeling numb was far preferable to this tangle of emotions, this unworkable knot that seemed to have settled in the very center of his chest. His thumb smoothed over her skin, moving back and forth over her soft warmth.
"Nish…" he began, stumbling over even that small syllable. He cleared his throat again, and shook his head, dismissing whatever thought had come before. "So how are you feeling? Are you still… okay? Taking your meds, all that?"
She took a deep breath, glancing over towards the dining room where the paintings were set up, then briefly over at him. “Yeah,” she said, an answer to one question, but not the other. “I’m okay. And…” she paused and chewed on her lip before continuing, “it sounds crazy, but...since all this happened...I feel better. That place on the third floor...I go there, and I feel…good. Like I’m supposed to be there.” It sounded crazy even to her, saying it out loud, but she knew it was true. Every time she went there it was as if she’d gotten another dose of antidepressants...but this time it was ones that worked.
She let her head fall back against the back of the couch, rolling to the side to look at him. “You must feel it too,” she said, not knowing why she knew he would, but...she had a hunch. “Something…right in that place.” She watched him carefully, looking for even a subtle reaction to her words.
Without a moment's hesitation, Rafael answered with a nod. He had not visited that level often enough, being far too distracted by earlier events, but the time he had spent there had seemed remarkably comfortable. He made a note to return for more than just another draught of mead. "I do," he said. "I don't really know why, but…"
He slumped down on the sofa, letting his head rest atop its cushioned back. Bright eyes glazed over by alcohol and heavy-lidded with a desperate need for sleep focused on the television, drinking in the high-definition beauty he could not access while trapped indoors. He shrugged, his shoulder brushing hers. "I'm glad you're feeling better," he said, "whatever the cause. I worry about you, you know."
She drank more of her mead, settling the mug on her stomach and sliding a little closer to him, letting her head rest on his shoulder. “I know. But you don’t have to,” she said quietly, “I’ll be fine.” Her thumb lightly caressed his hand between them, her own eyes growing heavy from drink. She’d been drinking mead like water all afternoon, and it was finally catching up with her. The alcohol, the stars above them, the soft sounds of crickets and wind through dry grass around them, and the low sounds and bright colours coming from the television all conspiring to lull her to sleep, though she struggled to stay awake.
In this, Rafael did not help. His own breathing grew slower and deeper with each passing second. The gentle sounds of nature and soft-spoken narration eased him off into much-needed rest. Soon his head came to rest atop hers, cradling her in the crook of his shoulder, and the two of them fell together into wild, dream-filled sleep.
* * *
She was in her painting. Loki was striding through the golden halls of Asgard, bent on some purpose of great importance. A smug, satisfied smile tugged at his lips, though he made sure to wipe it from his features before any of Odin or Frigga’s guards happened upon him to see such an inappropriate emotion on his face so soon after the death of their beloved son, and the swift incarceration of the other.
It was just in time too as, rounding a corner, he stopped short of bumping headlong into Freyr. He blinked, and then gave him a curt, respectful nod. “Hello, Freyr,” he greeted, his voice suitably solemn.
The god's burnished face was still shadowed by grief, but when he looked to Loki, there was something else there, too. Anger burned in the depths of his eyes, a rare fire that lingered in spite of his clear effort to curb it. "Loki." He spoke the name like a curse. "What brings you here today? Come to whisper into another unsuspecting ear?"
Loki pressed a hand to his heart, a look of hurt on his handsome features. “I'm hurt, my friend,” he said smoothly, “I was merely on my way to see the All-Father and to offer him my service in this difficult time. We are all deeply troubled by his loss.” His voice was smooth, like velvet, exuding a sense of warmth and trustworthiness. To lesser beings, at least, it would seem completely laughable that Loki was anything but genuine in his empathy.
"To varying degrees," Freyr said. He moved closer, though Loki's presence turned his stomach; whether that was due to the creature himself or to the memories still too close to the surface, Freyr could not begin to guess. His voice lowered to a rumbling whisper. "I believe you have provided service enough. Are you not satisfied with what you have already wrought? Which of us would you ruin today?"
Loki narrowed his eyes and leant closer. “I take offence to your meaning, friend. Surely you do not intend to accuse the blood-brother of Odin of having any ill-intent towards you or the gods.” His tone was careful, guarded, and dangerous. Freyr knew well what Loki had done, both for the gods and for himself. He never pretended to be as...self-righteous as this tanned god and his sister, but neither was he without any merit. The gods all owed him. Yes, to varying degrees.
"I accuse you of nothing," Freyr said. "I know. Just as I know you are forgiven more than any other among us would be. You have been a friend to us all in the past, I know this, as well. But your loyalty changes with the wind, and is never to anyone more than yourself. Do not deny it."
Loki’s brows rose. “The fact that I am always forgiven should show how much I am valued,” he countered, fighting off the grin that threatened to spread across his features. “And isn’t everyone’s loyalty first to themselves? When you first wake, do you not bathe yourself, dress yourself, feed yourself first, and not your friends or neighbours? If we are not first for ourselves, we are no better than slaves.” It was always the way with him, to argue with the truth in order to defend and distract from the lies. And he was good at it.
Freyr gritted his teeth; his lips thinned to the point of nearly disappearing within his golden beard. "Twist my words all you like, Loki. You may still have the All-Father's trust, but you will have to work much harder to regain mine." He folded his broad arms across his chest, his shoulders set in a hard square.
Loki flashed him a thin smile to match Freyr’s own. “You’d know all about regaining trust, wouldn’t you, Yngvi,” he grinned, “has Odin forgotten so quickly how you tried to usurp his throne...for love?” He laughed as if such an idea was utterly preposterous. “Tell me...what is it like, knowing that the sword you abandoned, for love, will not be able to save you from the Norns’ prophecies? Does it make you feel...mortal?”
The sun god's face further darkened. Loki's words wounded him deeply, precisely as they were meant to. He fought to keep the hard line of his shoulders from slumping; he did not entirely succeed. "No more than you," he said. "Everything has a season. And I would rather die for love than betrayal."
Loki watched the clouds pass over the face of the sun and smiled. “And you will,” he said, turning slightly to leave the other man alone. On impulse, he looked back over his shoulder with a wicked grin. “Say hello to your sister for me,” he laughed with a wink, resuming his easy pace on the path towards the throne room of Odin.
* * *
In the waking world, Nish’s eyes fluttered open slowly, her head still swimming and disoriented from drink. They had shifted in their sleep, now lying pressed close together on the couch, her cheek pillowed on Rafe’s chest and his arms wrapped warm and comfortable around her. The dream was still vivid in her mind. There’d been someone new in this one, someone she hadn’t dreamt of before, but who seemed intensely familiar to her. And despite not knowing this Freyr, she understood the sting of Loki’s words to him, and even had to fight off a grin at the humour, to her, of his parting words. She bit ler lip hard to dispel it, shifting to a slightly more comfortable position, sighing softly from comfort.
Rafael, by contrast, woke with a start. He jolted beneath her, his eyes snapping wide, searching her face for signs of another. He did not fully recognize Loki's grim visage in the softer lines of hers, but something deep within him connected one presence to another; as his gaze darted over his partner's face, his brow furrowed in discomfited confusion. He struggled to sit up, guiding her off him to sit at his side, his bright eyes on her all the while.
"Nish… I…"
Nish looked up at him when he stirred. She didn’t know it, but the ice blue eyes of Loki were slowly fading, shifting back into her normally warm brown. She moved when he did, reluctantly sitting up, sliding back onto her folded legs next to him, only then noting the look on his face. And connecting it with that of Freyr from her dream.
A chill slid down her spine as understanding dawned.
’I told you,’ Loki said, his voice quiet and comforting. ’I warned you this would happen.’
“Rafe…” she paused, suddenly aware of her heart beating hard in her chest. She reached for him, but then at the last minute stopped, pulled her hand back. “Freyr,” she amended. Without her permission, tears swam in her eyes, anticipating what she knew was coming.
He shook his head, refusing to accept the fullness of what they faced now. He had energy enough for one problem at a time, and the longer he drew this out the less prepared he felt for even that much. "Nish, I'm sorry." He covered her hand with his, gently squeezing her fingers. "This isn't working out. I…" He swallowed, but the knot in his throat did not dislodge. His voice was thick when he spoke again, after what felt an eternity of struggle. Even then, what he managed to say was hardly enough.
"I'm sorry."
A tear formed and slid down her cheek, her throat tightening and her stomach churning with emotion. She met his eyes, frowning with a mixture of sadness and empathy. She understood that she wasn’t nearly as shocked by this as he was. She’d known for a long time that things between them were...deteriorating. And she’d lived with Loki in her head for so long, very little of what she learned about him in her dreams surprised her anymore. But as far as she knew, this was all new to Rafe. The idea that she was the villain from their dream must be overwhelming to him, just as the revelation that the bronzed god Freyr was Rafe was to her.
She looked on him now with new eyes, finally understanding what it was about him that had drawn her to him in the first place. Their distant kinship, and his innate warmth and kindness; but she also understood what Loki had been telling her all along: he wasn’t meant for her. Though knowing didn’t mean it didn’t hurt.
“I know,” she whispered, her voice trembling, “me too.” She turned her hand under his, the same way he had on their first date, her fingers wrapping around his. “I told you,” she said after a moment, “I destroy everything I touch. I knew you were like me, I just...I didn’t know you were…” she looked down at their hands, her eyes red and stinging, biting at her lip. “I’m sorry.”
All the while Rafe was shaking his head, as if that small gesture might absolve her of this guilt. As had happened so many times before, he wildly misunderstood her hesitations, filling in the blanks of her broken sentences with thoughts of his own. They were both addicts, after all; both troubled in their ways, and neither one an effective support to the other. It was this -- and not the gods they housed, though he still felt the lingering effects of that shared dream, and the emotions it carried so strongly in its wake -- he bore in mind as he gently hushed her.
"Trust me," he said, "I destroy things well enough on my own. This… it's as much my fault as yours, so don't put that on yourself." He pressed a kiss to her bent knuckles, then placed her hand back on her thigh. As he did, another tear bounced down her cheek as emotions warred painfully inside her. "I'm still here if you need me," he said. "Okay? Just… in a different way than before." He winced at his awkward handling of this, a situation so unfamiliar to him. Shaking his head, he rose from the couch. "I'm sorry. I should go…"
She swallowed thickly, the space beside her instantly cold once he stood. She didn’t watch him move away, but just as she hear him reach the door she turned. “Rafe?” she called out, looking up at him, gathering her courage to say what she needed to say. “I meant what I said...before. I do love you, no matter what he says.” There was slight hint of anger in her last words, glancing at her paintings as if to illustrate that it wasn’t directed at Rafe, it was at Loki.
’You don’t need him,’ Loki soothed, but for the first time, his voice was not welcome in her head.
’To Hel with you and what you fucking think I need,’ she shot back angrily, but he only laughed.
’I would gladly visit my daughter if it would make a difference,’ he replied. ’The fact is, you’re too different. You’re too much like me. And he...is becoming Freyr.’
’I’ll never forgive you for this…’
‘Maybe not. But one day you will thank me. Now you’re free to become who you’re supposed to be.’
Their silent dialogue was lost on him, but he heard well enough the ache that lay beneath her words. As before, he could not return the sentiment. So he said nothing, only nodding, and gently closed the door behind him as he left.