Chapter Text
“Ten minutes to show time, Mr. Laufeyson.”
Loki looks up into the mirror, catching the eye of the stagehand’s reflection. He nods, quickly, and focuses back on himself. He looks incredible—tailored black suit, dark green shirt, silver tie. His eyes pop with green eyeshadow and mascara and there’s silver glitter in his hair. Still, there’s something missing.
A smile. He isn’t smiling. It’s his wedding day and isn’t he meant to be smiling right now? That’s the expectation, he’s certain of it, that someone looks incandescently happy on their wedding day.
“Is Sylvie here yet?” Loki asks and even the feel of her name on his tongue isn’t enough to draw the smile.
“I’m not sure, sir,” the stagehand says, although Loki doesn’t miss the twitch in the corner of his eye. No, then. She’s late again.
The door opens a second time but he doesn’t look to see if it’s someone coming or going. “Are you ready, Mr. Laufeyson?” a new voice asks, this one more confident. Probably the stagehand’s manager.
“Yes,” Loki says. “I’m ready.”
***
Mobius scans the growing, pushing, pressing crowd of people with a frown. Twenty thousand and counting here for Loki and Sylvie’s concert.
Loki and Sylvie’s wedding.
Already at least four people have tried to sneak backstage. Another half-dozen have tried to climb over the barriers and onto the stage. One person snuck an entire bottle of champagne inside and, while they managed to avoid taking out someone’s eye with the cork, they did spray champagne foam all over the H section.
He should’ve been off tonight but when Renslayer said, “Please, you’re our best. I’ll give you a whole week of extra PTO for this,” it had seemed like the easiest decision in the world to say yes. Now he’s starting to wonder if he should’ve negotiated her up to two weeks.
Mobius shakes his head. He isn’t married, has never been married, but he can’t imagine sharing such an intimate moment with twenty million people. The lives of the rich and famous, he supposes. A simple security guard like him would never be able to comprehend the draw for this.
He shifts on his feet, more than ready for the night to be over so he can go home. There’s a quiet house, a quiet television, and a quiet cup of tea waiting for him. If he can just make it through the next few hours.
Someone in the balcony seats screams. Mobius’s head jerks in their direction, hand reaching for his tazer, but it doesn’t sound terrified. He looks back toward the stage, checking for signs of movement, but there’s nothing. He hopes it isn’t another champagne cork incident.
More screams, closer this time. Gasps. Shouts. Someone on the floor yells at the top of their lungs, “OH MY GOD, EVERYONE LOOK AT TWITTER.”
Mobius lets out a sigh. He doesn’t have a Twitter. The back of his neck prickles but he resists the urge to pull out his own phone to check the news. Heaven help him if Renslayer catches him looking at a screen when he’s supposed to keep his eyes open for threats. He taps his earpiece but there’s only white noise.
It can’t be anything major. If there were a terrorist attack or natural disaster or asteroid plummeting toward Earth, Renslayer would let him know. His only priority right now is to make sure this crowd is kept safe.
Whatever is happening on the Twitter doesn’t matter.
***
Three stagehands are clustered around their phones when Loki steps out of his dressing room. They glance up in unison, their faces filled with expressions of mixed glee and terror. It isn’t the first time he’s inspired that look, and it doesn’t bode well for tonight.
“What is it?” he snaps at them. “What are you looking at?”
“Twitter drama,” the bravest of the three says. Two of them shove their phones into their pockets. “Sorry, sir.”
“Don’t let it happen again.”
All three nod like bobbleheads, their lips sealed shut. Loki storms off down the hall in the direction of the stage, a sheer green cloak billowing behind him.
He passes four more people with their eyes glued to their phone screens and his own publicist ashen over her tablet before he makes it backstage. Beyond, the clamor of his audience is even louder than usual.
“What is it?” he snarls at the first person he sees. “What is so damn interesting?”
“We—” The girl turns as white as a sheet and almost drops her phone. “I shouldn’t say.”
“Then don’t.” He snatches the phone out of her hand and his entire body goes as cold as ice.
SYLVIE LUSHTON CAUGHT WITH BODYGUARD BEFORE “MARRY ME” PERFORMANCE
Loki reads the headline once. Then again. Then again. Then again. He knows he shouldn’t, but he scrolls down.
There are pictures.
Of course there are pictures, no one would believe it otherwise. No one would believe that Sylvie would fall into bed with someone else hours before marrying Loki Laufeyson in front of a stadium full of people plus twenty million fans streaming the event from home.
They’re unmistakable. A shot of Sif pressed back against a wall, her mouth on Sylvie’s, their fingers tangled in each other’s hair. Another of Sif with her leg hitched over Sylvie’s hip, Sylvie’s hand inching under her dress. Another, Sylvie leading Sif by the hand into an apartment that Loki doesn’t recognize.
“Here.” Loki shoves the girl’s phone back into her hands. He can hear shouts, screams, calls for him but they feel miles away rather than on the other side of the stage. They already know, he’s sure of it, but they want him to perform anyway.
Of course they do. They’re his fans.
“It’s time,” the stage manager says in a voice that’s more suitable for, I’m sorry. He looks as lost as Loki feels.
Loki turns toward the stage, the millions of people, and clenches his jaw. “Where’s Sylvie?” he asks, sounding much calmer than he feels.
“Her car is still twenty minutes away,” Heimdall says behind him, in a voice that suggests he’ll be having a stern talk with someone about responsibility later.
“Fine.” The opening number is supposed to be his, anyway. He’ll figure it out from there. He’s always been good at improvising. It’s his draw, the thing his fans expect from one of his performances.
He strides toward the stage and someone pushes a microphone into his hand. Fine. He’ll be fine. He always is.
***
“Look at this,” someone says, shoving their phone into Mobius’s face. It takes a moment for his eyes to focus on the overly-bright screen and another for him to realize what he’s looking at.
He’s seen Sylvie dozens of times—her face is plastered all over the outside of his workplace, along with billboards and buses all over town—and that’s definitely her. Kissing a woman that is decidedly not Loki, the man she’s due to marry within the next hour.
Well, shit.
“I have to call Katie,” a girl shouts, holding up her phone as high above her head as the length of her arm will allow. There’s no service in here, with this many people in too small a space. “Can you hold this?”
It’s a reflex for Mobius to hold up his hands as she shoves a poster at him. He opens his mouth to say, he can’t actually hold this, he’s working, but she’s gone into the crowd before he can get the words out.
He rolls his shoulders. It’s just a poster, he can hold onto it for a minute or two until she comes back. And if she doesn’t come back, it’s not like he can just drop it on the floor. The cleaning crew will have enough to deal with, after this.
The stage-lights come on and Mobius flinches as an ear-piercing screech goes up from thousands of people. Another scream follows as Loki steps out onto the stage. Even with his heart probably breaking in his chest, the man looks radiant. The suit he’s wearing practically looks painted on and there’s a silver crown inlaid with emeralds nestled in his dark hair.
Loki walks all the way to the edge of the stage and raises the microphone. “Doubtless you’ve all already heard the news,” he says, and his voice sounds strong and casual in a way that Mobius would bet his house is a facade. “I’m sure my publicist is having a meltdown right now, so here is my statement: I didn’t know that Sylvie and Sif were involved. No, this whole wedding isn’t a publicity stunt, at least not to me. I thought what we had meant something, but it seems like it was just another lie.”
Mobius’s entire chest aches. The crowd is entirely silent, not even a gasp or cough to break the tension. He’s struck with the inexplicable urge to push his way through the crowd, to wrap his jacket around Loki’s shoulders, to take him backstage and let him cry or scream or break something. Anything he needs.
“Still—what’s the expression—the show must go on,” Loki continues. “I wouldn’t want to disappoint everyone. I’m sure half of you are only here to see what kind of impulsive thing I’m going to do tonight and the other half are here to see me get married. It’s what I’m known for, isn’t it? Being impulsive. So fuck it.” Loki’s eyes cast out into the crowd, landing in Mobius’s direction. “You. Right there. I say yes. I will marry you.”
Mobius wants to laugh but he can’t. It would be just like Loki—the man who once released a dozen live snakes on stage—to marry someone out of his own audience. He stands on his toes, trying to get a better look, and then the spotlight hits him in the face.
***
Loki knows he’s never going to hear the end of this later—from his father, his mother, his brother, and probably millions of other people—but he doesn’t care. He wants those photos out of his head. He wants the memory of Sylvie’s touch off his skin. He could fake his way through this concert and find some companionship for the night, but why wait?
All of these people are expecting to play witnesses to a superstar wedding. He wants to do something absurd. Why not point at a man in the audience holding a “Loki, marry me” sign? There isn’t anything stopping him.
***
“Oh my GOD, you lucky bastard!” someone shouts in Mobius’s ear as someone else shoves him in the back. Towards the stage. Towards Loki.
Mobius’s ears are ringing as he stumbles, flipping the poster over in his hands. There it is, in block Sharpie letters.
LOKI, MARRY ME?
Oh fuck.
Oh fuck fuck fuck.
There are more people shoving him forward, the crowd parting ahead of him like the Red Sea. He’s surrounded by phones, filming this moment, filming him. He opens his mouth to protest, to explain, to order them all to stop shoving, I’m security but he can’t get any of the words out. He can only put one foot in front of the other.
Loki’s standing on the stage, one hand outstretched toward him. There’s a smile playing at the corners of his lips and mischief in his eyes. Mobius has the odd feeling that he’s about to be eaten alive, and not in a good way.
This has to be a dream, brought on by long hours and not enough sleep and too much time spent staring at Loki’s face at bus stops, contemplating whether his inhumanly blue eyes are real or contacts. He can’t be walking through the crowd toward Loki fucking Laufeyson.
Think. He has to think. There has to be some way he can salvage this. It’s too late to drop the sign and disappear into the crowd, especially with the spotlight tracking his every move. He could get up there and explain to Loki that he’s a security guard, that he can’t go through with this.
Or—or he could go through with it. He can’t imagine anyone would fault him for it, marrying Loki Laufeyson for a day. It would be good for the show; he’d hate to see what this crowd would do if he turns down Loki in front of twenty million people. When he puts it that way, it seems like he’s doing himself and Midgard Enterprises a favor.
He leaves the crowd behind as he slides between the barriers separating the crowd from the base of the stage. A stage security guard, Hunter, catches his eye and raises an eyebrow at him. “Is this part of the plan?” she whispers quickly.
“Keep your eyes on the crowd,” Mobius says without looking at her. Of course this isn’t part of the plan. The plan is for Loki to sing one song, Sylvie to join him, and the two of them to get married before they perform their regular set. The plan is for him to stand out in the audience and make sure all that goes off without a hitch.
This is definitely a hitch.
His ears hum as he walks up the four stairs and across the stage. Up here, the crowd is a mass of dark shapes and flashing lights. He stares down at his own hand as Loki Laufeyson takes it. His skin is warm and softer than Mobius expects.
“What’s your name, handsome?” Loki asks. The sound of his voice, so close even as it echoes from the speakers, is like a glass of ice water to the face.
This is real.
Loki’s even more beautiful up close than he is on the posters that Mobius has caught himself staring at more than once over the past few weeks. There are flecks of silver in his blue eyes. Oh god, Loki asked him a question, didn't he? What was it? His name?
Oh shit, what’s his name?
He definitely has one.
Fuck. Fuck.
“Mobius,” a gentle voice says in his ear, “Mr. Laufeyson asked you for your name.”
That’s it. That’s his name.
“Mobius,” he says, in a voice that doesn’t shake nearly as much as he expects it to. “I’m Mobius.”
“Well, then, Mobius,” Loki says, offering him a smile that’s melted a million hearts, “what do you say? Will you marry me?”
This is it. This is the moment when he should say No, should explain this is all some wild misunderstanding and that sign isn’t even his and he isn’t here because he wants to marry Loki or Sylvie, he just works here for god’s sake. This is the out that he should be waiting for.
But Loki is staring at him with blue eyes too beautiful to be real and there’s glitter dripping down his cheeks and his hand is so warm and there are twenty million people out there tweeting pictures of him standing here looking like an idiot and so, when he opens his mouth, none of that comes out.
Instead, there’s, “Yes.”