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The wine falls into the glass with a familiar clinking sound; Erik pours the alcohol in an almost automatic movement. A routine they've both grown accustomed to, a peaceful moment, the closest thing to a pattern, or an imitation of one, that they can allow themselves.
Far away from the impossible opulence and irregularity of their lives, the couple resides in a cottage in the countryside. A small, gentle-looking house nestled among the green hills where the river doesn't crash against the bank. A private sanctuary, isolated from the world—something as false and idealistic as all those who have attempted the same.
Loki takes the glass, his nails black painted nails enveloping the glass, making it seem even more fragile than it already is. He doesn't look away, his green eyes fixed on his like a snake's, and his amused smile suggests he knows something more than he does, an enigma that would take him a lifetime to decipher, an unsolved mystery, a story without an ending.
The night grows older, the wind sings its stories to them outside the window, and the two can pretend that their love can bloom like flowers between the concrete tiles.
Between knowing smiles and the creaking of the carriage, they know that moments like this are unnatural, that they would soon have to return to the status quo that follows them with every step they take, the chains that keep them who they are. They have found a connection in how they both seem to navigate the world upside down, their feet always a little off the ground.
Unspoken analogies hang in the air, but both understand them after years of moments alone, their heads buried in each other's chests. A bond that began as a call to arms and has passed through countless whispered glances and nights spent on their knees. They feel they deserve this, however abnormal normality may seem to them.
There was something between them that Magnus liked to think of as yet another magnetism that held them together. A little bargain with the devil they liked to laugh about. They savored home-cooked, familiar food as a reminder of a home they no longer had, all while chatting. They told stories—more Loki than Erik—that to unsuspecting minds would seem surreal, inconceivable in their wicked mystique.
They don't take long to return to their shared bedroom, a sufficiently generic place, designed to appeal to every and any couple in a way that both can appreciate. The walls are made of dark wood, irregulars and unpainted, and there's something about that that adds to the warmth of the place.
Loki is the first to lie down on the bed, sinking into the mattress as if they'd spent the day doing exhaustive work. Erik can't help but let out a warm smile as he unbuttons his black trench coat. He doesn't often experience this lightheartedness, but now, he can't help but feel as if he's being carried away by a summer breeze while they're in this dollhouse.
He leaves his coat on an armchair near the bed and looks at the shelf. There is an object that catches his attention: a burly record player, made up of a wooden structure and looking old-fashioned but not rustic or worn, but rather preserved over time with grace and elegance. Next to it lies a subtle collection of vinyl records, shouting for Erik to look at it.
There aren't many constants among the records, but none should be later than the 1960s. It's a pleasant mix of jazz, blues, and classical music interpretations. You might spot some favorites like Miles Davis's "Kind of Blue, Nina Simone’s " Nina Simone Sings the Blues“” or John Coltrane’s “A Love Supreme.” But there is one that specifically catches his attention.
Beneath the covers, at the end of the collection as if forgotten by time, he sees the cover of a Tango compilation: Corsini, Piazzolla, Gardel stand out among other musicians' names. He smiles and drifts through memories set to piano music. A soft melody escapes his lips at the mere thought of the passion with which he immersed himself in the dance.
Hos face is painted with nostalgia as he traces the song titles with his fingertip. He can remember dancing to many of them in small clubs, how Charles liked to joke that he could enter a championship if he wanted, but there are some lives he won't be able to live. He's content with it.
Loki quickly catches his gaze. Nothing escapes him.
“What do you have there?”
Erik sighs.
“A vinyl, it's a tango record, used to dance this—”
“Do you know how to tango?” Loki’s face lights up for a few seconds before breaking into a mischievous grin, his expression as shrewd as ever. “Teach me.”
“Not now.” Erik puts the compilation down among the other vinyls and sits on the bed. “It’s late, dear, I’ll do it another day, and gladly.”
“But we won’t have time tomorrow, and then we’ll have to go back to our so exciting lives.” Two soft hands rise on his shoulders like the touch of a snake. “Besides, don’t you want to dance here, under the stars? I know you’re dying to dance with me, Max.”
And God, Erik swears he wants to argue, to refuse, but he lets himself be deceived by the plea in those green eyes. There's something hypnotic about his proposition that pulls him out of the room. He realizes how weak his will is when they're already in the cabin's courtyard, stone bricks scraping against their shoes.
The sky is clear, with no clouds in sight, only star charts and constellations.
“You probably don’t know this because you’re very young, Max, but the night sky used to be much more beautiful a few centuries ago.”
The music comes from Loki's telephone, a classic work by Carlos Gardel that sounds both familiar and foreign.
Erik takes Loki by the elbows, urging him to do the same. For a second, he doesn't understand his partner's confused expression.
"Huh, I thought tango positions were a bit more... romantic."
"It's a practice hug, Loki."
His words earn him a frown, and he lets out a smile before taking Loki by the waist, caressing skin through his clothes. His other hand intertwines with the other's as he feels himself being held from behind.
"Better?"
"Better"
Erik kisses the Asgardian's cheek before speaking. There's an almost imperceptible hint of conceit in his smile; like any powerful man, he enjoys having his ego stroked, and few things bring the same satisfaction as teaching such a traditional art to a genuine god of centuries-old existence, who, by chance, is his lover.
“This… It can be simpler than it seems, you just have to keep your torso flexible and active.” He gives Loki a squeeze around the waist, a discreet signal that puts him on alert. “Follow my lead, dear.”
The naturalness with which they move is the same as the way wild trees grow under the sun: irregular, untouched, yet worldly at the same time. A work of the gods, literally. It’s almost sweet, that in that moment, they both believe in something.
Step back. Open to the side. Dissociation. Advance. Association and cross. Advance. Open. Repeat.
The song progresses, melodies of trembling lips. It's like merging with the other.
Loki is good, very good. Erik feels foolish for believing he could teach a god anything. His pride impoverishes him.
Erik whispers melancholic lyrics into his lover's ear, his thick German accent blending with the Spanish song, a deep, longing voice. He places a kiss beneath his ear, and Loki's laughter rises above the music.
He turns his head to look into those green eyes he has learned to adore, eyes that have been the source of fights, victories, frustrations, and joys. Right now, he can become the man he longed to be in his youth, the man he yearned to be in his old age. A man who could work his way through pain and love, love as every man needs to. And perhaps even better, like an embrace from life itself, to be loved in return.
The melodic sound of the tango becomes distant, the wind hits their faces, their feet are no longer on the ground.
It's corny, silly, really, floating amidst passion. Straight out of a bad fantasy story.
They are flying, a little over six thousand meters high where nothing ever happens, a space between the stars and the earth. Erik can feel the magnetic fields that keep him in place, small, imperceptible, caressing his skin.
An airplane flies overhead, at what must be four kilometers in altitude. The sound becomes muffled, annoying, but he can't help thinking that, in another situation, in a past—but never forgotten—era, that airplane and all the people on board would have suffered a more or less tragic fate at their hands, at the hands of two beings who ruled over nature, over the universe.
They are magnificent, cinematic, fantasies made flesh, complementary forces. Everything humanity should fear. They speak in words not read in any Bible; they can leave other miserable creatures to manage their morals.
He returns to reality when he hears Loki's voice.
"Wow, from up here, the lights in the countryside look like stars, it's like a reflection of the sky, if you think about it."
Erik finds it almost difficult to picture in his mind what Loki had just described to him: a sky more beautiful than this one. He supposes that the sight of a starry sky shining in its full glory isn't so moving for someone who has thousands of stars in his eyes.
He wonders if, among all the lives, among all the stories he's lived, Loki has ever felt a love as suffocating and devastating as his own, as the love he longs to give him. And a cruel part of his heart tells him he never did.
“Everything and everyone looks like ants from up here.”
As the air rushes against them, Erik feels a hand caress his cheek before receiving a kiss. He smiles against Loki's lips; they taste of the wine they had drunk earlier; damned drunks, both of them.
He decides that Loki's laugh sounds much better than any song she's ever danced to.
He holds him tightly, clings to him, because time is fleeting, and lets his mind wander. If this going to be just an ephemeral moment in his lover’s life, another shooting star in the sky, he wants to be selfish, he wants to make Loki remember him for eternity.
To be the most magnificent story he has ever lived.