Chapter Text
. . . . . .
The text arrives with no warning on a Thursday afternoon.
i think we should break up, it says. u can find another date to the dance, right?
And Sif sees red. Bad enough to get dumped two days before the Homecoming dance, but over text? That’s just adding insult to injury, and this will not go unanswered.
Five minutes later she’s on Haldor’s doorstep, noting with pleasure that the worm is squirming under her deadly glare. She can be pretty intimidating when she wants to be; after all, not for nothing is she the only girl in the state to ever play on a high school boys’ football team. “Two days before the dance? Seriously?”
“I thought it’d be better to tell you now,” he says weakly. “Instead of taking you to the dance and letting you think we’re still good . . .”
She tilts her head and narrows her eyes; that doesn’t sound like Haldor at all. “All right, who is she?” she demands.
Haldor’s gaze shifts guiltily to the left. “What do you mean?”
“Eight months,” she says sharply. “I gave you eight months of my life. The least you can do is be honest about why you’re ending it.”
Haldor looks like he’d love nothing more than to bolt, but Sif keeps him pinned in place with her eyes until finally he relents. “Lorelei.”
It’s what she expected, but that doesn’t keep her from wanting to punch something. “Lorelei?” she repeats. “The Lorelei I asked you about last week and you assured me that you’re just friends? The Lorelei who’s never kept a boyfriend around for more than a week? The Lorelei who’ll be bored of you by October? You’re dumping me for her?”
“It’s complicated,” Haldor says, with the tone and bearing of someone who doesn’t believe what they’re saying but can’t quite admit it.
“Seems pretty simple to me,” she says. “Seems clear that you’re as weak and shallow as every other guy Lorelei’s gone through, and that I was an idiot to waste so much time on a spineless little grub who didn’t have the guts to break up with me face to face or the decency to keep his promise to take me to the dance.” She turns on her heel, but looks back over his shoulder for one last sentence: “Enjoy being Lorelei’s next ex-boyfriend.”
The drive home isn’t anything like long enough to calm her down, and all she wants to do is go the rec room and go a few rounds on her punching bag. But when she pulls her silver Mustang around the back of the house to the garage, she sees with a wince that her dad is just climbing out of his Tesla. Not that she’s unhappy to see her dad—they’ve always been close, especially after Sif's mom died—but he never liked Haldor, and she doesn’t want to have to watch him to gloat when he learns how right he was about that jerk. She needs time to calm down before she has that conversation.
So she celebrates inwardly when she glances across the backyard and sees, through the wrought iron fence, a very familiar figure reading under his favorite tree next door. Perfect. “Hey Dad!” she says with false cheer as she climbs out of the car. “I’ll be inside in a bit; I’m going to run next door for a while.” She doesn’t give him more details, because she can’t think of what she’d say that wouldn’t be a lie, and she really doesn’t hold with lying unless it’s absolutely necessary. Her friends think it’s hilarious—they have no qualms about lying to their parents—but they all learned long ago that Sif Tyrsdottir doesn’t really care about what’s popular or cool, only about what she thinks is right.
“All right,” smiles Tyr, and heads inside while Sif makes her way over to the Governor’s Mansion. It is not, in fact, officially the governor’s mansion—their state does not have an official residence for its governor—but Fandral called it that once as a joke, just after Odin’s inauguration, and all their friends picked it up. The house has in fact been in Odin Burrson’s family since they helped found this city; Odin inherited it after his father’s death and has been living in since he was a mere district attorney. But it’s a huge and beautiful old house, pre-Civil War, with sprawling grounds; if they had an official governor’s mansion, it’d probably pale in comparison to this house.
Odin’s taken security very seriously since his first election to the senate, and the whole yard is surrounded by a high alarmed fence, with a single gate that’s way over on the other side of the house. But Sif’s been finding her way into the yard since she was six, and she doesn’t need a gate. With the ease of long practice, she climbs the shed in the corner of her yard, waves merrily at the security cameras that swivel to point at her as she puts one hand on the fence, and vaults over into the governor’s yard. The security guards hate her doing that, but Odin’s ordered them to allow it.
Loki hardly stirs when she drops onto the grass beside him. “Something I can help you with, Sif?” he asks, not lifting his eyes from his book.
“You’re already doing it,” she informs him. “You’re helping me avoid an awkward conversation with my father.”
“As long as it doesn’t require anything from me,” he says, turning a page.
She shakes her head. “I’m just killing time.”
She pulls up a piece of grass and tries to whistle through it, but the yard at the Governor’s Mansion is so well kept that all the blades of grass are too short for her to get a good grip on. So she flops backward with a sigh, staring up at the canopy of leaves overhead and listening to the soft rustling of pages nearby. It reminds her of a thousand summer afternoons spent this way when they were children—though none lately. Come to think of it, she can’t remember the last time she sat with Loki like this. Things have been different between them since . . . maybe since they started high school, and she normally doesn’t spend much time worrying about that—he’s the one who keeps turning them down when they invite him to things—but in that moment she’s suddenly a little sorry.
As the minutes tick by, she feels her anger drain away. It helps that Loki isn’t saying anything; if Thor was here, he’d be pressing her for details, but Loki’s always been quieter than his twin, and he’s content to let her have her secrets. She’s always liked that about Loki.
Soon enough, she doesn’t feel angry anymore. She should go home, but she’s too comfortable laying there in the grass. So instead she watches Loki until she sees his attention and his gaze wandering from his book, and then she speaks (she’s learned from long experience that he hates it when people interrupt him while he’s reading). “What are you reading?”
He glances over at her. “Shakespeare.”
“AP English?”
He shrugs. “My own amusement,” he corrects, but there’s a touch of defiance marring his calm expression, and she knows he expects her to make fun of him for reading Shakespeare for fun. Which, to be fair, is exactly what Fandral or Volstagg would have done.
But she’s not Fandral or Volstagg. “Anything good?”
He shrugs. “Othello. I’m still deciding what I think about it.”
“He kills his wife, right? Sounds like a downer.”
And Loki snorts.
She doesn’t know what else to add, and she expects Loki to go back to his book, but he doesn’t; he simply sits there, his gaze fixed out over the lawn, and she gets the sense he’s waiting to see if she’ll say anything else. So after a moment, she does. “Are you going to the dance?”
The corner of his lip lifts in a small but eloquent sneer, and she laughs aloud. “Guess not.”
“I suppose you’re going with Haldor?”
At that her anger returns, a soft echo of the inferno it was when she first got the text, and her lips tighten into a thin line.
Loki raises his eyebrows in surprise. “Guess not.”
“He dumped me,” she informs him. “For Lorelei.”
She’s gratified to see the subtle wince that crosses his face; she doesn’t have to explain to him all the indignities that statement implies. “Right?” she demands, sitting up. “Dumped for a junior. And it gets worse: he dumped me today. Over text.”
Loki understands—understands more than she expected him to, actually. “Is that the awkward conversation you’re avoiding with your father?”
She sighs. “I’m just not ready for him to say ‘I told you so.’”
Her companion simply nods, but his face is the calm mask that he wears when he’s hiding his thoughts or his feelings. She wonders what it is he feels the need to hide right now.
“So now I have to decide if I’m going stag, or if I’m going to try find someone—”
And that’s when Sif Tyrsdottir has an idea that, although she doesn’t know it right now, will change the course of both their lives.
“You can come with me!” she realizes.
Loki raises an eyebrow.
“You don’t have plans, right?”
“You want me to go with you?” he asks, surprise and suspicion in his voice, and she doesn’t know why he’s having such a hard time wrapping her head around this. “As . . . your date?”
“Exactly,” she says. “And I’ll pay for our tickets and dinner and everything, since I’m asking you.” She clears her throat and speaks very seriously. “Loki Odinson, will you go to Homecoming with me?”
His face has gone blank, but she’s known him since they were six years old, and though they’ve grown apart, she can still read him like a book: something about the idea is making him a little unhappy. Loki always has hated high school parties and events, she supposes. “I’ll make it as painless as possible,” she assures him. “I just . . . I don’t want to go alone, because everyone else in my group has dates, but I have to go—I already bought a dress, and besides, it’s Homecoming. We’re going to beat Vanaheim tomorrow, and then we’re going to celebrate our victory Saturday, and I have to be there.”
Loki looks at her a long time, and there’s something she can’t read in his expression. And then he nods. “All right."
And a small but determined smile turns up the corners of her mouth. “You won’t regret this, Loki.”
. . . . . .
Her father, as she’d known he would be, is a little smug on hearing the news; Sif is the recipient of more than one “I knew that boy was no good.” But he makes up for it by joining her for a very cathartic gripe session: all the things they’d ever disliked about Haldor, from the way he was late to everything to the way he chewed with his mouth open, are complained about at length.
“So what about the dance?” Tyr asks when they’ve run out of things to gripe about.
She is not expecting the enthusiastic response she gets when she says “I’m taking Loki.” Tyr nearly grins his face right off when he hears.
“I’ve always thought you should date one of the Odinson boys,” he says warmly. “Such good kids. Such a great family.” He hesitates. “But I always thought your interest lay . . .” He raises his eyebrows. “With a different Odinson brother.”
She rolls her eyes. “It’s not a real date, Dad. He’s just helping me out so I don’t have to go alone.”
“But you could date him,” her father says reasonably. “He’s single, isn’t he? And I know Thor’s most people’s favorite, but I’ve always liked Loki better myself. That boy’s got a gift for mathematics. Reminds me of a young me.”
Sif snorts.
“I mean it,” he says. “He’s brilliant.”
She blinks in surprise. “I mean, I know he’s smart, but I didn’t realize . . .”
“Brilliant,” her father confirms. “I tried to convince him to do an internship with my company last summer, did I tell you?”
Surprised, Sif can only shake her head.
Tyr nods his confirmation. “Wanted to try to get him interested in engineering, win him over to our side before a physicist or a mathematician got their hands on him.”
“What happened?”
“Odin wouldn’t let him,” Tyr shrugs. “Made him go to a business and entrepreneurship summer camp instead.”
Sif winces. “I imagine he hated that.”
Tyr nods his head sympathetically, then adds curiously, “He really never told you about that?”
And he’s got a point. How has she drifted so far from this boy she used to consider one of her best friends? He was away at a camp for part of the summer and she didn’t even notice he was gone. At least, she supposes, Homecoming will give them a chance to catch up.
. . . . . .
The Asgard High School Warriors destroy the Vanaheim High School Knights 45 to 12, with Sif scoring six extra points and a field goal. She catches the Vanaheim coach giving her a dark look as he comes over to shake Coach Váli’s hand after the game; he was one of the most vocal opponents of her being allowed to play on the guys’ team last year, and the fact that she just outperformed the Vanaheim kicker (as she did in last year’s Homecoming game as well) has clearly not made him any fonder of her. She can’t help grinning at him. The poor guy never really had a chance at keeping her from playing, no matter how much he objected; when you’re a close personal friend of the governor, it’s a little easier to get what you want, even when what you want is something as major as a statewide change in high school football regulations.
It’s a great night, and that coach’s anger isn’t nearly enough to ruin her good mood. Nor does having to scold Fandral and Thor for suggesting that they should vandalize some of the Vanaheim supporters’ cars out in the parking lot. (“How would you feel if your mother went to Vanaheim to watch a game and some jerk keyed her car?” she demands, and Thor looks appropriately apologetic.) Indeed, the only thing that puts any kind of damper on her evening is the fact that when her father, Odin and Frigga come to congratulate her on the game, they come alone. She knows she saw Loki sitting with them earlier, but he’s nowhere to be seen now, and that bothers her more than she would have expected. She’s his friend, right? Friends say hi, don’t they?
The next afternoon finds her and her father ringing the doorbell at the Governor’s Mansion, Tyr holding a camera and Sif still adjusting her crimson dress. Since Thor, Loki and Sif are in the same group for the dance—the first time that’s happened—their parents insisted on getting pictures of them together. Accordingly, Thor is bringing his date back to the mansion: Amora, the head cheerleader, who Thor will no doubt lose interest in before the month is out, as he does with most of his girlfriends.
Frigga answers the door, perfectly styled and immaculately put together as always, and her expression warms on seeing Sif and Tyr on the other side. “Oh, my dearest girl,” she says, stepping forward with her arms outstretched. “You look perfectly wonderful.”
Sif goes willingly into her embrace and inhales the familiar scent of her perfume. Frigga has been a mother to her in all but name ever since that tragic accident some ten years ago: she’s the one who started the weekly tradition of inviting Tyr and Sif over for Sunday dinners; she wiped a thousand tears and cleaned a thousand skinned knees in Sif’s childhood. And when Sif became a teenager, it was Frigga she went to when she needed advice on boys, when she’d fought with her dad, when her period started during her 7th grade Spanish class and she had no idea what she was supposed to do.
“I am so glad to see my Loki going to a school dance,” she says quietly, “and it delights me to know it’s with you. You have always been very dear . . . to our family.”
Odin’s always been more of an avuncular figure, given that she already has an excellent father, so their hug is briefer, though no less sincere. Governor Burrson strikes a rather imposing figure, with his broad build and shock of white hair and glass eye, and he can indeed be terrifying when he wants to be. But he’s also got a very warm, personable side—necessary to rise so astronomically through the political ranks—which is the way Sif knows and loves him, after so many years as a close family friend. “You do indeed look stunning,” he tells her gently. “My boy is lucky to be on your arm tonight.”
Speaking of his boy, here comes Loki now, walking down the stairs with just a hint of hesitation in his step, and Sif grins at the sight. It’s not the first time she’s seen him in a sharp suit—they’re practically a daily uniform for him, given how many galas and fundraisers and political functions he has to attend with his father—but there is one detail that catches her eye in particular.
“Loki Odinson, did you call my dad to find out what color my dress was so you could match your tie to it?”
Loki uncomfortably glances over at Tyr, who’s now deep in conversation with Frigga and Odin, and Sif knows she’s right. “I figured I ought to do this right,” he explains.
“Well, you look very nice,” she says solemnly, and means it. Loki will never rival his twin brother for obvious good looks, but he’s got his own sort of appeal, all tall and slender and angular, with his contrasting coloring and delicate features. As is usual for formal events, his jet black hair is slicked and styled carefully to disguise the fact that he wears it just a little too long to be fashionable. His charcoal gray suit is exquisitely tailored and fits him like a glove, and the scarlet tie gives a much-needed pop of color. It’s a little strange, though, to see him in red; he favors greens and blues and blacks and grays in the usual way of things. She’s always associated red and scarlet more with herself and Thor, and of course Asgard High.
But the color suits him, in a way, which is good because he’s about to get more of it. “I know this is so old-fashioned,” she says, showing him the boutonnière she carried over here in its little plastic box, “but I sort of like it.”
And for the first time since he came down the stairs, he smiles. “I thought you might,” he confesses, and walks toward the kitchen, reappearing a moment later with his own plastic box. Sif is amused to see that they both chose burgundy-colored lilies for each other.
Thor gets home with Amora just as Loki is slipping on Sif’s corsage, and the whole party troops out to the backyard to get pictures. First they get the whole group standing in front of a lovely flowering trellis, and when Tyr calls “Loki! Arm around her waist!”, Sif has to stifle a laugh at how thoroughly tentative Loki’s hand feels as it settles lightly on her hip. Then it’s Thor and Amora together while Loki and Sif stand back and watch, the former stealing glances occasionally at the latter.
Amora runs inside at that point to, as she puts it, powder her nose. Frigga looks at Sif. “Do you mind terribly if we do the boys together now? I’ve never had both my sons in the same dance group before.”
Sif assents, and Thor and Loki sigh and grumble good-naturedly as their mother poses them just so in front of the pavilion. Truth be told, it does Sif’s heart good to watch them; Loki may be spending less time with Thor’s group of friends these days, but no one who sees the brothers together could deny their love for each other, even if they do often express it with fists and cheerful insults. And indeed, that is a genuine smile on Loki’s face as Tyr snaps photo after photo. Even when Thor teases him.
“If you keep growing, one day you’ll be as tall as me!”
“One inch,” Loki grumbles, but his eyes are dancing at the old familiar argument.
Thor just pats the top of his head condescendingly.
“Okay, whole family shot!” Tyr calls, and Sif suspects Frigga might have put him up to it, given how ready she is to jump into the shot with her beloved sons. Odin grumbles a little but obediently follows his wife, and they pose together with the unconscious ease that comes from a lifetime in the public eye. They’re a handsome group, undeniably.
But . . . but odd, aren’t they? Sif, looking at the four of them, is seized with the same impression she gets every time she sees the whole family together: as Sesame Street would say, “One of these things is not like the other.” Loki always looks the odd man out in family photos, and it’s not just the coloring. The rest of the family are built on such solid lines; Thor and Odin both look the football players they are (or were, in Odin’s case), and even Frigga has powerful shoulders and strong features. Loki, by comparison, is all sharp angles and thin lines. Sif used to wonder from time to time if Loki might be adopted, but she’s seen both twins’ drivers’ licenses: they definitely share a birthday. So unless Odin and Frigga happened to adopt a child born the same day as their son . . .
When the family photo is done, Thor goes in to find Amora, and Frigga starts arranging Sif and Loki in front of the water feature. There’s something in her eyes that Sif can’t quite put a name to, other than to say that the governor’s wife looks very happy just then. “All right, Sif, now you turn this way—and Loki, you turn toward her, and put your arms around her waist—and Sif, you put that hand up on his arm—”
“Mother!” Loki breaks in, looking embarrassed and stepping back from Sif.
“Oh, come now,” she smiles. “It’s not every day my boy goes to a school dance. Indulge your poor old mother, just this once.”
Mother and son stare each other down a moment, and finally Loki cracks the tiniest smile, as Sif had known he would. Just as Thor shares a special bond with his father, Loki shares a special bond with his mother, and she’s always had a knack for getting him to do things he’d rather not.
“Do you mind?” he asks Sif, and she steps easily into his arms, having been the victim of plenty of school dance pictures in her time. She turns an obedient smile on her father, who promptly starts snapping away. Loki’s face, when she glances up, is in his practiced politician’s son smile, and if she weren’t close enough to feel the tension in his body, she might believe he’s at ease. She’s not surprised; he’s told her before how tired he’s grown of being photographed all the time.
And they’re not done yet. “All right,” Frigga calls, “now both of you lean forward a bit, and Loki, you lean your head against hers—”
“Mother!” Loki’s cry comes out just a bit strangled, and Sif can’t help it, she lets out a very unladylike snort of laughter, though she quickly smothers it, not wanting to be rude to Frigga. Loki looks over at Sif, surprised, and when she looks up at him, still grinning, his expression goes surprised and blank a moment, until a half-smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
Click. Tyr lowers the camera and smiles. “I think that was the money shot.”
. . . . . .
The four teenagers pile into Thor’s Range Rover to travel to Puente Antiguo Grill, where they meet Volstagg, Fandral, Hogun and their dates. The guys are noisily surprised, but pleased, to see Loki there.
“But where’s Haldor?” Valstagg asks―understandably, given that Sif, not wanting to be peppered with questions and distracted from the game, hasn’t told any of her friends except Thor and Loki about the breakup yet.
“At this moment,” she says flatly, “probably making out with Lorelei in the back seat of her car.”
Hildegund winces sympathetically and leans forward. “Are you doing all right?” she asks quietly.
Hildegund is a curvy redhead with a very maternal air, who’s been dating Volstagg for as long as Sif has known either of them. The girls have gotten very close over the years, which is why Sif feels comfortable answering honestly. “Mostly just angry and embarrassed.”
“Want me to beat him up for you?” Volstagg asks, quite sincerely. And given the fact that Volstagg is the biggest linebacker on the team, that’s a serious threat.
But Sif gives him a tiny smile and shakes her head. “It’s a kind offer, but I don’t think we should ruin the basketball team’s chances at State just to soothe my wounded ego.”
“Lorelei,” Fandral says, shaking his head sadly. “That’s a path it’s better not to start down, believe me.”
Hildegund turns to him with a raised eyebrow. “You and Lorelei? I did not hear about this.”
“More like Fandral and everyone,” snorts Thor, which makes everyone chuckle except Fandral’s date, who looks slightly alarmed.
“You’re better off without him,” says Hogun with certainty. The Japanese exchange student doesn’t say much unless he absolutely means it, so Sif is inclined to take his words to heart.
“I think you’re right,” she agrees.
“Well, Haldor’s loss is Loki’s gain, eh?” says Volstagg cheerfully, slapping Loki firmly on the shoulder. “It’s not every day you get to go out with one of the prettiest girls and best athletes in the school.” He hesitates. “You are here as Sif’s date, right?”
“We’ve finally figured out how to get Loki to come to a school dance,” Fandral grins. “We’ve just got to tempt him with a date who's way out of his league.”
Loki’s retort is swift and smooth. “Maybe you could pass along some of your girlfriends when you’re done with them. Trying to get through that list would keep me occupied for years.”
Fandral and his date both look a little offended, but Thor and Volstagg laugh and Hildegund is fighting back a smile.
Not wanting this to turn into a lot of trash talking, Sif breaks in smoothly. “Loki was kind enough to come along so I don’t have to go to the dance alone. I was in a bind, since that jerk Haldor only broke up with me Thursday night.”
And that successfully distracts everyone; the discussion returns to Haldor, and Loki is free of everyone’s scrutiny and comment. He glances at Sif, and she thinks she sees a touch of apology in his eyes, for making a scene, and perhaps gratitude as well, for getting attention off him. She gives him a small smile back; she promised that she would try to make this painless for him, and she will.
. . . . . .
The school gym is almost unrecognizable, so thoroughly has it been decorated and relit, and everyone is full of compliments as they walk in; Fandral’s date Ingrid is head of the Homecoming committee, and she basks in all the attention. She’s set aside a table for their group, near the front, which earns her more praise—the other tables are already full. Loki pulls out a chair for Sif, and she smiles at him as they all take their seats.
They talk, as they did at dinner, mostly about the game last night; with the exceptions of Hildegund and Loki, everyone at the table is either a football player or a cheerleader.
“Ooh, I love this song!” Amora says eventually, and holds a hand out to Thor. “Dance with me.”
Thor happily lets himself be pulled out of his chair, and Volstagg and Hildegund follow. Fandral and Hogun go to get punch and cookies from the refreshment table.
“Would you like anything?” Loki asks, and it’s not until that moment that Sif realizes that this is the first thing he’s said in about twenty minutes. She can’t decide if she’s more annoyed with herself for doing such a poor job of making this evening pleasant for Loki, or annoyed with Loki for refusing to join in the conversation.
But she gives him a small smile. “I’m all right, thank you.” She ponders for a moment whether asking Loki to dance would make him more comfortable, as a way to avoid small talk with a bunch of cheerleaders, or less comfortable, because then he’d have to dance. But in the end it’s a moot point because Loki stands up from his chair.
“Some of my friends are over there; would you be too offended if I excused myself to go say hello?”
She wonders, not for the first time, if it’s all that reading that gives Loki his smooth way with words. “Not at all,” she says, sincerely. He’s probably bored, and perhaps talking to his friends will help.
Loki nods and makes his way to the far side of the gym, where Sif can see Karnilla and Helblindi standing.
“I forgot that Thor’s brother had such weird friends.”
Sif looks over in surprise at Ingrid, who’s watching the three of them talk with her mouth twisted in disgust. “Excuse me?”
“I’m just saying,” Ingrid shrugs. “It’s weird that Thor is so, like, cool and everything, and Loki’s so . . . not. And look at his friends! He totally hangs out with the weird kids.”
“Loki can hang out with whoever he wants,” Sif retorts firmly. Deep down, though, she admits that she’s had similar thoughts about Loki’s friends in the past. After he started spending less time with Sif and Thor, he made a group of friends that are, well, a little weird. (“Friends” might be a strong term, though; she knows he eats lunch with them, but she’s never seen them around the Governor’s Mansion, and from what Thor says, he doesn’t go out much on the weekends.)
There’s Hela, who is super goth and who’s got quite the chip on her shoulder; she’s gotten in trouble more than once for starting fist fights in the halls. There’s Malekith, who tops Sif’s list of People Most Likely to Bring a Weapon to School. And, standing there talking to Loki, there’s Helblindi, who’s rather handsome but who narrowly avoided being sent to juvie last year for putting a kid in the hospital after the kid dented his car; and there’s Karnilla, who’s one of the better-looking and smarter girls in the school, but who’s so unrelentingly mean to everyone that she’s been kicked out of basically every other social group.
Sif wonders sometimes if they can be a good influence on Loki, but then she reminds herself, she doesn’t know them well enough to make that call, and anyway Loki’s nearly 18 which is surely old enough to make up his own mind about his friends.
Ingrid looks skeptical. “Yeah, but does he have to do it when he’s here with us?”
Sif doesn’t even mean to, she just defaults into a glare. “That’s my date you’re talking about,” she reminds Ingrid in a low voice. Loki might have unusual friends, but right now he’s with Sif, and Sif looks after the people around her.
Ingrid looks suitably cowed. “Sorry,” she mutters. “I just didn’t realize you two were that close. Since you’ve barely talked to him tonight.”
That pulls Sif up short. Has she really been so distant? Well, time to fix that.
Loki is returning to their table, and Sif goes to meet him halfway across the gym. “Will you dance with me, Loki?” she asks.
He looks surprised, though not displeased. “I don’t know how to dance to this sort of—” But in that moment, the song ends, and the one that starts is slow and romantic.
She quirks an eyebrow at him. “I know you can slow dance,” she reminds him with a smile in her voice. “I’ve seen you. You’re very good at formal parties.”
He hesitates, eyes searching her face (though what he’s looking for, she can’t guess). And then a ghost of a smile touches his lips and he extends a hand toward her. “My lady,” he says grandly, and she snorts.
“Don’t overdo it, Odinson,” she says, and steps into his arms.
Loki goes immediately, probably instinctively, into an old-fashioned ballroom dance-type hold, and she has to fight back a smile because it’s just so completely him. He looks curiously at her, clearly wondering a the reason for the twitching of her lips, until Thor and Amora walk by and his brother claps him on the shoulder.
“You’re not at one of Father’s fundraising galas,” Thor reminds him before disappearing into the crowd.
Loki glances over at their clasped hands, held very properly out at shoulder height, and understanding dawns on his face. But he doesn’t move, only smiles mischievously. “It’d be a shame to let years of dance lessons go to waste.”
She lifts an eyebrow. “You know I can’t ballroom dance, right?”
His grin only widens, and he starts leading her in what she assumes is some kind of waltz; at least, her childhood piano lessons are telling her the song is in 3/4. She’s never done the waltz before and spends the next minute laser-focused on not tripping over her feet, but Loki is, as advertised, very good at this sort of thing. He keeps her upright and moving in time, and somehow manages to communicate with his hands and arms and the way he moves exactly where she ought to go, and makes her look much better than she actually is.
He spins her out and under his arm so beautifully that Volstagg and Hildegund stop dancing long enough to applaud, and Sif is smiling bashfully, both pleased and embarrassed, as Loki pulls her back into his arms.
Thankfully he stops making her waltz then, instead putting both hands on her waist and simply swaying to the music so they blend in more with the couples around them. There’s a touch of a smile on his face as he looks down at her.
“What?” she asks.
“You’re right,” he says. “You can’t dance.”
She punches his shoulder and he chuckles.
“Well, clearly you can,” she says after a few moments. “I’m impressed.”
“Thank Father for that,” Loki says. “Have to make a good impression on the donors and the voters, don’t we?” There’s a bitter undercurrent to his tone, and Sif’s brow furrows. She’s never heard him speak that way about his father, but then it’s been a long time since they had anything like a serious discussion.
“You’re not a fan of fancy parties? I enjoyed the last one you all took me to. Very good lobster.”
“Yes, but you weren’t there as the governor’s kid,” he reminds her. “That’s a lot of pressure.”
She considers this. “I guess having Odin for a father could be a lot of pressure,” she admits.
“In public and in private,” he agrees. “The day I got my driver’s license was the best day of my life,” he says. “Now at least I can get out of the house when he’s getting too . . . him.”
“Where do you go?” she asks curiously.
“Places I can be alone,” he shrugs. “The Rainbow Bridge Overlook, a lot.”
All this talk reminds her of something. “My dad told me Odin sent you to a business and entrepreneurial camp this summer.”
Loki’s expression is very eloquent, and Sif’s expression lightens in amusement. “Not a fan of that either?”
“I’m sure I would have liked it if I’d had any interest in business or entrepreneurship. Father’s convinced that if he forces me into enough events like that, I’ll suddenly develop a love of it.”
“What are you interested in?” she asks. “If not business?”
Something eager but shy enters his expression, as though this is a topic he wants to discuss but isn’t often allowed to. “Well . . . physics.”
“Physics?”
He nods. “Maybe astrophysics.” He shrugs and her hands on his shoulders slide over the smooth, soft fabric of his suit. “I like . . . I’d like to learn more about how the universe works. And why.”
That makes sense, given what she knows about his talents in mathematics. “Maybe I should have you help me with my physics class,” she says. “A month into the school year and it’s already kicking my butt.” And then she smiles. “Dad will be so sorry,” she says in mock-serious tones, and his brow furrows in confusion. “He’s very impressed with your math skills,” she clarifies. “He’d hoped to lure you over into engineering.”
Loki looks absurdly pleased at that. “That’s something, coming from a famous defense manufacturer.” The song they’re dancing to ends, but another starts, similarly slow, and Sif makes no move to stop dancing. Neither does Loki.
“So Odin doesn’t care much about your physics dreams?” she guesses, her voice soft with sympathy.
Loki’s falling expression is punctuated by a sigh. “Father doesn’t have much use for the sciences. And he says business is a better choice because ‘it lets you do more good in your community.’” An unhappy smile twists his lips for a moment. “I don’t know if he’s worried about me doing good in the community for my sake or for his. Wouldn’t want to mess up his future presidential bid.”
Sif is sorry for the veiled pain in her friend’s eyes, but she can’t believe Odin would be so thoughtless, and show such disregard for his son’s feelings. “But he won’t make you do something you don’t want to do,” she says. “He can’t make you. What’s he going to do, follow you to college and force you to go to all your business classes?”
“He can take away any financial aid that he and Mother were planning on giving me,” Loki points out. “And he can certainly withhold his approval.”
Now the second one she actually can imagine Odin doing. “So what will you do?”
“I’m still figuring that out,” he says. “But my grades are good; if I can get scholarships and student loans, I can do it without his help. I’ve been saving money for a while for my college application fees, since Father’s not going to like it if he finds out I don’t intend on going to his alma mater. They have a very good business school but not much of a physics program. I’m not telling him that I’m planning on applying to other places.”
“So rebellious,” she says with mock seriousness. “Going behind your dad’s back to turn in college applications.”
“According to my father, that is rebellious.” But his words are softened with a small smile. “It feels ridiculous, sneaking around trying to get letters of recommendations, transcripts, copies of my birth certificate . . . I never knew I'd need so many documents to go to college.”
“Well, I hope you get into the school of your choice. And I hope your dad doesn’t mind too much about it.”
He gives her a tight smile. “So do I.”
. . . . . .
They return to their table, arm in arm—after all the dancing they just did, it’s surprisingly easy to be touchy-feely with him—and are met by Thor and Fandral, laughing and clapping Loki on the shoulder.
“Only you would waltz at homecoming, little brother,” Thor chuckles.
“Don’t you know the whole point of dancing is to get up-close and personal with a cute girl?” Fandral asks with a wink at Ingrid, who smiles and blushes very prettily. “You should definitely take advantage of this opportunity,” he goes on, and gestures at Sif. “Who knows the next time you’ll have a date this far out of your league again? Lightning doesn’t strike the same place twice.”
Loki stiffens beside her, and when Sif glances over at him, she sees his expression has become that blank mask he likes to hide behind so often.
“Oh, be nice!” Hildegund says. “Besides, I happen to know there are a lot of girls at this school who think our friend Loki here is very good-looking.”
“Who?” Fandral scoffs incredulously, although to his credit, he immediately looks very shamefaced at his lack of filter.
Loki’s expression has gone even blanker, which Sif wouldn’t have thought possible, and he stiffens even more, which Sif wouldn’t have thought possible either, and she wonders if Fandral’s teasing has always been this barbed and she’s only now noticing it.
Her innate protectiveness surges to the surface, but even though her motivation in speaking is to shut Fandral up, her words are, like nearly everything she says, absolutely true. “Me,” she says very matter-of-factly, and Fandral blinks in surprise.
“Me too!” Hildegund pipes in helpfully.
“Yeah, I could go for that,” Hogun’s date volunteers unexpectedly.
Amora nods. “I mean, he’s not Thor, but he’s certainly not bad.”
And that’s when Thor pipes in indignantly. “Loki’s got to be at least as good-looking as me,” he argues. “I mean, we’re twins.” And the thing about Thor is that Sif is pretty sure he genuinely means it and thinks it’s a logical argument.
Volstagg and Hildegund chuckle, and Loki relaxes. “I appreciate your kind words,” he says drily, and turns to Sif. “Punch?”
“I’ll come with you,” she volunteers, and they walk to the refreshment table.
As he pours her a glass of punch, he glances at her out of the corner of his eye, once, and then again. “Thank you,” he says wryly.
“I wouldn’t have said it if it weren’t true,” she says frankly.
He glances at her again, and this time there’s an expression that she can’t read in his eyes. “I know.”
. . . . . .
To no one’s surprise, Thor and Amora are crowned Homecoming king and queen. And Thor seems the least surprised of all. “I mean, after I threw the winning pass last night, the school owes it to me,” he says with a cheeky grin. Fandral and Volstagg both roll their eyes, and Sif good-naturedly throws a balled-up napkin at him. Loki, however, looks for a moment genuinely irritated at his brother’s arrogance.
As Thor and Amora go to the center of the gym for the official king and queen dance, Loki watches them go with a subtly calculating expression in his eyes. Sif is just starting to get uneasy about what that look might mean when he suddenly excuses himself to use the bathroom.
She doesn't find out what that looks means until a minute into the song. Thor and Amora have been hanging all over each other up in front of the student body, but while she’s gazing up at him, his focus in on the crowd, and on his football buddies who keep hollering at him.
“Yeah Thor!” one of them yells, and Thor grins and winks and points in that direction.
“Trashing Vanaheim!” comes another yell. “You the real MVP!”
Thor takes his hands off Amora’s waist to raise his fists triumphantly in the air. “Asgard High School football rules!” he yells back, and a second later, all the power in the gym goes out.
The sudden quiet is almost more shocking than the sudden darkness. Before the gasps and questions can get any louder, Coach Váli speaks up. “Don’t panic!” he says. “We probably blew a fuse with all these extra lights and speakers. I’ll go check it out.”
Everyone sits in the dark for a few minutes while on the dance floor, Thor, Amora and their friends trade jokes and boasts and good-natured jibes. A few minutes later the lights come back on and the music restarts. “Somebody flipped a breaker,” she hears Coach Váli say to one of the other teachers, and the seed of doubt in her mind blossoms into full-blown suspicion.
She looks around, and sure enough, there’s Loki by the refreshment table, looking entirely too innocent to be believed.
“All right, I guess the king and queen dance is over,” Coach Váli shrugs. “Go back to your regularly scheduled dancing.”
Amora looks a bit put out at this, but Thor just grins. “Go Warriors!” he yells, and the crowd gives an answering cheer as couples start dancing again.
The rest of their table gets up to dance, and Sif waits quietly until Loki sits back down with a cup of punch. “Was that really necessary?” she asks.
He looks at her, surprised, and then a pleased little smile crosses his face. “Clever Sif.”
“You couldn’t just let your brother have this moment?”
He snorts derisively. “As though Thor doesn’t get more ‘moments’ than the rest of the school combined.”
“Is that why you did it?” she asks.
He snorts derisively, and his over-the-top dismissiveness and nonchalant expression are their own kind of admission.
“Really? Just to take Thor down a peg?”
Loki sighs, but he still looks pretty unapologetic. “You know I love Thor,” he says. “No one could love him better than I do. But also, no one knows better than me what an arrogant jerk he can be sometimes. I just thought it would be good to remind him that not everyone is as big a fan of the golden-boy football-hero act as he thinks. When he leaves high school, he might find the world at large is a little less smitten with him than the Asgard student body.”
“I see,” she says sarcastically. “You did it for his own good. How charitable.”
He smiles beatifically. “That’s me. A model of charity.”
She rolls her eyes. “So instead of talking to your brother about your concerns, you decided to prank him.”
He grins cheekily at her, and she can’t help smiling just a little in return. “We both know that if Thor knew it was me who did that, he’d be more proud of me than anyone. He loves pranks—I mean, look at him, he’s actually spiking the punch as we speak.”
Sif looks over at the refreshment table to see that Thor is indeed pouring something from a glass bottle into the punch bowl while a couple of other football players keep watch. She sighs and is about to go chew him out when Coach Váli and Mr. Heimdall, the physics teacher, catch him and save her the trouble.
Sif groans as Mr. Heimdall starts lecturing Thor, who doesn’t look remotely repentant. “I really hope our star quarterback didn’t just get himself suspended.”
Loki snorts. “Not likely. You know Thor never gets in trouble.”
Despite his earlier insistence as to how much he loves his brother, there’s a touch of that same bitterness in his that she heard when he talked about his father. She looks at him curiously a moment, wondering if she’s missed a bigger change in her friend than she realized.
But just then, Fandral, Hogun and their dates return to the table, talking loudly about the attempted spiking. “Classic Thor,” Fandral is laughing. “And classic Thor to get caught. That guy is anything but sneaky.”
“Lucky for him, he never gets in trouble,” says Ingrid.
“He’d better not,” Hogun grumbles. “If he just ruined our chances at State for a stupid prank . . .”
From the look on Loki’s face, he very clearly agrees with Hogun. Sif examines his face curiously a moment before making a decision. “It’s too warm in here,” she says, and glances at Loki. “Come get some air with me?”
He agrees readily enough, and follows her out of the gym, pausing only to shake his head in mock censure at his brother, who’s still being lectured. Thor grins and waves very cheerfully back.
. . . . . .
After the din of the dance, it’s blessedly quiet out in front of the school. A couple is getting into a car out in the parking lot, but other than that they’re entirely alone. The scene is lit by the moon overhead, the streetlamps nearby, and the marquee that reads in scrolling red letters HOMECOMING DANCE SATURDAY NIGHT.
Loki shoves his hands in his pockets. “I guess it’s probably grossly optimistic to hope that you snuck me away from the dance so we could make out,” he says matter-of-factly.
And Sif lets out a very undignified snort of laughter. “Grossly optimistic,” she agrees. The bench by the warrior statue on the lawn catches her eye, and she gestures toward it. “Shall we?”
He obliges, and when they’re seated on the bench, almost close enough for their elbows to brush, he says resignedly, “I assume you wanted to lecture me more about ruining Thor’s big moment?”
She shakes her head. “Not to lecture you. But to ask: what is the deal with you and Thor?”
“I told you,” he shrugs. “He’s my brother and I love him, but you have to admit, he’s kind of a lot to deal with sometimes.”
She thinks of Loki’s distance from them the last couple of years, of how they’ve lost touch so much that she didn’t even realize he’d been sent off to camp this summer. And she decides to seize this rare chance to discuss it. “Is that it?” she asks. “Is that why you don’t hang out with us anymore?”
In the light from the marquee, she sees him flinch, nearly imperceptibly, before his expression slips into that smooth mask he uses when he’s hiding something.
“I hang out with you,” he says. “I’m hanging out with you now.”
“Yes, but before tonight, when was the last time you actually did anything with us? The fourth of July, and that was only because we physically dragged you along with us? And before that . . .”
“That dinner on the last day of school,” he supplies helpfully, and she rolls her eyes.
“Only because your mom made you come with us,” she reminds him. “And before that . . . I can’t even remember.”
He doesn’t answer; she assumes that, like her, he can’t remember because it’s been so long.
“You don’t have to hang out with us,” she’s quick to point out. “You can do whatever you want. But . . . did you stop because of something we did? Something Thor did?” She hesitates, and frowns. “Something I did?”
“Nothing you did,” he assures her, and from his tone and expression, she thinks he’s sincere. “It’s just . . .” He trails off, clearly looking for the right way to smooth it over—knowing him, to give only as much information as he wants to give, and in a way that makes him look good.
She breaks in. “We used to be good friends, Loki. And I’m really sorry we’ve lost that. And if there’s something I can do to fix it . . .”
He’s silent a moment, and then he flops back against the bench with a heavy sigh. The contrast of it makes her realize how carefully straight his posture is most of the time.
“Please,” she says. “Tell me the truth.”
He looks at her a long moment, then relents. “I guess you’re right; I don’t hang out with you guys much anymore. It’s . . . it was a lot of things.” He sighs. “You know I’ve never been like you and Thor. I always wanted to be reading, or exploring, or looking at bugs under a magnifying glass. And you two would rather be playing football or wrestling in the yard. But when we were young, that didn’t matter; we compromised. We’d combine our interests. You two were willing to help me catch grasshoppers . . .”
“And you were willing to play tag with us.” She remembers more than one afternoon spent with the Odinson boys, when they’d agree to spend an hour doing what Loki wanted and then two hours doing what she and Thor wanted.
“But then we got to high school and everything changed. You two got so into your sports, and Fandral and Volstagg came along—and eventually Hogun. I was outnumbered. All you guys wanted to do was play or watch sports, every single time; we never did the sorts of things I wanted to do, and if I tried to suggest something else, I’d get outvoted. And I got tired of it. I got tired of always doing things I didn’t enjoy, and having to pretend to be something I wasn’t in order to fit in with you.” He shrugs. “Volstagg’s nice enough, but we have nothing in common, and Fandral—well, the less said, the better.” He hesitates. “And Thor changed, to be honest. He got more selfish and self-focused. And sports and girls became literally the only things he was capable of thinking about. So when the larger student body at Asgard let me find people I had more in common with . . . why wouldn’t I prefer hanging out with them?”
She takes a moment to process this. “Have I changed?” she asks.
He glances at her, then away. “Not as much as Thor.”
She doesn’t know how to take that.
“I got tired of pretending in order to fit in,” he repeats in conclusion. “And of feeling like a charity case. Like you were inviting me places out of pity or obligation.”
She leans back against the bench and stares unseeingly at the darkened parking lot in front of them. Did they really drive Loki away by never taking his preferences into account when they made plans? Did she really alienate one of her best friends by being so focused on herself and never on him?
For a few moments she feels quite guilty, wondering if she should apologize . . . and then something occurs to her and she turns to him with a frown. “But what about all the times we weren’t doing anything sports-related, or hanging out with the others?”
Loki looks at her, surprised.
“Last month,” she reminds him, “Thor and I invited you to watch Interstellar with us, and you said no. But I know you like that movie. In fact, we chose that movie because we knew you liked it. So what was the problem?”
He blinks and says nothing.
“Or what about after Sunday dinner last week? Me and Thor and your mom played Monopoly, and you refused to play with us. Why did you turn that down? Or when Hogun invited you to go to the planetarium with him over the summer? You love that stuff.”
His expression changes very little, but he shifts in such a way that she knows he’s uncomfortable. She’s onto something.
“Again, you don’t have to hang out with us if you don’t want to. And I understand your not being interested in some of the things we do, and I understand if you don’t like the way our friend group has changed.” She shakes her head. “But stop telling yourself this story where you’re this tragic figure who’s been betrayed by your closest friends. Maybe Thor and I could have worked harder to keep from drifting away from you. But we are trying to reach out to you—all of us are. It’s a two-way street, you know; you have to meet us halfway.” She turns to face him on the bench, and one hand goes to his shoulder. “You’re not a charity case, Loki,” she says firmly. “We want to hang out with you.”
He’s still for a few long moments. And then he turns to look at her with baffled incomprehension in his expression. “You want to hang out with me?” he repeats.
“We really do,” she confirms. “Thor is always sorry when you turn him down.”
He stares at her, quiet for a long time. Finally, “I will keep that in mind,” he says a little haltingly.
“Do,” she says, and then adds affectionately, “dork.” She goes to ruffle his hair but finds it’s gelled so firmly in place she can’t move it. “That’s strong gel,” she says solemnly, and drops her arms along the back of the bench, just brushing Loki’s shoulders.
He stiffens at that, but before she can move, he relaxes so that he’s leaning up against her arm. “Maybe I should have more faith in people,” he says quietly.
“Maybe you should,” she agrees. “Especially me, and your own brother.”
They sit together in silence for a while longer, until Sif shivers in the crisp autumn air.
“Sorry,” Loki says automatically, as though the cold was his doing, and slips off his suit jacket to hand to her.
Sif Tyrsdottir does not need a man to look after her. But on the other hand, there’s a part of her that rather appreciates this sort of chivalrous gesture that never would have even occurred to Haldor. So she takes the jacket and puts it on. Loki’s so slim that she can’t comfortably close the jacket around her bust, so she leaves it open and revels in the feeling of the silky lining against her skin, and being enveloped by Loki’s warmth and scent. She didn’t know, until this moment, that she could recognize whatever cologne or body spray he uses, but it’s familiar and comforting.
With his white shirt fully revealed, Loki fairly glows in the red light from the marquee as he leans forward and puts his elbows on his knees. They sit in silence for a while longer—the comfortable sort of silence she doesn’t feel the need to break. But time is passing, and she’s just starting to think that maybe they should go back into the dance when Loki says something unexpected.
“You asked me what the deal is with me and Thor,” he says, not looking at her, his voice even. “So I think it’s only fair that I get to ask you the same question.”
“What’s the deal with me and Thor?” she repeats, baffled. “What do you mean? He’s my best friend.”
“Yes,” he says, still not meeting her gaze, “but . . . do you wish you two were something more?”
For a moment she’s struck speechless, not knowing what to say, and he adds, “It was pretty clear you had a thing for him when we were younger, but it’s harder to tell these days.”
First her dad and now Loki. Does everyone know that she had a crush on Thor? It’s that idea that spurs her to speak, eager to set the record straight and not leave Loki thinking that she’s pining after his brother. Sif does not pine.
“I did, when we were younger,” she admits.
He nods and glances at her. “And what happened after you were younger?”
Her lips twist for a moment, the memory of past hurt clanging faintly in her chest like a distant bell. “Nothing happened,” she says. “He never returned the sentiment. And then he apparently set out to date every single girl in the school except me. And I’ve got far better things to do with my time than wait around for him. So that was the end of that.”
What she doesn’t say is that telling yourself to ignore your feelings is not the same thing as getting over them. What she doesn’t say is that the fire of her feelings for Thor has nearly gone out, but the embers are still there, glowing dimly in some hidden chamber of her heart. What she doesn’t say is that if Thor came to her right now and expressed his undying love, there’s a very real chance that she would fall into his arms. Because it’s never going to happen so it’s not worth thinking about, and anyway it’s kind of embarrassing.
“Oh,” he says, and then again, “Oh.”
They sit in silence a while, both clearly lost in thought, until the opening of the front door jerks her out of her reverie. “Well, I think that’s enough talking about feelings to last me for the next decade,” she says, and stands. “Shall we?”
Back inside, they dance one more time, and they eat more cookies and drink more punch, and Loki, perhaps because Sif reminded him of Hogun’s interest in the planetarium, engages the exchange student in a very pleasant conversation about his astronomy class.
They get home late and Loki insists on walking Sif to her door. She thanks him again for coming and bids him goodbye with a quick hug. She’s normally not one for hugging, but it seems the appropriate way to thank a friend who came to your rescue after you got dumped—a hug for a stronger thank-you than words alone could express.
And the next day, after Sunday dinner—at which Frigga wants to hear every detail about the dance—Loki says yes when Thor invites him to play cards with them. And Sif can’t help but smile.
. . . . . .