The first thing Loki notices when he wakes up is that the light is way too bright and it hurts, even through his closed eyes. He rolls over onto his stomach, burying his face into the pillow with a low groan. Now more pain comes to the surface - his back and shoulders, even his neck feels awfully sore and tight and... itchy. It’s disgusting and when his stomach starts heaving too, Loki knows something very very bad happened last night.
All he can remember is the hotel bar and that he was having a few drinks and then… no, it’s gone. Everything. There is no memory of what came after, but right now it doesn’t matter. His stomach twists and he knows what that means, that’s all he can focus on for the time being. He shoves himself off the bed despite his pain, barely noticing that his legs give in when he stumbles into the small bathroom by holding himself up against the walls. When he drops down on his knees and throws up into the toilet, everything else disappears anyway.
It hurts, the heaving and the tightness in his throat make him feel like he’s being turned inside out. Loki never wanted to die, but now it feels like he’s doing just that and by God, he wants it to stop! Again and again his stomach twists and clenches and soon there is nothing to come out anymore, it’s just dry coughing and heaving and he feels like crying.
Loki pushes himself up with his arm resting on the toilet, flushing down what was left from the night before, and groans. What the hell happened? He was never one to drink until he blacked out and there was no reason why he would have started. It just makes no sense. Sure, sometimes he got wasted and that was the initial plan the evening before too, simply because he needed it every now and then. But he always remembered what he was doing, he never had a blackout where everything was just… gone.
Suddenly an image flashes before his eyes, then another, and he presses a hand against his forehead with a wail because it feels like his brain is about to explode. More and more images appear, too fast to be more than fragments, but he starts to understand. Oh God, he understands and he wishes he didn’t...
There was a man, yes. A tall guy with a beard and with that… shirt. Loki shakes his head and sighs. Yes, he remembers the unbuttoned shirt and the beard and… the eyes. Blue eyes, almost piercing. And a voice that sent shivers down his spine too. He looked older than him, he thinks, dirty and… filthy somehow. Not unattractive, but kind of dangerous. The type of guy that made him stay on edge, while at the same time sparking his interest.
“Fuck,” he growls and holds his head. This isn’t good, not at all. What happened after this guy showed up? Did this guy drug him? Did he actually decide to drink more than he should have willingly? He doesn’t know, he just can’t remember, and it drives him insane.
Loki pushes himself up, legs trembling under his weight. He can barely stand and clings to the bathroom counter, involuntarily taking a look into the mirror. His reflection looks almost as terrible as he feels and it makes him groan again, simply because he can’t do anything else. The bags under his eyes have bags themselves and his skin is so pale he could actually be a ghost. And there are bruises, too many to not mean something. His neck is blue and purple and his left eye looks no better. Loki carefully raises a hand and presses his fingertips against the bruise on his eye, flinching at the sharp pain.
He isn’t dumb, not at all. Random bruises are bad, he knows that, and not remembering where they come from is even worse. But the worst thing is not remembering where bruises come from after meeting a shady guy at a bar and not having any memory of the night that followed. He lets his fingers run over the marks on his neck, this time not flinching, but with an unpleasant tightness in his chest. Those aren’t just bruises, they are imprints… of big, strong hands.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Loki hisses and slams a fist weakly onto the counter.
He doesn’t know how he makes it back to the bed, but it takes him a few minutes and when he sits down, he does so with a stinging pain in his lower half, especially his back. Slowly, his eyes shift over to the bed and when he sees that the sheet is anything but clean white, his heart literally stops beating for a second. He stares at the dark red spots with wide eyes, spots that are already turning brown because they are drying, but he doesn’t need any explanation as to what they are. This is blood, a lot of it.
“No, please no…” Loki whispers and without thinking or caring for the painful explosions his sudden movement creates in his head, runs back to the backroom. “Anything but this, please, not this!”
Unfortunately, Loki’s fears turn out to be true. When he takes his trembling hand out of his pants, his fingertips are red and he actually feels the stinging of tears in the corners of his eyes. For a second he closes them, but it’s the worst thing he can do because with the force of a truck more memories hit him, without any warning.
The demanding hands on him, the overpowering smell of moschus and sweat, the taste of whiskey flooding his mouth while his breath is taken away from him... Loki knows it’s a memory, but it feels so utterly real, as if it’s happening all over again, and he sinks to the floor while tears roll down his cheeks. He shakes his head when more comes back, each memory more revealing than the last and making him want to die from shame.
There were screams, he remembers them now. His own no less. And pain, pain like he never knew existed before while his face was pushed into the pillow, nearly suffocating him. He hides his face in his hands when the images appear faster and faster, making him relive this experience he wishes would have stayed forgotten for the rest of his life. There is no way to stop it, no way to force all of this back where it can’t hurt him. It’s all coming back while he sits on the cold floor, shaking and crying and begging to wake up from this nightmare.
Loki feels used and dirty, but it’s more than just that. He feels like his lungs stopped working, no matter how hard and fast he breathes, there is not enough oxygen to stop his head from feeling dizzy again, making him fear he will just pass out any second. He doesn’t, but it would have been mercy at this point. The memories still come, more and more details that make as little sense as this feeling of being torn that builds up in him.
He remembers the blows that started out as slaps, the fear that had paralyzed him, the hit against his eye that made him pass out for a few seconds. And then… gentle touches? It makes no sense that he remembers those, or the kiss on his eye where a bruise already formed. He remembers the almost tender brush of fingers against his lips before they were forced apart and his breath was gone, making him nearly choke on his tongue at how intense the feeling is.
What is happening to him? There are memories of pain and humiliation, mixing with those of something almost good, almost breathtakingly sensual. Loki can’t distinguish between the contradictory feelings anymore, sobbing into his hands as he desperately tries to make this all stop. He’s going to explode, he knows it. Everything in him aches, he can feel the sticky warmth of the blood smeared on his face - his blood, goddammit! - and even sitting on the floor hurts more than it should. And yet, he keeps remembering, keeps seeing the best and the worst, and he just wants it to stop because it feels like he’s suffocating and it’s just too much.
Nothing stops, however, not even when the good memories fade - if they could even be called good, given the context of what happened - and only the horrible ones are left. His sobs have run dry when he is faced with the brutality of last night, his loins burning like fire as he rocks back and forth, a silent plea for mercy on his lips.
No matter the gentle touches or kisses, no matter the almost praising words he remembers - ‘What a beautiful boy you are’, ‘So pretty just for me’, ‘You are so good like that’, ‘You feel like heaven’ - what happened wasn’t nice or good, it was flat out rape and he can’t pretend it was anything else, no matter how much he wishes he could. The realization hits him harder than he likes, but the truth isn’t pretty and neither are the pain that comes with it or the shame.
Loki is unable to get up for almost half an hour. Even long after the memories have stopped tormenting him he sits on the floor, crying and sobbing and disgusted by himself. His head hurts, his stomach keeps clenching and relaxing without the heaving from before and his lower back burns and stings painfully. Now he knows where the blood comes from too, there is no way he wouldn’t bleed with the force and violence inflicted on him.
When he finally manages to get up, even the last muscle in his body feels sore and tense and Loki lets out a dry sob. He leaves the bathroom and turns around to turn the light off when he notices the white sheet of paper taped to the door. His first instinct is to close his eyes and ignore it, but for some reason he rips the note off before walking back over to the bed and letting himself fall onto it.
How he managed to fall asleep will always be a mystery to Loki, but for the next two hours he was out cold, too exhausted from crying and what happened the night before to stay conscious. The pain has not eased when he opens his eyes again and when he realizes where he is, every bit of rest he might have gotten is gone again. He forces himself to sit up and that’s when he notices the paper that is still in his hands. With a hot knot in his stomach he lifts it up, reading the few words.
Thanks for the glorious fuck,
Maybe next time I can stay overnight.
Loki stares at the note for several minutes, completely frozen and thunderstruck. He reads it again and again, trying to make sense of the words. Glorious fuck? Next time ? It makes what happened sound like a successful date night, rather than the brutal assault Loki remembers. He feels the anger boil up inside of him again and crumbles the paper in his hand.
“You stupid bastard,” he hisses, wiping new tears out of his eyes. He’s furious, both at himself and at Billy and cries his misery out with all the devastation he feels. “Why didn’t you just ask!? I would have said yes, you asshole! I would have said yes! ”
He breaks down on the bed again, unable to stop his body from shaking or his tears from falling and, more than ever before, just wishes he would die because this is the biggest and most horrible mess he could have gotten himself into. He should hate Billy for what he did, for hurting him and violating him the way he did, but in reality he hates himself more for not just saying yes right away.
It might have saving him from this nightmare he is stuck in now and maybe, just maybe, it would take away this horrible guilt he feels for trying to remember the gentle touches and kisses, instead of the pain and brutality. Because, despite everything destroying those few memories, those good things are something he wants to remember, instead of forget, and that’s what breaks him the most, what hurts the most.
“Why didn’t you just ask…”