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“That, what you did down there. That was so, so cool,” Tristan said. “I’ve never seen anything like it. Kitten turned into a… and you…” He didn’t fill in the blanks, there was no need. Mort knew precisely how cool it had been, right up until it had been not cool at all.
“You can say it. I got my ass kicked.”
“Sure. But you got your ass kicked for me.”
“I didn’t save you, Tristan. I didn’t get his mark off you.”
“I didn’t need saving…” Tristan pointed out. “You wanted to claim me.”
“And I was the one who ended up claimed.” Mort did not need to look to know he was marked. He could feel Loki’s touch burning through him, a curse and a humiliation.
“It’s okay,” Tristan said.
“It’s not okay. I have been made mortal! Do you understand what that means? It means I will get sick, get old, suffer, and die.”
There was a long pause in which Tristan sat on the end of the bed and looked at Mort as if he were looking at a spoiled little brat. Mort did not enjoy that expression on Tris’ face one bit.
“Like me and everyone else?”
Mort took a deep breath, realizing he was unlikely to get sympathy for being mortal from mortals.
“Like you and everyone else,” he confirmed.
“It’s not so bad,” Tristan said, attempting to comfort him.
“When I met you, you were trying to hang yourself.”
“Sure, but that was a bad day.”
Mort groaned and rolled over. He felt his body, a meaty living thing with meaty living needs. It would not suffer him to rest. It demanded a trip to the bathroom, and it demanded sustenance. How demeaning.
Tristan had been worried about Mort, wondering if he was going to wake up at all. He had woken up himself not that long ago, with Mort in the bed. The god Loki must have put them there, positioning the pair of them like a little girl playing with a doll house.
“Hey, at least we can fuck now.”
“Sure.” Mort was obviously forcing a smile. “We can fuck now.”
“Not right now,” Tris said, giving him an out. Mort didn’t look aroused. Mort looked miserable and regretful. Tristan couldn’t help but feel guilty. This had all happened on his account. “You need some breakfast.”
Tristan coaxed Mort out of bed and to the breakfast table.
“It feels like a pancake sort of day,” he said.
Mort nodded, staring out the window.
Tristan didn’t know what to do with Mort in this state. As far as Tristan could tell, nothing had changed. Mort looked exactly the same, but from context he could tell that Loki had stolen his immortality, or something like that. Maybe Mort would explain later.
“So, you’re human now?”
So much for later. The question just fell out of his mouth unprompted.
“Mortal. Yes. The god took my immortality.”
“Well,” Tristan said. “That sucks.”
“Your talent for understatement continues to impress,” Mort said, his tone bitter, but not at Tristan.
“It’s going to be okay. He said he’d come back in a year. And there has to be a way to get your immortality back. So. Let’s just have some breakfast now. One thing at a time.”
Tristan made pancakes.
Mort did not eat the pancakes.
SMASH! CRASH!
The tinkling of broken glass emanated from the rear of the house.
Tristan got up to see what was happening and found Mort. He’d been giving him some space to come to terms with things. Mort didn’t want to talk. Mort was humiliated, and angry, and afraid. Tristan knew what it felt like to feel all those things, and also knew that sometimes a pair of sympathetic eyes only made it worse.
He found Mort out at the back of the house smashing beer bottles. He had adopted Tristan’s mode of dress, throwing his hoodie to the side and standing shirtless and tattooed in the sun.
Tristan didn’t intervene at first. He stayed and he watched as Mort hurtled bottle after bottle at the old shell of a pickup truck. His rage was quite beautiful, and entirely impotent.
Once Tristan had finished admiring him, he noticed the way Mort stumbled, and how close he was to hurting himself. A yard full of smashed glass was not a safe place for someone in Mort’s state.
“Hey,” Tristan intervened. “Why don’t you come inside?”
Mort ignored him and hurled another bottle. It caught the rusted protrusion where the wing mirror used to be and exploded into fine glass powder and bigger chunks.
“Hey. Buddy.” Tristan started talking to Mort as if he were a frightened dog, not his immortal master. “How are you doing there?”
Tristan caught a strong whiff of beer as Mort reeled around to face him.
He was drunk.
“Oh shit,” Tristan cursed under his breath. “Look at you.”
“I’m mortal,” Mort slurred. “I’m MORT-al!” He let out a hyena laugh, threw up, and passed out.
Tristan was left holding the floppy body of the man he loved.
