Loki can't remember ever getting quite so giddily intoxicated. He usually knows his limits, which are astronomical anyway--apparently the Jotun physiology, at least in his universe, gives him a tremendous resistance to poisons--but at the moment he's on his back on the floor with his legs looped up in one of Harley's silks, staring up at the ceiling as the others sway overhead.

He has this weird feeling like his head isn't attached to the rest of his body. It should be upsetting, but it's very pleasant, instead.

Oh! Wait, there's his body, after all. It's being hugged by someone next to him. He blinks and turns his head slowly, spies a highly familiar face, and chuckles softly.

"You." He says, infusing the word with all the meaning he can, because he's not sure what other words to include with it right now. "Just you."

...sure.