The apartment is a wreck, eerily silent and dark. Night had flown in yet no lights were on. Loki supposed all the bulbs have been smashed anyway and it doesn't matter much if he can see clearly or not. He knows what he would see if the lights were on and for now he's content with being blind to it- maybe if he pretends to ignore it for long enough it will go away?
His knees and thighs ache from holding the same kneeling position for hours on end, barely moving as if paralyzed. He doesn't have the will to get up and go to bed- he doesn't have the will to do anything. He feels like an empty shell, staring blankly at the floor. He drags a single long finger over the shards of glass, ignoring the cuts that open as the skin slides over the jagged edges. Dark droplets well up and spill onto the soft carpet. It would probably stain but he was past caring at this point.
How long had it been now? 9 hours? Maybe more? He had thought he would have come back by now and told him everything would be okay. Loki drags up the memories that he has of Tony holding him close and promising that he would never leave him. He had believed it, too, for the longest time. Why had he believed it? Tony Stark was a heartbreaker through and through, he couldn't change that- he was no different than all the other people who had tried to tie the genius down. He had been a fool to think he would be the one who finally succeeded.
How dare he, though. How dare he just up and leave as if Loki had been nothing to him. As if everything they had been through together, everything they had made for themselves, didn't matter. How could anyone be so heartless as to give a lonely student everything and then desert him just as it suited him?
"Useless imbecile!" He roars as if suddenly alive, all the anger and pain finally breaking through the shock.
Once on his feet he stumbles, his knees stiff and sore from kneeling on broken glass for such a long time. He breathes deeply, slight frame heaving as he curls his hands into tight, bloody fists then uncurling them, flexing his fingers. Blood is dried to his face, creating a messy path from his right nostril to his jaw, his thin lip split and his raven hair tangled in an unruly fashion about his face. He looked like a man driven insane.
Turning his head this way and that, he takes it all in. The dents in the plaster walls, the stuffing spilling out of the couch cushions, the carpet stained and pulled up in places. Vases smashed, legs kicked out from under the coffee table, windows cracked and the light shades torn down. It's chaos. The only things left untouched are the paintings. Paintings of what he used to call 'us'. Paintings of what was now 'him and I.' There's no 'us' anymore, that's all gone. Just like him.
Furious and hurt he rips the paintings down one by one, snapping some of the canvases over his knees and tossing them to the ground, leaving them in a indecipherable mess. Everything that's left is wrecked, the paintings, the books, the photo albums and the even the photo frames. The room is filled with crashes and bangs just as it was before. It's utter carnage. This used to be a home. Now it's a battlefield. A war zone.
"It wasn't supposed to be like this" He screams as he swipes the tears that are clouding his vision hastily from his eyes. "This wasn't supposed to happen!"
He crumples to the floor and picks up a creased and half torn photo of himself and Tony, staring at the smiling faces printed on the paper. His breath hitches in his throat and he bites sharply on the inside of his cheek to distract himself from the pain in his chest. His throat hoarse, he doesn't think he can scream any more as he trembles helplessly, whispering weakly like a lost child as he hangs his head in his hands.
"You weren't supposed to leave"