Disclaimer: We do not own Marvel or Thor.

Summary: Life has never been easy for Prince Loki. As the below-expectations son of King Laufey, he is used to constant dissapointment. So when the promise of a marriage to Prince Thor comes about, Loki believes his life is about to change- and for the better. But he is wrong, and when life becoms too much, he finds compassion and love in a very unexpected place. Love is not forever, and happiness is not eternal, but sometimes, it's worth the risk. Thunderfrost and Stoki.

Authors note: I am super excited to post this fic, which was co-written by the lovely xCallMeLogiex! The first chapter was written by her, and as is normal we'll be switching every other chapter. This chapter is basically just an intro, so stayed tuned for the rest. :) Enjoy!

There, in the dim lighting of his chambers, he lies on his back, ebony hair splayed across the emerald silk sheets, pale fingers entwined as his hands remain clasped upon his stomach. His eyes are transfixed on the charmed painting along his high ceiling; it's his favourite painting in all of the castle, since he charmed it to match the current season. He counts the snowflakes, watching as they whirl, twirl and swirl amongst themselves. They're having a grand old time, whereas he's in a bit of a slump, for he has disappointed his father; yet again. For the past sixteen, nearly seventeen, years he has tried his best to please his father, the King of Lazeroth, but his plans have crashed and burned, and he hates himself for it.

Today, he revealed to his father, after so many years of hiding them, a few of his abilities. How he can levitate, transform into mist, and even asparate to different places within the castle, but his father simply bowed his head and mumbled softly, "Oh, the shame you have brought me."

Not only is sorcery frowned upon and considered to be slightly sinister, it's more of a maiden's skill; one not widely accepted unless it is used for the good of the people. But King Laufey feels that his only son Loki is much more of an embarrassment than a threat to the people. He shook his head once more and walked away, his eyes trained to the floor.

After that, the Prince chose to lock himself in his chambers, away from the cruel kingdom. Because as long as he's beneath the painting, the same one he painted a few years back, he feels as if he's anywhere but here.

The soft sound of air being inhaled and exhaled are the only things one could hear as his chest rises and falls.

For as long as he can remember, he's been able to do those things that most can't. A faint smile creeps into his soft features as he remembers the feel of absolutely nothing beneath his feet as he painted that landscape along his ceiling. He remembers that day well, the day after his sixth birthday. The cool feeling of paint dripping down his forearms was a gift of its own. It was something he found a small comfort in. The long careful strokes were soothing as he used his paintbrush, the colorful liquid leaking down the handle, some even splattering down to his carpet. If one were to look close enough, the marks are still there, a distant reminder of that oh so magical day. Now, not only is it a comfort, it's a gateway, the painting, to a new place. To get away.

Oh, how he smiles at the thought of being away. He feels his chest tighten as the snowflakes descend at a much slower pace, then finally they cease; just an inky colour takes place, and small diamonds of stars begin to appear. He's heard that some wish upon a star, but he finds it to be childish. And he's anything but childish, but forgive him for wanting something more as he closes his eyes and starts to mutter the first word of his wish. Only to be interrupted by a cry of a bird. Snapping his eyes open, he shakes his head at the sillyness of his actions.

'A wish. How absurd!' The ravenhaired Prince scoffs, opting to sit up, bringing his knees to his chest as he crosses his ankles. He then folds his arms across his knees, resting his chin along his arms, letting that cold look of complete and utter disappointment replay within his mind.

He pretends not to feel that all too familiar lump in his throat, the wet warmth pooling in his eyes as that burn begins to settle into his nose. A small sniffle is all that is heard before his walls come down, and he cries; much like any other average day.

And if he doesn't recognize the smallness of his voice as he whispers to his favoured walls, he doesn't wince at how pathetic he sounds. "I am nothing but a disappointment." And he's heard these words all too many times before. It doesn't hurt as much, but it's still there, the sting. He repeats it until he begins to believe it, it's a mantra of truth, or so that's what he wants himself to believe, if only to make himself feel numb. Salty tears continue to roll passed his high cheek bones, passing his pink thin lips. He takes his bottom lip and bites, successfully hiding a broken sob.

"Nothing but a shameful disappointment."

Lying back, he twists in bed until his face is buried within the softness of his pillow, wincing as he lets the sobs take over, causing his body to shake. The painting above does nothing now, because he remembers of a time when he once painted his father a portrait of the castle. But his father chose to burn it right before his eyes, telling him to mature into a man that he could finally be proud of. Needless to say, Loki cried himself to sleep that night; and several after that.

If he lived to make someone, anyone, proud of him, he would not have lived for nothing more than a throne, but lived for something, other than his father's approval. And that would mean the world and a half to him. To find someone that appreciated his artistic side as well as his other sides; now, that would be a life to live.

Sighing into his pillow, he faces the ceiling once more. His face is wet with tears, but he makes no move to wipe them away. Instead, he finds himself thinking of paint, and how he should start another portrait; but then that look of strong disapproval is there, behind his eyelids as he blinks. The prince quickly decides against it. His long fingers have tangled themselves in his hair, tugging, tugging, tugging, because he needs to stay in this moment. If he were to slip off to a random memory that's simply floating around in his head, he would just start crying all over again, and he would hate to do it; again. He can see his father shaking his head, hear his angered words. The prince whines at his own confusion, fingers still entwined in his locks as he mutters words even he himself can't seem to register. But if he strains his ears, he thinks he hears the words: "Shame" and "Disappointment.

His head is starting to throb from the almost constant tugging, and that's a good thing because it can help him. The pain is a dreadful anchor to the here and now, a place he doesn't want to be but needs to be. It's all confusing. And quiet. He's physically drained, yet he doesn't know why. All day he's lay here, and the few days before then. He hasn't realized it until now.

Closing his eyes, he allows himself to relax, truly relax, and it's only when he does, that his simple spell of his soundproof room finally becomes vulnerable to what's happening behind those tall doors. There's an urgent knock; his eyebrows furrow in sudden wonder as he quickly stands and makes his way to the door. Opening it, he finds a guard, a new one; father must have hired him. Green eyes meet cerulean ones that widen, but only for a fraction of a second.

"Yes?" he barely whispers to the new gaurd.

"Prince Loki," how he says his name, it sends a slight chill through Loki as he watches the guard's lips move, "the King requests your presense in his chambers. I am here to escort you."

And that's all that's exchanged between the raven haired prince and blonde man, as they share an appealing moment of silence on their way to see the king.