The wind whips around him as he stares out over the city from the balcony. The lashing against his bare skin is welcome, the sheet only protecting his lower modesty. He loves the cold. It makes him feel alive. It echoes the cold in his heart. So very cold. Bitter.
The air pressure changes gently, the doors behind him sliding open. He slumps dejectedly, just wanting—needing—a few more minutes peace. Peaceful, silent contemplation. Wishful thinking. The storm in his head can't, won't, settle with him here, in his mortal presence. The infuriating man that confuses his every pore.
Sighing deeply, "Leave me be."
"I'm not going anywhere," is what he doesn't want to hear, but does.
He shakes his head, preoccupied with his own thoughts, "Why can't you give me a few minutes peace?"
"Because I'm worried," The mortal states matter-of-factly. "You just got up and left me all alone in that big empty bed."
"Why worry?" He exhales full of self-loathing.
"I care about you." Both hearts stop, frozen, at the confession.
His lip curls, "You don't care."
"I do care, Loki, more than you know." The soft, understanding tone of voice grates at him, tearing at him.
Unable to believe such a thing, he sinks in on himself, his defenses up, "Do not lie to me."
"Loki, stop it. Just stop it. Stop acting like this is nothing, like I'm nothing." The Iron Man takes control. He is strong, the only person strong enough to survive his swinging emotions. "Do you need me to say it? I thought you took pride in the fact you could read me easier than a book."
A hand finds its way to his shoulder, a gentle touch, saying as much as the words he hears, "I love you, Loki."
"Why— how can you love me after what I've done, what I am?" Seeping from under the sheet low on his hips, his pale skin swirls, shades of the most beautiful blue — azure, sapphire, cobalt — take over. His muscles twitch, shrugging the hand from his shoulder, as the change creeps over his shoulders, patterns drawing deep into the skin. He turns sharply, bright red eyes burning into the man he bedded earlier that night. "How can you love this, Stark?"
Ignoring the sight before him, ignoring the venomous voice protecting his barriers, he steps forward anyway, "I think you owe me more than just, Stark, after everything that's happened between us."
"I am a monster, Stark." His crimson eyes fall to the floor in shame, blinking away the fear of rejection, of losing the only person who has ever understood him, cared for him in a the way he can reciprocate.
"Yes, you are." His body crumples, giving up on the only hope he had left. His frozen heart shatters, tears slipping from his eyes, falling to the concrete as ice. Afraid of the man stood over him, the man who held his heart, he shies away behind his defenses. Kneeling in front of the hateful creature, the mortal hands fight the cold and hold his face, fingers gently tracing the intricate patterns. The pure love in his eyes scares him, scares both of them. But it's there. Still there, despite his skin. The devotion remains and his hope sparks his frozen heart back to life. I am a monster. "But so am I."