MAY CONTAIN: Spoilers for Thor 2/Iron Man 3. It shouldn't but better safe than sorry.
Pairing: FrostIron. LokixTony Stark. Established relationship.
[a/n] Tried a new style, so let me know what you think! (Also available on AO3 under the same title.)
'Never' was a word they both avoided. As were 'always,' 'forever,' 'is,' 'were,' 'would be,' 'should,' and 'death.' Generally, not exactly words that people might think of as having the potential to cause grown adults to scream at each other for hours, until there came a distraction, or they broke for booze.
Altogether, it probably never really seemed like much. There were little ways in which they complied to each other's unspoken rules of avoidance, which nobody else ever seemed to notice. A pause before a reply, a moment of reflection in which whichever of the two wasn't speaking would watch the other very, very closely. Then came the small, intimate smiles they shared whenever whatever potential calamity they looked for passed. The two had progressed over time, skirting the triggering words with practiced ease and little fanfare. Every once in a while, someone tripped up. There would come a mutter, a quiet curse between shallow breaths, an uttering of one such forbidden word, and everyone would still. The two would subtly angle their bodies away from each other, darkened eyes refusing to meet. A small downward twitch of the lips, a cutting silence, a brush of fingers against fragile skin over rapidly pulsing veins; all the wit and magic between the two of them was as nothing, then. They couldn't remain calm, not when the emotions that ran so deep as to become who they were on a fundamental level were thrown back in their faces. That was the thing about loving someone so deeply; you had all the tools to deal each other blows neither would recover from.
It was simply that; each 'never,' 'always,' and 'forever' spoke of old, painful promises, kept and broken. Each 'were' was a shot of the past, a name and a place best left to lie. Every 'would be' and 'would have been' a child or hope not allowed to live, an acrid, bitter ball of feelings neither ever wanted to touch again. Every 'should' an order from an abusive parent, every 'is' a silent judgment, a hurting child turned tortured adult version of themselves they could never face.
And then there was 'death.' A touchy subject for anyone that had ever been in battle, but the concept does tend to take on a very special, cutting meaning for couples where one member may never die, and the other faces it as a constant day after day.
Neither Tony nor Loki had had a clean bill of mental health for a very, very long time. Thus it came to their unspoken practices of avoidance, crutches, and distractions to help them get by. For Tony, it had always been alcohol, sex, and things much, much harder. For Loki, it was magic, ambrosia, projection upon and hurting of others. Put the two together, throw in the evil/good dynamics, (not to mention the God of Chaos bit), and you had a recipe for a brilliant, beautiful, scorching disaster.
Thankfully, it had not come to that for quite some time. The pair were actually quite overdue for an explosive shouting match; if Tony had been the sort to worry, he would have been very, very anxious indeed. Loki, divine as he was, was having trouble acclimating to his lover's home. He remained unbothered by the hostility he faced everywhere he went; it was far removed from the respect he had had as a Prince of Asgard, but then, things had changed remarkably. His stresses came down to much smaller things. Little jabs at him made by those close to his Man of Iron, as well as said human's adamant refutations of Loki's little hurts as too much sensitivity had begun to weigh heavily on him. The fallen Prince demanded no coddling, but validation of his feelings by a lover (where for centuries he had been taught that his emotions mattered little more than those of an insect), by anyone, had become something he so desperately needed and craved. Tony claimed to be there for him. They held each other when they woke from nightmares of their pasts, gave advice to each other, took solace in each other's presences, yes. But, as always, Loki found himself needing and wanting so much more than those around him were willing and able to give. So, for now, he would make do with his brash lover's arms around his waist, the press of their foreheads together, and the smiles they saved just for each other.
But there would come a time where these small, intimate things just would not be enough, and Loki could feel it fast approaching.
If Tony noticed it, well, he didn't imply as much. To be fair, he was a little busy dealing with his own mortality (conveniently forgetting that such an issue is likely one that should be discussed with his lover; but Tony wasn't yet in the habit of thinking of relationships as a give and take, no matter how much he cared about and, yes, even loved Loki. He would much rather cloister himself away from such painful talk until it was too late for anything else to be done than admit that he was scared).
As the comments of Tony's friends weighed on the mind of the Liesmith, so too did the apparent (if unintentional) lack of concern from Loki about Tony's fears burden the human. Though Tony never bothered to share that he was terrified of dying (and leaving Loki alone), it burned him that his beloved so very rarely inquired about the touchy subject. Stark was not in the habit of lying to himself; he knew that he was at least partially to blame on that front, but rationality didn't take the sting out of his pain. It wouldn't kill Loki to talk about it; but it might kill Tony if they didn't. Tony was generally not the sort that could wait.
But wait he would. He was in this for the long haul, and damned if he brought it up before his lover did. No matter what that would mean for them, he would not move first.
Nightmares became a blessing for both. Any time they woke from a dead sleep to find the other in a panic and in pain, they knew they had at least one more night, one more blessed night to hold and be held.
They were never closer than when they were screaming.
Few things drove the pair to madness like stagnancy. Every day they limited their collective vocabulary more and more, skirted the same issues again and again. Soon, there would be nothing left to say, and when the words were gone, the feelings weren't expressed, what else was left? After a time, no matter how much Loki needed Tony's presence, needed Tony's hands on his thighs or his lips on his throat, no matter how Tony needed Loki's nails on his back and legs around his waist, these actions without words to accompany them began to chip away at their hearts and heads. Sorrow stiffened their motions, guilt constricted their throats, self-loathing goaded them to go fast, fast, faster, misunderstood anger averted their eyes. Love curled up on itself in the corners of their eyes. Hope—utterly absent.
What was left? A hatred of their fathers, the pain known only by those who have known battle, the suffocating sorrow of loss. Despair.
Why stay? When so little was left, and even less of that was good, why remain, steadfast and somber by his side?
Loki stayed for the curl of Tony's hair, and for the scratch of his stubble against his neck. He stayed for the way they clung to each other, and the annoying tangle of sweat-sticky limbs he always seemed to wake to. He stayed for the whiskey on his breath and the grease on his fingers. He stayed for never getting flowers, but always receiving books. He stayed for the inconsequential things that always outweighed the little, festering grievances. He stayed for the same reasons he always had, and always would. He didn't stay because there was nothing else. He didn't stay because it was expected of him, because it would be too hard to leave, or because he wanted to spite anybody. He stayed for himself, and himself alone. He stayed to please himself, and refused to allow himself to even stay for Tony's sake. He stayed because, for all his misery and heartache, he was as happy as he had ever been.
Tony let him stay. He never pushed Loki away, and never asked him to leave. He never intentionally made it hard for Loki to stay or be himself. He never shortened a kiss, and never locked him out or away. He never picked a fight with his lover, and never let anyone else do so either. He never made a face at the way Loki could be so harsh, and never asked him to be anything but Loki. His home and heart would always be open to the cruel beauty of Loki, even long after he would inevitably be refused by the god.
Neither noticed that, while they still consciously avoided the use of those words, they had begun to privately think of each other in those terms. To Tony, something about Loki would always be unattainable. The god would never love or need him in the way he so desperately needed to be. He always should have known. Loki would never let himself be compromised in that way.
Loki never saw a future in which Tony would be anything but what he had always been, a stubborn idiot of a genius. A few years ago, that would have been everything that Loki could have ever hoped for. If the world was as it should be, death would never loom over his love, and would never destroy the one connection he had ever had that he truly felt could have lasted forever.
But Tony is this, and Loki is that.
Even as they moved away from each other, trusted each other with fewer and fewer of their feelings, hopes, dreams, pains, and pasts, they grew closer. Though they hurt each other more and more with every moment spent silent, their hearts had never been so similar. Even as their love became so much more confusing, they had never understood their lover more.
It came down to one simple thing: the worse off they were, the more poisonous and flawed their relationship got, the more balanced and whole they each became. It hurt to have your lover in your arms and see him looking just past you, into an empty future. So, even as the words quit flowing, the desperation with which they clung to one another kept them from falling apart. Their relationship was fittingly chaotic and incomprehensible, but even as they hid from themselves, it was the most honest either had ever been. Their flawed, broken little clusterfuck of everything their pain had shaped them into was ugly, was everything everyone warned against, and both of them would rather die than be without it ever again.
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