When Loki stands in the field of snow, it is with the greatest of purposes. He is here to celebrate his lover.
Well, not quite. Soon though. There is a day to for such things on Midgard, one Loki intends to be prepared for.
"Anthony will be pleased," he says out loud, thinking of the gift he intends to present. Something much better than chocolates, although those too are delightfull.
Metal, which Anthony has caressed as tenderly as he has Loki, a different kind of fire in his eyes. No less passionate, and just as consuming.
Loki would almost be jealous.
But for his love's happiness, he will gladly work with his rival, will go so far as to steal it from the heart of a dwarvish star.
In his hands lies Uru, the greatest of materials, of strength renowned and endurance unmatched, from which were born mighty harmers and unbreakable shields.
Loki intends to carve a snowflake on it.
It will make Anthony laugh.
Loki would do any folly to hear such a sound. He often has. Usually with Anthony beside him.
(Alas, poor Captain! But the Shield had been repaired in the end.)
Cradling his gift in his hand, Loki lifts his head and breathes the winter air. Exhales slowly, and again, feeling the cold fill his lungs and set into his skin.
Uru is such a stubborn little thing, contrary at the best of times, and with his magic as limited as it is now Loki will have a hard time convincing it to bear the mark he wishes it to.
With the help of snowflakes, on the other hand….
He stays there a long time, watching those crystals of water drift down towards the ground. Eyes wide open, ever searching for the most perfect of them all.
What he finds, what he chooses, is a very little one, that fluttered right before his eyes before slowly falling on his cold hands. Like a carved quartz in the center, six branches blooming outwards ; one of them was slightly chipped on the side, a small imperfection, a discrete asymmetry that made it unique among the peerless.
He lifts his hand, white flake against white skin. It doesn't melt.
"Will you not help me, little one?"
That I will freely, snow Prince, although I wish you would abstain.
Loki shakes his head. It would not do for this one to be as stubborn as the metal. "It is no sad fate that I would grant unto you. To be carved and kept for eternity, rather than melt away within a moment."
You lie, liege of mine, for your lover will melt your gift to practice his craft, and I will disappear within his forge, it chastises in return, although not unkindly. But for the blood of he who holds my loyalty, I will gladly obey. But by the compassion I have for those yet frailer than me, I would advise you to run instead.
The godling frowns. The snowflake is so breakable even in his delicate grasp, and he is a God who has endured centuries. He is not frail, and never will be again. "I will not run, for the work I must do is yet unfinished."
It is a reckless youth that does not heed wise advice.
He scoffs. "What wisdom in snowflakes? But you have agreed, and so I will continue."
As my Prince commands, the snowflake sighs in disappointment, but you will remember, when it is too late, that any wisdom is greater than that of a fool in love.
But Loki scoffs again, because he knows himself to be very clever. He knows Anthony is the most brilliant man on Midgard. What have they to fear?
(Loki is still very young at times.)
So he begins, laying the upsetting little flake on the Uru, lifting his gift till it rests over his heart. His hands glow green, the metal glows gold, and the white snowflake slowly dissolves into the smooth grey surface.
The carving formed shines a slight blue.
Loki smiles.
The air grows colder. The sky grows darker.
That's because, he realizes belatedly, he is now standing in a large shadow.
The snowflakes grow larger and larger, the air grows thicker with white fog. Loki slowly turns around, eyes rising to meet blue flesh, scarred by birth and by battle. He doesn't need to meet piercing red eyes to know who is before him.
He summons his dagger in one hand ; the other clenches around the cold Uru.
Laufey-King looks on, amused. "Will my death come at your hands again, son of Odin?"
Loki clenches his teeth. The mockery had stung when coming from Asgard ; it is nothing compared to coming from the King of monsters.
There is no discussing, no bargaining with the Frost Giants, especially one he so crudely betrayed, thought to have murdered, whose kingdom he intended to destroy. All he can do is strike, even with his seiðr shackled as it is.
He will give no warning. He will jump, lash out, throw his dagger, summon a new one. Run if necessary. The Winter King would be foolish to chase him in Midgard. Asgard would not look too kindly upon a Frost Giant loose in this Realm again. They didn't for Loki, after all.
He crouches, slightly, movements as discrete as possible to hide his intent. Any second now, he will lunge.
Only he cannot.
His feet remain stuck to the ground. The snow like stone, clenching around his legs, and every flake that falls upon the ground is a new set of arms dedicated to holding him still.
Alas, Snow Prince, it is too late to run now, they all lament, for our King commands, and we obey.
"Are you not cold, son of Odin?" Laufey asks, stepping closer.
Loki tugs at his legs, futily. Insults, taunting, all words stuck in his throat as his mind races for an exit.
He truly is a fool a times.
How will Anthony ever get his gift now?
The King crouches, his eyes narrow. He tilts his head slightly to the side, in an expression so familiar because it is one Loki knows he has worn more than once.
It is a bitter realisation.
"Or perhaps you are something else entirely?" Laufey continues. A hand comes to rest behind his back, so large it covers well over half of it.
Loki realizes why when a finger comes to brush against his temple, and he cannot recoil.
And oh, the contact is cold, so cold! Like ice in his veins, seeping into his heart! But only for a moment, and as the freeze receded the air felt warm around him. He no longer felt the smooth chill in his hand.
"I cannot drop it," he says out loud, foolishly. It is the first thing he thought off, as he looks down at the gift he had intended for Anthony. He focuses upon it so that he doesn't see how blue his skin has become. But he knows, he knows, and the awareness of it makes the bile rise to his throat.
The finger trails down slowly, gentle as a caress, and he forgets why the sight ever bothered him at all.
He forgets many things, the place where he stands and the name of this land. Where he has come from. Which way towards home.
Had there ever been a home before?
The boy with no name doesn't remember.
The uncertainty makes him shake.
But the man in front of him looks unperturbed. He looks upon him in a way that is neither gentle nor tender, but that might have been, perhaps will be.
The boy is picked up without a word. The movement is smooth, but still he is shaken a little, and whatever it is he holds in his hands threatens to escape his grasp.
"I cannot drop it!" he cries out, as he clutches it close to his chest. He remembers that much, you see.
The man - so strong, so poised, he must be a king - does not acknowledge his protest. He shifts his grip, so that the boy now lies cradled within his arms.
The boy turns his head into the man's chest. Their skins are quite similar, are they not?
"I shall not kiss you, not yet," the King murmurs. "For such things a Father only grants to his son." He keeps his voice poised, but his embrace tightens ever so slightly.
The nameless child looks up again, to sharp cheekbones and red eyes, and doesn't look away even as he who carries him begins to walk. The King does not look strange to his eyes, for the boy knows nothing of what strangeness might be. He only knows of two people within the whole universe, and both of them have blue skin patterned with delicate scars.
The King's pace accelerates, almost to a run. No words are said, and the silence compels the boy to fill it. He tells the King that the wind and snow whisper to him, that the world around him sings, that he knows words of power and how to speak them, brilliant workings and how to use them.
He knows many things, but it seems to him none of them matter. He falls quiet as they continue into the vast white, until they reach a crack within the air and the Winter King calmly steps into it.
He stays quiet even as darkness surrounds him, and they step onto the paths of a Tree among the stars.
Tony is very resourceful, even without his technology (and he still brought that special suitcase, just to be safe). It is amazing how many people forget that.
He also has very good friends.
It doesn't take much, all things considered. One Pepper Potts who is willing to tamper with company schedule and records to make it appear as if Tony Stark was in close correspondence with a certain Doctor Strange. All the while using every corporate hurdle at her disposal to make sure SHIELD works very hard to get that piece of false information.
A wonderfull AI called JARVIS which can fly an Iron Man suit with enough ease and agility that SHIELD is more than ready to believe that Tony Stark himself is the one flying towards the Himalayan mountains.
Happy Hogan, who is actually very skilled at his chauffeur gig and knows how to shake off any potential trails.
James Rhodes, who can fly a plane.
Simple as that.
Actually, no.
Because none of them love Loki. Not even close. None of them understand just how wrong the world is now, and so despite all this help, Tony Stark feels alone.
Rhodey is only one cabin door away, but Tony cannot talk to him right now. His reasons for helping are the reason he isn't in the cockpit next to his friend. "Look, Tony, I don't care what happened to that terrorist. The only reason I'm doing this is because you're just gonna do something even stupider without me."
There is nothing stupid about this. Tony is a genius. Loki's cleverness is literally the thing of legends. Nothing involving the two of them could possibly be stupid.
Stupid is everyone else. Stupid is SHIELD, is Steve, is Bruce, is the raven who pitied him as he boarded the plane.
Not Pepper. Pepper helped because she loves Tony, because she saw how happy he was and how miserable he is now. She jokingly comments on how Tony attends more than half SI mandatory meetings now, and she isn't going to let anything ruin that for her. It is kind, and loving, and so beautifully Potts. She and Loki should meet up more often, they will be fearsome together.
Look at that, Tony Stark using the word "fearsome". Loki would be so proud.
He'll have to tell him afterwards. When he comes back.
When Tony finds him.
Not immediately, of course. No, the moment afterwards will be for hugging and kissing and thank-god-I-found-you-sex, which will involve burying himself into Loki and never, ever letting go again.
But afterwards, the two of them will go on vacation. A cruise, that'll be nice. Well, not for Tony, he hates that kind of shit. But for Loki, who love travelling and but also revelling in luxury, and reading and it will be nice, because maybe he'll be tired after all this and cruises are supposed to be relaxing, aren't they? Or is that the beach? Loki hates the beach, the sand gets caught in his hair and he is so vain.
A date then. A nice one, like in those ridiculous romantic comedies Loki pretends not to enjoy and Tony pretends not to enjoy watching with him. They'll go out for dinner ; japanese, Loki's favorite. But for desert they'll go out for ice cream, even in the winter because Loki's cannot care less about season-appropriate food, and has begun a passionate romance with mint-chocolate chip.
And Loki will put is always cold hands around Tony's neck, which always makes him jump at first, but never enough to push him away. And then Loki will lean in and...
Tony lets his head fall back.
One thing at a time. He hasn't even glimpsed green eyes yet.
The ice cubes were right, he is terrible at thinking these days.
He closes his eyes. There are still a few hours left before they land. He should get some sleep.
What he dreams of is of little surprise. He welcomes the sight greedily.
There is truly nothing better than lazy mornings in bed. Especially when Tony happens to wake up before Loki, an ever rare occurrence and the only time Tony gets to watch his god sleep.
It is one of the most miserable chiches on the face of this Earth, but Tony could spend hours watching that chest rise and fall steadily, face smooth and peaceful in a way that it almost never is during Loki's waking hours.
His god, always plotting and thinking and mulling over dark memories. Like Tony, but the inventor's turns towards such dark thoughts come out loudly, visibly, like a dark fog forming around him that almost anyone who approaches him can see.
Loki, on the other hand, bears misery with an impassible mask and a steady voice, like turbulent currents under the calm surface of an ocean, only for it to come out in vicious sneers and cruel words, more cruel than anything Tony can come up with because Loki's cruelties are always anchored in the truth.
Some days, it is best to leave Loki to express his unhappiness, and grant him the forgiveness he always fears he will not receive. (The two of them are very similar at times).
Other days, Tony will distract his love from such thoughts, with dates and mischief and pointless babbling. Or he finds a way to keep him from thinking entirely. He will only allow him to feel his love and adoration, whispered with fingers and lips.
Those times lead to a delighted yet thoroughly exhausted Trickster.
Which, in turn, leads to Tony waking up before him.
There are little things better in this world than watching his god sleep.
One of them is waking him up with snuggles.
"Loki," he says softly, bending forward to kiss the exposed chest. "Loksters." He moves upwards, laying another kiss just above his breast. Loki shifts slightly, a small moan escaping his throat.
Tony smiles against his skin. "Blue Bird," right over the elbow. He laughs as Loki's hand half-heartedly tries to bat him away, doges a weak shove. His beard drags along a white collarbone until his lips reach the pale, beautiful neck that has captured much of his attention last night.
The last kiss is pressed right above a mark left by his teeth, and that is when strong arms pull him upwards, so that he is facing green eyes still half-closed, wisps of black hair falling over them, cheeks with a faint pink hue.
The sight is so beautiful he cannot help but smile. He breathes out, his breathe reaching out to caress the other's face.
"Anthony," Loki whines, voice filled with sleep and mute laughter, "you tickle."
Tony chuckles again. "Rise and shine, Aurora!" he proclaims, forcing himself forward to pepper that face with kisses. Of course, he only manages to get so far because Loki lets him. "You've slept enough, and that's coming from me, so you know it's true."
"No, no it isn't. You lie, Anthony, and as I am the god of lies you know I am right. We must sleep some more!" The god lets his head fall back with a groan, but his hands come to grip Tony's waist tighter.
Mixed messages that. Tony decides to push it. "Come on, I can't be the less lazy of us two, the universe would implode!" he exclaims, bopping him on the nose. "You have to get up for the good of the universe, Snowflake!"
Loki raises his head, crinkling his nose. "You call me by that name because you believe I dislike it," he chides. "A horrible thing to do, hjartaminn"
"Okay, first of all, this is light teasing and you know it. Second of all, it doesn't anymore? Cause that would be disappointing."
Loki smirks in reply, reaching out to trail his fingers down Tony's cheek. "Your Orhan Pamuk had much to say over the subject, in the prose he wields so well. The endless repetition of an ordinary miracle," he says with no small amount of smugness. "Is that how you see me, Anthony?"
"Nothing ordinary about you babe," Tony replies, propping himself up on his elbow. "Although we do need to do something about that quoting problem of yours."
Introducing Loki to Earth litterature had been one of the greatest ideas of all time - and all JARVIS', proof that Tony's creations all always the best.
It hard started with the Harry Potter series, which Loki had enjoyed despite the "appalling misconceptions surrounding the nature and use of magic". Then it had been more serious novels, then theatre, and everything had been all fine and good until Loki had discovered poetry.
Specifically, french emo poetry, from depressed poets who drank too much absinthe and wallowed at the ineptitude of those around them. For Loki, it had been love at first sight.
Which had translated into him memorising entire verses and spouting them in random conversation. He even translated them so that everyone could fully enjoy the art.
Not that Tony got most of it, although he did like the anal ulcer one.
That had been in the beginning. Now everything written on a piece of paper was free game. And a few reality TV quotes that Loki had found particularly delightful.
The inventor knows his god does it partially out of pleasure, and partially to tease him. And Tony will complain and whine, but not-so-secretly hope Loki never stops. Not when he enjoys himself so much.
"It is not a problem on my part, Anthony," Loki replies, eyes crinkling in humor. "Knowledge and education can only be considered problematic when it is lacking."
"A quotation is a handy thing to have about, saving one the trouble of thinking for oneself." Tony shoots back. " That's Alan Alexander Milne for you. See? I can quote too. I had this one prepared. Who's uneducated now? Also, babe, I just quote-burned you!"
Beneath his hands, he can feel Loki's chest shake with silent laughter. The Trickster grins at him, a grand grin of the shit-eating kind. "It is a good thing for an uneducated man to read books of quotations," he licks his lips, "as the good Churchill would say."
Tony blinks. "Did you just…. Okay, that does it!" He pushes himself back up, hands planted on either side of Loki's head. "You just out-metaed my meta, that is unacceptable and rude and I refuse to be burned by a Snowflake! No more quoting for you!"
The next second is a blurry confusion of limbs and movements and sheets shifting, and next thing he knows he is flat on his back, Loki looming over him. It is an exact reversal of their position meer moments ago, one that Tony can totally get behind.
"If you wish me silence, Anthony," he purrs, face inching closer with every word, "then I suggest you give me a fair alternative."
And then Loki bends down towards the inventor's neck, and what he does with his lips, hands and tongue could never be considered fair in a million years. But then again, Tony has never minded some dirty play.