It was a common-known fact that Loki hated the rain and, indeed, water in general. Yet he was outside in it once again. It hadn't stopped raining for days. If he had been in any way poetic, he would have said it was the tears of a God, pouring down upon the world. If that were the case, Loki would have reason to celebrate another small victory against his persecutor.
The rain dripped down his face and through his hair. It dripped from his nose and stung his eyes and kissed his mouth. But Loki looked up at the orange autumn leaves regardless. They had looked gloriously bright this morning, contrasting against the fresh blue sky. Over the day, the sky had faded to its now common grey, dulling the fiery-coloured leaves with it. The colour bled from the sky in heavy raindrops. A sheet of water that blanketed the earth.
Loki's clothes hugged him stubbornly and his boots were sinking ever deeper into the mud. Yamino had come and gone with a worried look and Fenrir had sat staring in confusion from the kitchen window for a while. Other than that there was nobody in Loki's flooding world. And he felt to need to move just yet.
Staring, staring at the dying leaves. At least they were changing. Though days went by, they were never felt. They were never marked by anything. Yamino cleaned, Fenrir slept, Mayura got worked up about mysteries, Freyja tried to force herself upon him and Heimdall tried his best to make Loki's life a misery. It was the way things went.
Was change such a good thing? The rain, the people, the world? Him?
Perhaps not for everything. But could the hate go on still? Could he let go and could others let go? It was a tall order. Especially from a certain one-eyed God.
There was an explosion in Loki's head. He pulled out a handkerchief from the pocket of his shorts. Maybe shorts weren't the best idea in this weather. But it was only a distant thought, washed away by the melting sky. The handkerchief vanished, his hands suddenly shaking. Loki swallowed heavily, gaze wrenched from the burning tree. He looked at brown and grey. A puddle.
Loki choked on a loud shiver that wracked his body. The ground seemed nearer now. Half as near? Maybe less, maybe more. There was nobody else in this flooding world of Loki's. But there was room. Why was nobody ever there? Why couldn't there be? It was always the same. Loki would welcome them now.
It was darker now. There was nothing but a dark sky. Dark brown and dark grey and inevitably dark black. Dark orange? Who knew now? There was no orange in the water.
A sudden cold. The sky rushing down to meet the ground. Loki blinked at the sudden shroud of purple. The sky? There was light. The purple was lighting up the sky; lighting up his world. The shadows ran from such brilliance. The mud no longer pulled and cajoled his at his feet. It had relingished its precious guest. Now, the air graced them.
"Never thought you were so delicate, Loki." A mocking voice, yet tinged with concern? Maybe. Maybe there was change, after all. The monotony of grey and brown and black would end with a streak of purple. Loki rumbled in his throat, but no more sounds came. It was silent but for the thrumming of raindrops on the world.
It went decidedly darker once again. But this time it was a friendly darkness. A comfortable darkness. A warm darkness with an even stronger presence of the light. Of course it was possible. Though the beating on his legs continued, there was nothing stinging his eyes. Nothing on his lips. But then there was something on his lips. Warmer than rain and a little less wet. The slightest of hesitant touches.
Then black again. If Loki had been awake to feel anything more, he would have felt warm. Secure. Safe and comfortable. Heimdall sighed. Loki really was such a bother. But things never did stay the same. Perhaps this would change things. The old methods had been getting monotonous and they always said in Midgard that love was a tortuous thing. Maybe it would be worth it?
Heimdall walked up the path to the detective agency. With Loki held in his arms, he turned to look back from the porch, out at the orange leaves. They would eventually die, so now was their time to truly shine. A last cry of life and defiance before the fall.
oOo
They are a little bit older body-wise in this. About…mid- to late-teens I'd say. Rather than 10-year-olds…
Heimdall, it should be noted, is the God of Light.
I make a lot of assumptions with this. I assume Loki and Heimdall decide to stay in Midgard. I assume they can get older. I assume you can tell that towards the middle, Loki's body finally starts getting feverish from a day standing in the rain with shorts on so things get a bit more irrational and …metaphorical. I assume that things can change quite a bit while still retaining elements of the old. I assume I can write hemuloki. Maybe that last one is stretching things a bit far.