Chapter-specific warnings: asthma attack, canonical character death
Steve is 17 and bored out of his mind—and lonely, but he likes thinking about that even less. He caught a winter cold like everyone else in the city, but unlike everybody else, his stupid body couldn't handle even a dumb little sickness, and his chest cold turned into full-blown pneumonia. He's over the worst of it now, finally, but he still has a nagging cough and he doesn't have the energy to do anything more strenuous than sit on the couch and listen to the radio. He hasn't even seen Bucky for more than a week, because Bucky came down with a bad cold too and didn't want to risk getting Steve sick again now that he's finally getting better. Even his mom isn't around most of the time, because she took as much time off from the hospital as she could while he was really sick and has to double up her shifts now to make up for it. He hasn't seen Loki for a few months, either.
As if he's been summoned by the thought, Loki steps out of thin air in the middle of the living room. His eyes fall on Steve immediately, and he frowns. "You're ill."
"You noticed," Steve says dryly. God, his voice sounds awful. "I'm probably not contagious anymore."
"I doubt Midgardian illnesses would affect me much, in any case," Loki says, coming to stand by the couch. "What ails you?"
"A cold and then pneumonia," Steve says, and clarifies, "lung problems. I don't know if you have those on Asgard." There's a tickle growing in the back of his throat, signaling another coughing fit, and Steve swallows hard, trying to drive it away. Everything already hurts and he's sick (pun intended) of coughing.
"We do," Loki says. "We have our own common illnesses as well, for that matter." He hesitates, looking uncertain, and then forces out a laugh. "I confess I am accustomed more to being tended to as a patient than doing the tending, considering how seldom Thor ever falls ill, but—is there anything you would like me to bring you? Perhaps tea? I can at least do that."
"Sure," Steve says, or tries to, but what comes out instead is an explosive cough, and then he's doubled over in the grip of a major coughing fit.
"Are you all right?" Loki asks.
Steve nods, because he's coughing way too hard to say anything. His chest and abdomen hurt already, but he can't stop, gasping for breath between coughs. And then he feels the tightening in his throat and lungs that means he's triggered an asthma attack.
It's fine. He's fine. It'll pass (probably). He just has to stay calm.
The coughing finally eases, but it's no better, because he's still gasping, each breath coming harder than the last and he can't breathe. He can't breathe.
"Steve," Loki says, sounding frightened now. "What is it, what's—"
"Asthma," Steve manages. "I can't breathe, I can't—" His nebulizer. If he can tell Loki where to get it, he can give himself a dose of epinephrine and he'll be fine—
Except no, he won't, because he used up his last ampule of medicine two days ago and didn't tell his mom because he knew they couldn't afford to buy more and he doesn't even have bad asthma attacks very often and he was getting better and he'd thought surely he could get by without more for a while longer. And apparently he was wrong, because this already feels worse than the last one, probably because his lungs are wiped out from being so sick.
He can't breathe and he's getting dizzy from lack of air and his fingernails are already going blue and this is bad. This is really bad.
"Steve, look at me," Loki says, just this side of frantic. "Do you have medicine for this?"
No, because he's an idiot. Steve shakes his head and the room swims around him, graying out at the edges, and even beyond the panic, he's aware of a stab of frustration that this is how he's going to die, not because he was doing anything important but because his stupid body just gave out on him. He's always kind of expected to die young, but he's also never really thought it would be like this.
Loki's hands are gripping his shoulders, probably a little too tight, but his whole body is throbbing and he can barely feel anything else. "Steve," Loki says sharply. "Will you trust me?"
Of course, Steve wants to say, I already do, but he doesn't have the breath to do more than nod.
"Then hold on," Loki says, pulling him close, and the entire world disappears with a lurch. For a single terrifying moment it's dark and he's falling, and then reality snaps back into place around him and he's—somewhere else, high ceiling, heavy dark furniture, gold accents everywhere, but his sight's tunneling too much to get more than a glimpse. Loki's still there, guiding him backward until he bumps something solid and tips over onto a bed.
"I will be right back," Loki promises, and then he's gone, and Steve can only stare up at the (gilded?) ceiling and focus on trying to breathe. His head is pounding, his eyes watering as he struggles for air. Loki's clattering around nearby, muttering to himself as drawers slide open and shut, and Steve can barely think through his own panic to wonder what Loki's doing.
Everything's starting to fade out when Loki rushes back over, reappearing in Steve's field of vision. Steve stares up at him, wheezing. Just keeping his eyes open is becoming impossibly draining.
"No," Loki snaps, "you stay with me," and he holds up something like a large pipe with a wide bowl and takes a deep drag off it. Then he leans forward, seals his mouth over Steve's, and exhales hard.
Resuscitation, Steve thinks vaguely, but there's smoke in his mouth, burning down his throat, unfurling into his lungs. Loki takes another pull from the pipe and breathes smoke into Steve's mouth again, and this time Steve actually feels his trachea open and his lungs expand properly. He doubles up coughing, and that's good, coughing means he can breathe again, and then he can't think about anything except getting more air.
His heart's still racing and everything aches and he's still blinking away tears and his mouth tastes like burned mint, but he's breathing and his vision's clearing up and he's probably not going to die today after all. It's euphoric, being able to breathe again, never mind the rush of oxygen to his brain, and all of that probably explains what happens next. Loki is sitting next to him now and still watching him, pale and worried, and Steve impulsively leans up and kisses him.
Loki goes stiff with surprise, but only for a second, and then he's kissing Steve back, hand coming up to rest on Steve's knee. For about five seconds it's new and strange and amazing, and then Steve's brain catches up with what his body's doing and he pulls away.
"Sorry," he says, cursing himself for an idiot. He can feel the flush crawling up his neck. "I'm…I shouldn't have assumed…"
Loki's expression goes completely, horribly blank, and Steve's stomach drops. Yep, he's definitely screwed up. "Assumed what?"
"That…that you might be interested in guys. Or, you know…me." Steve makes himself laugh a little, even though there's nothing funny about this situation. "I know I'm not exactly everyone's first choice. Or anyone's, for that matter."
Some of the tension leaves Loki's posture, and he looks aside. "Neither am I."
Steve blinks. "You're…but you're a prince."
Loki smiles without humor. "I am. But I am not Thor."
"…oh," Steve says, thinking of the girls who tolerate his presence only so they can get in good with Bucky. He can't exactly blame them—given the option, he'd choose Bucky too—but it's depressing. It never occurred to him that Loki might have the same problem. "I…didn't realize."
Loki shrugs. "Well, really, who can blame them," he says, light and brittle. "He is the firstborn and presumptive heir, and what is more, he is noble and heroic, a mighty warrior, everything that Asgard loves. I am—untrustworthy, unimpressive. I prefer magic and trickery to brute force, and so I am…cowardly. Unnatural."
"Or you're smart," Steve says. "What's wrong with playing to your strengths? Your magic's amazing. I wish I could do what you do."
"You truly mean that," Loki says after a moment.
"Of course I do," Steve says, baffled. "Why wouldn't I? If I could use magic, I wouldn't even care about being a scrawny little punk. At least then I'd have something going for me."
"You do," Loki says, his gaze oddly intense. "You are brave, and kind, and intelligent. Anyone who cannot see your value is a fool."
Steve flushes harder but doesn't look away. "Well, I'd say the same thing about you."
Loki just looks at him for a moment, and smiles—only a little, but it's open and honest. And then he leans forward and kisses Steve back, gentle and slow. Steve's insides lurch again, much more pleasantly this time, and he responds in kind.
Steve has to pull away first, still a little short of breath from the asthma attack, but he keeps his forehead pressed to Loki's for a moment until Loki shifts position so they can both sit a little more naturally, shoulders touching. His fingers are tangled with Steve's, thumb sweeping back and forth over Steve's hand.
"On Midgard," Loki says, hesitates, corrects himself: "In your time, in your part of Midgard…is it accepted, for men to have relations with other men?"
"Well, uh." Steve sighs. "Not really. No. People do it, but it's not…nobody really talks about it. Or…sometimes people get hurt." He shrugs a little, his arm twitching against Loki's. "I haven't…I mean, I like girls, and…I like you. I don't know what that makes me." He pauses. "What about Asgard?"
"Similar, I suppose," Loki says. "It is…tolerated, as recreation, but little more than that. Well. Expected, at times, of men who are proficient in magic or interested in the healing arts, as if our abilities predispose us toward a woman's role in bed as well. Although I sincerely doubt Sif, for instance, would allow anyone to treat her as a meaningless plaything, as some seem to have assumed I will."
"That's stupid," Steve says without thinking.
Loki's mouth flickers in the ghost of a smile. "Perhaps. In my case I suppose it is not entirely incorrect, although…I have always been interested in women as well, which I suspect is yet more proof of my, ah, inconstant nature."
"It's still stupid," Steve says. "So when I—you figured I just wanted to…fool around, and assumed you'd be okay with that? That's not—I wouldn't."
Loki shrugs, looking a little embarrassed. "As I said, you would not be the first to assume."
"I do like you, though," Steve says. His face must be bright pink by now, but he says it firmly, without breaking his gaze.
Loki ducks his head. Speaking in the general direction of their joined hands, he says awkwardly, "I find…I return your sentiments." He sighs. "But after all that…in truth, I would not…it would be unfair to you, at best, if we were to pursue any more of a relationship. I still suspect it is mostly luck that I have continued to find you so many times as we have both grown older, and I am loath to trust too strongly in luck."
"And you're a prince," Steve says. He hasn't forgotten, of course, but saying it now, in this lavish bedroom that must belong to Loki, it actually feels real. The thought feels like a weight in his stomach.
Loki smiles sourly. "The second prince. My dalliances are of no concern to anyone, as long as I am reasonably discreet and I make a politically advantageous match if required. And I would not want to do that to you, either."
"Do I get a say in this?" Steve asks, but it's mostly for show; even without any political experience himself, what Loki's saying makes depressing sense.
"Does it really matter?" Loki says, and if the words have the potential to be sharp, his tone is quietly regretful. "Even the greatest mages in all the realms have not managed to control or even fully understand the flow of time. When next I try to find you again, if I make a mistake or my improbable luck at last runs out, I could emerge decades in your future. I would be nearly unchanged, and you might be very old, and there is nothing I could do to change that. And I would not have you…wait for me. You deserve far better than that."
"That's probably the most complicated 'it's not you, it's me' I've ever heard," Steve says, with an attempt at a smile that feels pretty damn weak even to him. He lets it go and says around the sudden lump in his throat, "So basically we enjoy this while it lasts, in other words."
Loki grimaces. "Just so. I do not believe I possess my mother's gift of foresight, but I have felt, of late, that we should not expect many more meetings like this."
Steve swallows hard, but his voice comes out steady, and he's vaguely proud of that. "Well, if I don't see you again, I'm really gonna miss you."
"And I, you," Loki says quietly. He sighs again. "I should take you back; I do not quite know how the passage of time on Midgard compares, just now, but I would hate to return you days or weeks late."
That hadn't even occurred to him. "Yeah, that...would be bad. My mom would panic."
"Well, you needn't leave empty-handed," Loki says. He gets up and hurries to his work table, and after a moment Steve follows, watching with interest as Loki sweeps together a few dried plants and crumbles them into a stone bowl. "This is what I used to clear your airways," he explains. "I do not have much left of the ingredients, but I can at least send the remainder with you." He grinds up the plants into dust with a pestle, hesitates, and then picks up a small knife and nicks his finger over the mortar.
Steve flinches. "You're putting your blood in that?"
"You'll not be ingesting it, if that is your concern," Loki says, the stiff note back in his voice.
"No, it's just…maybe this is normal for you, but I don't know anything about magic, and it's…I mean, you just…hurt yourself. For me."
"Ah," Loki says, relaxing again, and his expression softens. "Blood is powerful; the charm will set more strongly and last much longer this way. And you can be easy about any injury I might sustain." He shows Steve his finger, and under the remaining smear of blood, the cut has already healed.
"Wow," Steve says. "I wish I could do that."
Loki's smile is a little sad. "I wish you could as well." He holds his right hand over the bowl, palm down, and closes his eyes. Steve isn't sure what to expect, maybe some wand-waving and incantations. What actually happens is much less dramatic: Loki takes a slow breath in and out, and on his next exhale, his fingers pulse with a soft green glow. He pulls his hand back and opens his eyes, and that seems to be that.
"Now," he says, retrieving a small cloth bag from a drawer and beginning to fill it with the bowl's contents, "because you were having an acute attack, I burned the mixture and forced you to inhale the smoke, but that will not always be necessary. For anything less severe, opening the bag and taking a sniff may be enough to ease your breathing. If not, remove a small amount, set fire to it, and breathe the smoke. You might also consider keeping the charm bag near your pillow at night, especially if the air is poor or you are troubled by a cough." He ties off the little bag with a piece of twine and holds it out.
"I…wow." Steve takes it, feeling the slightest prickle of magic against his palm, somehow distinct from the sensation of his fireworks even as he can't pin down exactly how. "Thank you. That's…a really inadequate thing to say. But thank you."
Loki smiles at him, swift and crooked and genuine. "It is hardly pure altruism on my part. I would prefer to keep you breathing as long as possible. You are a good friend, Steve Rogers, and you have shown me a great deal more kindness and patience than I suspect I deserve."
Steve is 18, aching with grief, with no idea how he is supposed to bury his mother and keep going. Loki doesn't show up for the funeral, and although Steve isn't actually surprised, he can't help a pang of disappointment. There's no reason for Loki to know, but he realizes that's what he was hoping anyway, that somehow across the distance of time and space Loki would just…know, and come back, and then Steve could have one more person who cares.
It's late by the time he starts getting ready for bed, because the emptiness is already pressing in around him and he can't think how much worse it's going to be when he's trying to sleep. Part of him wants to go back to Bucky's and at least stay there tonight, even if he's still not sure whether he wants to accept Bucky's offer to room together (whether he will is another question entirely, but it would probably help to have a better idea of what he wants to begin with), but… God, he can't make Bucky do everything for him. He needs to know he can make it on his own. He just…really doesn't want to, tonight.
He's reaching for one of the lamps when there's a telltale rustle of air behind him, and he turns to smile wanly at Loki, both relieved and frustrated with himself that he's relieved. "Hey," he says. "Sorry, it's kind of late, I was already on my way to bed, but—can I get you anything?"
Loki glances around the room, then back to Steve, a frown etched between his eyebrows. "Something is wrong. What is it?"
Steve sighs, shoulders slumping, and gives up on the attempt at a smile. "It's my mom. She…working in the TB ward finally caught up to her." He swallows hard around the lump in his throat, which seems to be growing sharp points with every word. "The funeral was today."
Loki goes still, eyes widening. "Steve. I am…so sorry. I—are you all right?"
Steve shrugs and sits down on the bed, exhaustion pressing down like a heavy blanket. "Yeah, I'm okay," he says, and when Loki gives him a look that somehow combines concern with profound skepticism, he adds, "I will be, anyway. It's just, everything's been busy since…since she died, planning the funeral and everything, so this is the first time I've had a chance to stop and—" His eyes are stinging suddenly, and he looks away, blinking rapidly. "And I didn't know it would be like this, it's too quiet and she's gone and I can't make myself stop thinking about it."
Loki takes a step toward him and stops, looking uncertain. "Where is Bucky? Was he unwilling to stay with you?"
Steve huffs. "He wants me to come live with him. I said I could do this alone and got him to go home, because I can't…I have to be able to stand on my own. I have to. It's not fair to either of us if I'm always using him as—as some kind of crutch."
Loki hesitates. "Do you wish to be alone?"
Yes, Steve wants to say, because he needs to do this and he needs to prove to himself that he can do this, and clinging to Loki is no better than clinging to Bucky, and…he shouldn't. He shakes his head anyway.
"Then I will stay with you tonight," Loki says immediately. "Vigils are traditional on Asgard. It is little enough, but I can do that, at least."
Steve nods, eyes burning, but he feels compelled to say, "You don't have to. You…probably have more important things to do."
"In fact, I have not," Loki says. He glances around the little room again. "Do you mind if I bring in a chair—?"
"Yeah, go ahead," Steve says. He winces. "Sorry, I should've…"
"Do not trouble yourself," Loki says quickly. He ducks out and returns with one of the kitchen chairs, which he wedges in next to the nightstand.
"Sorry," Steve says again. "I know it's not very comfortable."
Loki shrugs. "It is fine for now, and when I need to sleep, I have a bedroll I can summon."
Steve shifts uneasily. "You don't have to…is that a good idea, staying that long? What if—I don't know how it works, but what if you end up being gone a lot longer on Asgard, days even?"
"I highly doubt anyone will notice," Loki says, in the same light, brittle tone Steve's heard before. "Now you should really cease arguing and go to sleep. You need your rest."
"Okay," Steve says, unable to think of a reason to keep resisting any of it, when he's so tired already and he doesn't want to be alone.
True to his word, Loki really does stay all night. He sits up and listens for as long as Steve is able to talk about his mom, which isn't very long before he's too exhausted and drained to keep going, and when Steve finally crawls into bed, Loki makes an odd gesture and unrolls a sleeping bag that appears out of thin air in front of him. (For once, Steve watches this little bit of magic and feels no curiosity at all. He should be worried about that, he thinks, but he's just so tired.) Loki is there much later to wake Steve from a nightmare, shaking, tears fresh on his cheeks, and he does cling to Loki then, too miserable to make himself stop. Loki sits with him on the bed and tentatively rubs his back, and eventually he seems to come to a decision, because he tells Steve to move over and gets under the blankets with him. The bed isn't very wide and it's a little crowded and awkward, and Steve doesn't care about that either, eyes suddenly prickling again with the overwhelming relief of someone warm and breathing, close enough to touch, and the visceral knowledge that he isn't alone. Loki is still there in the morning, making sure Steve eats something (he doesn't know how to use much of anything in the kitchen, so aside from making tea, this mostly takes the form of hovering and making pointed comments until Steve fixes his own breakfast, but Steve appreciates the thought anyway). He's there when Bucky shows up not long after, because apparently nobody believes Steve can take care of himself, although he can't muster up more than a flicker of irritation about it. Especially because the truth is, he still doesn't want to be alone.
"I shall leave you in Barnes' capable hands," Loki says (brittle, again, but less so this time).
Steve catches his hand as he turns to go. "Will you come back?"
Loki smiles at him, too brightly. "You won't be rid of me that easily."
"Don't lie to me," Steve says. "Don't. Not now."
Loki's smile turns melancholy, and he turns his hand to grip Steve's. "What I told you on Asgard is still true. It was much harder for me to find you, this time, and to be sure I had not badly misjudged. I will try to see you again, but I can make no promises this time."
"I guess you wouldn't really want to get stuck here," Steve says, smiling weakly.
"You might be surprised," Loki says. He presses his lips together as if he wants to say something else but doesn't think he should, and then he steps close and kisses Steve's forehead. "Safe journeys, my friend."
DID YOU KNOW that the modern asthma inhaler wasn't invented until the 1950s? I sure didn't until I started writing Steve's asthma attack and then figured I'd better check!