Author note: This is one of those chapters that makes sense once you get the following. This whole story is very much woven into itself, so do hang tight~~ All will become clear, if you don't pick it up this go round.
III.
At twenty-three, Loki wakes up entirely sure he is dying. When he tries to move, he finds he can't-panic chokes him, bright and static. He feels like he's going to burst into flame.
"-here, going to a hospital—" There's a hand on his face, covering his eyes. A smell-alpha, iron, electric. Tony. "He's burning up, can we go any faster, Jesus f—"
Things go dark and soft at the edges, and Loki welcomes it.
The second time he wakes, he hurts less. Feels less. Feels normal, other than a distant pain across his ribs. Loki hasn't woken in many hospitals, certainly never in this position; vaguely, he can smell Tony.
He opens his eyes. He isn't strapped down, but he's in a hospital gown, surrounded by noise. There are bandages over his chest. Numb. He can barely feel the sheets, barely feel much of anything, and a hand finds the IV in his arm, traces over it.
Ah.
He wonders what day it is as he looks over the room; the door is shut. That-seems odd. He can't place why. He's shivering, but he feels hot, fire devouring him from the inside, and he's soaked in sweat.
There are people talking, outside. One of them is, he thinks, Tony.
How comforting.
(Except, eyes closing again, it is.)
The third time he wakes, he realizes that before wasn't dying, before was a reminder not to jump to conclusions.
This is dying.
He's in a hospital and he has no idea why no one is doing anything, why no one has noticed, because someone has to have by now. There's so much noise, so many smells-antiseptic, laundry detergent, food, medicine, arousal, Tony-Tony—
Loki moans, turning his face into the smell on the pillow, one hand fumbling to get beneath the sheets and his gown. He can't roll over without pain flaring in his ribs worse, but it's dull next to the ache between his thighs. He's hard, his thighs are soaked-the smell, it's his, he doesn't think he's ever felt—
aroused, he thinks (wouldn't know), but the word is slippery, already fading, other hand clutching the pillow by his head. He's gasping for air, whining, every time his fingers brush where his cock and cunt join is bliss, there's a whiff of iron-electric-alpha when he breathes in and he's sliding a finger inside, another, thumb hooked over the top of his cock and grinding down as he presses his hand up inside himself, slick and wet and hot until he comes with a groan, clenching around his fingers and splattering across his belly.
For a moment, he can breathe raggedly, relaxing against the bed. His ribs hurt. His mouth is dry. He's shaking.
He's still hard. There's still warmth swirling beneath his skin, still focused where he hasn't bothered to uncurl his hand from himself, threatening to flare up again-will flare up again. Aroused, he thinks, dazed, opening his eyes. Horribly, overwhelmingly aroused.
Sometimes, all it takes is counting to three to come entirely undone.
Bruce sits in front of him on a bed that reeks of Loki, not looking up, hands twisting and playing over a pen that looks like it has seen better days. Loki watches him dully, listens.
He should be shocked. He should scream, be angry.
The pen in Bruce's hand shatters, ink splattering over his hands. Bruce is angry enough for them both; Loki closes his eyes and leans his head back.
(He should be afraid that Bruce will change.)
"I see," Loki says. His voice is hoarse. Apparently he screams, more often than not; at least the last few days have been an informative education on what he never experienced as a teenager.
"I need to go," Bruce says, voice a low growl. "Do you need anything?"
Of course Bruce is angry-medical malpractice would get under the doctor's skin.
"Home," Loki says.
Tony doesn't step foot in the hospital room while Loki is conscious. Tony doesn't appear when Loki is discharged. There are no texts, no phone calls, no cards, no flowers.
Nothing.
Loki can't say he minds.