A/N: The title song is A Letter by La Dispute. It's really more Tony than Loki. And more me and my state of mind while writing this than anything. It has had a huge impact on this chapter. And La Dispute is like...my world? Yeah.

WARNING: All the same shit. Dealing with loss, grief, life, addictions (including, but not really limited to, self-harm and alcoholism). Do not read this if you will be triggered. The last thing I want is for anyone to turn to an addiction because of something I've written. I want you guys to heal. To be strong. To be okay. Depression is a serious thing. Get help if you need it. If you just need to talk, message me. I'm always here for anyone who needs to talk. I love all of you people, and I know how hard it is to deal with depression/addictions on your own. So, don't. Talk to someone.

xoxox

Loki woke up slowly, feeling his source of heat suddenly jolt. The hell? First of all, when was Anthony ever awake before Loki, and second, why was he moving? Loki's trying to sleep here, babe.

"What do you mean? Is he okay? I mean, is he in the hospital or something?" There was a touch of panic in Anthony's voice, throwing Loki into defense mode. Then the words sunk in. Something was very, very wrong.

His eyes blinked open sluggishly. God, he hated mornings.

"Okay. Uh. Yeah." Loki looked up to see Anthony rubbing his eyes and blinking back tears. Someone tell Loki what happened before he loses his shit.

Anthony hung up the phone and stared at the ceiling blankly. "My dad is dead." His voice was monotone, emotionless, numbed. "He had a heart attack late last night, probably some time around midnight. Obie found him this morning, on the kitchen floor."

Loki's heart stopped. "Oh, Anthony, I'm so sorry." He wrapped his arms around the boy's neck, trying not to flinch at the lifeless response. A hand touched his, and then, Stark was standing.

"I have to go to the hospital. I'm sorry, this ruined our day. But, hopefully it won't take long. I just have to talk to Obie, so, it shouldn't be more than an hour or two." The brown eyes that looked into his were switched off, like a light.

Loki nodded, watching him get dressed and walk out the door. His head was spinning and he was nauseous after last night's events. Coffee brewed, stirring up the life in him that had started to dwindle the minute Stark told him the news. He couldn't shake the feeling that something inside Anthony had died- something neither of them realized he had. He had loved his father. It didn't shock Loki. Anthony was a kind, caring, forgiving person.

What scared him the most, is that all of this would start the true downfall of Anthony Stark. We all break, we all fall, we all lose our minds at some point. But there are some of us that must hit rock bottom, before we see the light at the end of the tunnel. There are some destined to never-ending tragedy, which will break us into puzzle pieces that never really, truly fit. There are those of us destined to climb forever to reach happiness, that elusive zenith all humans desire- but few ever reach. And others, must break their skull open upon the lowest point in their life, and watch that light fade away, out of their reach.

Obadiah Stane looked down at the cold, grey face of his old friend. In those last months, they hadn't been close. After Tony was kidnapped, Howard began to withdraw, getting older by the second and more haggard with each passing day. It was guilt, regret, resentment in every glance those old brown eyes sent his way. But how could Obadiah apologize? It had saved Howard's hide, keeping his business afloat after Tony wrecked it in one fell-swoop. And hell, the kid was a pain in the ass anyways. It was nice to have him out of their hair, until, of course, he escaped.

The Ten Rings were supposed to kill Tony. He was supposed to be dead, buried in some desert grave with a bunch of looters and thieves and felled terrorists. But no. Raza had failed him. But now, now they had a new mission. They were going to rebuild that suit of Tony's. It would be the young genius's last golden egg.

Tony walked into the hospital without really seeing anything he passed. Not the dying man who was coughing up a lung in the E.R., to the little bald girl in the cancer ward. The nurses who pointed him in the right direction were faceless replicas. The doctor who spoke in a droning monotone was speaking another, banausic language that vaguely resembled English. Everything blurred together behind a mantra in his head: I never got to say goodbye, he's dead, and I never said I'm sorry or goodbye or I love you.

Thoughts plagued him:

"Did he know I loved him? Did I ever tell him? Ever? Did he love me? Should I be grieving right now? Should I cry? Can I cry? There are no tears. I'm a terrible person, because I can't even mourn my own father's death. He's gone. I'll never see him again. Never tell him I'm sorry, or that I wanted him to be proud of me, or that I cared about him. I'll never know what he truly thought of me- or do I? Did he really think I killed mom? Did I kill mom? How will I take over a fucking business. This was his dream, not mine. His, not mine. He, not me. I can't do this. I don't want to do this. He has to come back. This has to be a cruel joke. I'm not ready for this. I'm not..."

But when he saw Stane's face, he knew it was no joke. Howard Anthony Walter Stark was truly gone. Truly dead. The great inventor had drawn his last breath, had said his goodbyes to the world in the middle of the night. Alone. Because we all die alone, we all face the Great Beyond all by ourselves. No one can go with us. And on the other side, no one will meet us. Nothing will greet us there, because there is nothing. He was nothing. He was gone. As far as Tony could tell, he had never existed, really. Do any of us ever exist? Or do we merely live on in the waves that trail behind in our wake?

Howard had never made any waves in Tony's life. He had broken him down, beaten him like a dead horse. He had changed Tony, perhaps, for the worse. Tony was harder, less loving, numb because of Howard Stark. Howie had never been a father, and Tony doubted that would have changed- even if the man had known he was dying. Howard was an unchanging man, hard and stony. The only time Tony had ever seen anything alive in his eyes, was when he looked at Maria. Tony had been unnecessary, inconsequential to him.

These are the memories Tony has of his father:

Tony strolled into his father's office. "Hiya, pop." He flopped into a chair, facing the stoic man who looked at him with an unimpressed brow arched. "I need money. Some friends are coming into town, so we're gonna go out. Party. Get drunk. Ya know, the usual." He shrugged. Not the truth, but not entirely a lie. And what did Howard care? Tony was gonna spend his money, get thrown in jail, Howard would call in a favor, yada yada yada. -yawn- it was all so boring, the same song and dance.

Howard glanced back down at the small pile of paperwork beneath his hands. A small splotch of ink stained his finger. Tony took it all in with over-sharp senses, set to the highest sensitivity because Adderall wasn't that helpful any longer. Tolerance, is that you? Come again to save Tony from killing himself in an overdose? Because, you know, it wasn't like he had taken too many for the past two years or anything. Sixteen, and he was already an addict.

"How much?" Howard asked, a sigh of wariness in his voice. Dad was getting old.

Tony stared thoughtfully at the ceiling, tallying up all the possible costs he could rack up in one night. Thousands. There were perks to being the son of a billionaire. "Just give me a card, I guess." He shrugged, studying his fingers nonchalantly.

Tony was raising himself, and doing a damn terrible job of it. But hey, who cared?

No one.

Twelve hours later, he's in a squad car, staring absentmindedly at a Lamborghini half-submerged in a fountain, wheels still spinning. There was a gushing cut on his forehead running blood to his eyes, courtesy of the shattered windshield, which was laying in glittering shards all across the driveway of the ritzy hotel. He couldn't remember what it was called now. Something expensive, fancy, snobby. All the people who had their heads up their asses and dollar signs in their eyes stayed here. Tony enjoyed destroying the beautiful belongings of the rich and famous. Especially when one of those belongings was his father's Lamborghini Murcielago, cherry-pop red and glimmering clean. Until he'd shattered the windshield and driven it head-first into a very expensive sculpture in the middle of a deep fountain, said sculpture had cracked clean-through and was now laying in a very Leaning-Tower-of-Piza-reminiscent state.

But he wasn't smiling.

Loki sprawled across the floor, smoking a cigarette- thank you, Anthony- and staring at the ceiling. Thoughts were rolling over him like tsunami waves, each one knocking him further and further down.

1) Who are you?

2) Do you miss Odin?

3) What are you going to do when he dies?

4) Do you want to have more regrets?

5) Is Anthony okay?

6) What will you say when he gets home? Something sweet, something philosophical? How will you deal with this, Loki, when you can't even deal with your own losses?

Because really, Loki had never learned how to cope with loss. He remembered always wondering, how would he deal with it when someone he was close to died? Would he cry? Would he just take it in stride? Would he be there for others who also were close to this person? Would he be the rock that all turned to? Or would he break down, collapse, fall to the pit of the earth because his world shattered?

It turned out, it was the latter.

Loki walked into the kitchen beside Thor, grinning at some lewd joke the bigger, older, far more straight young man had told him. He wasn't really the crude joke type, but that one hadn't been half-bad (unlike the majority of Thor's jokes). It was all smiles until he looked up at his mom, seeing the look of pure sorrow on her face.

"What? What happened?" Something bad had happened, and his mother had tears in her eyes. Cue the entrance of two very over-protective sons. He and Thor were by her side in an instant.

But she turned to him. Big, sorrowful blue eyes that contained a thousand apologies locked on his forest green eyes. "Loki, you need to sit down." She took his hand as he perched on the edge of a chair. "Frey got in a car accident."

The world slipped off it's axis, and the sky came raining down.

Loki's world was destroyed in one simple phrase.

Frey, a boy his age, was his world. They were best friends, closeted buddies that had taken abuse from everyone in their life. They had more in common than anyone Loki had ever known, and their lives ran parallel to one another. But it was more than that. Frey was Loki's first love, the first man he had ever adored, the first person (other than Thor) that he knew he would give his life for without a second thought. Frey was his. And he was Frey's.

"He died, Loki. I'm so sorr-" But Loki pulled out of her grip on his hand, tears already streaming from his eyes. All he could think, all he could do, was run.

So he ran. Ran back to that place where they'd met. Where they had kissed, and hugged, and lost their innocence to one another, given it away for safe keeping. There was love in those nights when they laid below the stars and laughed at silly childhood memories- times when things hadn't seemed quite so bleak. Nights filled to the brim with silence and peace that they couldn't find anywhere but in each other's company. Together, they had mourned their lost happiness, they had cherished moments of fleeting contentedness.

Now, it was all over.

Ruined.

Gone.

Done.

Never again, would Loki and Frey sit under their oak tree, where their initials were carved inside a heart. Never would they hold hands and smile in silence, because they had each other despite the hell that their lives had become. Never would Loki have an anchor to hold him to this earth. Never would he see that rare smile filled with sharp teeth and dancing grey eyes. Never would he run his hands through hair as pitch black as his, and tease Frey about his curly hair. Never would he have a person so like him, that he wouldn't feel so fucking alone.

He was alone.

Frey had abandoned him.

And that's when it broke, the levee holding back the tears, the screams, the anguish that was now baring down on him like a steamroller. He hit his knees, in front of that tree, under the cloudy sky, and screamed. All those happy moments, filled with silence, were shattered. All those years when he had trusted Frey with his darkest secrets and the truths to every lie he told, were splintered by that shout, that yell, that banshee utterance of rage and sadness and pain so deep, it cut through his very core.

He wanted, he wanted, he wanted him back.

Two weeks later.

Tony walked up behind Loki and wrapped his arms around his waist, placing a kiss against his neck. It had been too long since he had been able to hold him. The company was keeping him busy, and school took up the rest of what little time he had left over. He was so tired, he could fall asleep on his feet. The mirror had showed him a mere shadow of himself two weeks ago, when he'd looked at his reflection this morning. It wasn't a surprise. He had been losing weight like crazy. None of his clothes fit. His hair nearly reached his shoulder, and their were dark circles ringing his eyes- it made their old caramel brown look ink black.

But Loki. Loki was a sight for sore eyes. He was beautiful, turning to look at him with eyes the color of the sea, shining and glimmering in the pale light of autumn. He was a perfect contrast to the red and yellow and brown leaves that fell like rain every day, behind him, over him, under him. Loki was all Tony could see, sometimes. He was all he could focus on that didn't make him want to go crazy. It was scary, how Loki was like his anchor, his hold on reality and what little happiness could be conjured up in Tony's life. And all he wanted to do was hold him, to squeeze him ever closer and ever tighter, until they were just one person, one body, until Loki had consumed him. Because today, Tony could see no light in the world except for Loki. Loki was the sun, throwing pretty, happy rays of luminescence on the world with his soft smile and worried eyes and sharp cheekbones and snow colored skin.

So, Tony pulled him closer, pulled him tighter, until the boy was grinning and wrapping his arms around his neck and pressing a petal-soft kiss against him with his rose-colored lips, and murmuring how much he had missed him as he twirled Tony's curls around his fingers. He asked him how the company was, and the underlying question of how he was coping with his father's death. It amazed Tony, sometimes, how they could ask two things at once, and read the meaning behind the words and the desperation behind the smiles and the sad tears hidden behind pretty eyes.

"It's okay. Obie won't get off my back. He wants me to work on this project with him that my dad had started before..." He shrugged, trailing off before he could say that. There was something unspeakable about the death of his father. "Anyways, I told him I didn't want to build weapons." Because at heart, Tony is a pacifist. And he hates guns and weapons and really, anything that hurts anyone- except himself, obviously.

Loki pulled back, slipping his hand in Tony's, and leaning against his shoulder. The cool chill of the fall broke through his jacket, making his skin flinch and goosebumps race across his flesh. "What was the project?" Loki's voice was sleepy. They sat down against a tree, Loki resting his legs across Tony's lap and curling up tight against his side, shivering slightly.

Tony wrapped his arms around the shivering being he adored. "A missile, I think. Dad was always one for big things that went boom." Again, he shrugged. Showing any feeling just hurt too much.

"And you're one for small things that go boom." The boy murmured, his voice deeper than usual, sounding almost sleepy.

He chuckled. "Yeah, I guess so."

He knew what Loki was saying, 'You two really aren't that different, Anthony.' And maybe he was right. Maybe they weren't. But didn't that mean that one day, he would become the same cold, old man his father had been? Would he be bitter, alone, angry at the world and setting out to destroy it for a nice monetary sum? Would he be bent over his first love- science-, while his one and only mistress- whiskey- sat by his side forever? Would he be alone? Would this loneliness that permeated his pores, and soul, and every orifice in his body, stick around forever?

Was this Tony's future?

And, should he- while he could- leave Loki, so that he could be happy, so that he wouldn't be like Maria Stark- tethered to a man who had a heart smaller than a mustard seed?

Loki stared at the professor at the front of the class unseeingly. Anthony was pulling away. He was withdrawing, turning inside himself, finding solace in everything that hurt him. Things like whiskey, and Adderall, and science, and insomnia, and misery. He wasn't trying anymore. He wasn't smiling for Loki, or working on cleaning up his act. He was falling, content to fly on the rushing wind beneath him until the ground swooped up to meet him head-on. He had a death wish.

Not a real death. Although, sometimes Loki could swear he saw suicide behind those dark brown eyes. But an internal death, the death of the will to do more than exist. Right now, he could see Anthony falling, deeper and deeper. But when he hit rock bottom...what would happen? Would Loki be able to pull him back up? Would Loki be able to save him? Was Loki that strong?

No.

Loki could barely keep his head above the waves now. The scars on his wrists screamed to him, begged for more, more, more blood. Just to make it all go away. Just to make the thoughts, the memories, the aching desire disappear. It seemed to make everything harder, even just being out in public. He cringed deeper into his skin every time foreign eyes fell on him, making him shiver and flinch like he'd been hit. It wasn't anxiety, it wasn't fear, it was a deep-seated desire to disappear. If Loki could fall off the face of the earth, he would. Because everything hurt. Everything wounded him. Everything stabbed him in the back.

Anthony's eyes.

Natasha's warnings.

Clint's worry.

Frigga's calls.

Thor's love.

Odin's hate.

The only thing that loved Loki was a razor-blade. The only thing that made him feel whole, tore him apart. The only thing he could trust, whispered lies in his ear, brushing them across his skin. The only thing he believed in, was a cult, a demon, a hellion. The only thing he knew cared for him, was slowly breaking him down, shattering him into little pieces, making him a slave. But isn't that the truth of addiction? It's everything you think it isn't. It's a lie. It's a chain around your necking, insidiously getting tighter until you can't breathe, until you're choking on your own air.

Loki was choking.

Clint smiled at Natasha, shielding her from the worry bubbling inside him. He hadn't heard from Tony since the man had told him his father died. And since that conversation with Steve, he hadn't been able to get the genius inventor off his mind. What if Steve was right? What if Tony needed help? What if Loki couldn't cure him, like he had seemed to be doing for the past year and a half?

Clint felt burdened by the idea of Tony wallowing in his addictions with no one to spur him into getting help. Of course, there was always the fact that Tony did what Tony wanted, no matter what anyone said to him. The curse of having a best friend with a stubborn head, was having to be their shoulder when they got themselves into something they could no longer escape from. And Clint knew, Tony was going so far down, he wouldn't be able to rise back up.

"Hawk, you can't keep anything from me, you know." Natasha sat down opposite him, gazing with fiery eyes into his. His heart leaped.

He shrugged, wishing for once, that his princess wasn't quite so intuitive. "I'm just thinking about Tony." Because, when Clint wasn't thinking about Nat- which, let's face it, that's a pretty rare occurrence- he's thinking about Tony. And maybe, just maybe, he's always been a little in love with Tony.

She cocked her head, arching one perfect- thanks to Loki and some tweezers- eyebrow. "Why?"

He sighed, slumping back into the couch. "Well, I haven't heard from him for sometime. And..." He looked down at his hands, a little ashamed. "Steve thinks he needs help. Like, rehab or some shit." Because, everyone knew, when it came to Tony Stark, Steve kind of lost his shit.

See, when Tony had arrived in his usual crazy, extravagant, attention-getting way on campus, he'd caught the eyes of two men. One, was Rhodey, who'd graduated and moved to Texas a couple years ago- he was a few years older and halfway through his degree when Tony arrived. The other, was Steve. Tony took Steve and turned him into someone no one really recognized. Tony tore Steve from his comfort zone, took away his self-righteous beliefs, and ripped apart his faith. Tony, the ever-whirling tornado of self-hatred and moral degradation, took Steve on a ride he never could have imagined, whipping him up into a whirlwind he couldn't handle. It took Steve a while to realize he 'wasn't in Kansas anymore'. And by the time he had, Steve was neck-deep in love with a man he couldn't fully understand.

Natasha giggled. "Tony Stark, in rehab? Oh babe, you must live in some fucked-up alternate world." She shook her head. "Tony's too smart for rehab. No. If he wants to change, he will. All by himself." She moved to sit on his lap. "A lone wolf doesn't go to the pack when he needs help. He'd rather die alone."

Clint nodded, because she was right. Tony would rather die, than ask for help. He'd rather kill himself with pills and alcohol and all the things that were bad for him, than go to rehab. He would rather live in disorder and pain, than ask someone to schedule his life and kill the pain for him. Tony was a loner. Tony was alone. And except for Loki, Tony always would be.

Perhaps that was Tony's curse.

Perhaps everyone has a curse.

Perhaps Clint's curse, was just caring too much.

Loki was fast asleep- dreaming of good times long gone- when his bed dipped precariously, jostling him just enough to make him slide one lazy eye open. Black stabbed his pupil and he inwardly thanked whatever gods there were for heavy curtains. Someone mumbled a slur beside him, making him tense. There was someone in his room, someone in his bed. His breathing was shallow.

"Lo?" A husky whisper assaulted his ear, followed by the pungent smell of too much whiskey. "Baby?" A cautious finger nudged his shoulder blade.

He frowned and rolled over to look up into a deep sea of liquid brown, hidden by night-time shadows and starvation hollowed eye-sockets. "Anthony? What's wrong?" He took in the brown bag covered bottle clutched in Anthony's hand like a toddler with his 'blankie'. Something heavy settled astride his worn-out heart.

Anthony blinked. "I can't remember how to get home." Half the words were slurred and incoherent to all but someone experienced in dealing with a drunken Anthony. Loki sat up and shoved his sleep-tangled hair off his forehead. Long fingers scrubbed away any signs of the dreams that haunted him.

"Alright, you can sleep here. But we need to talk about this in the morning, darling." He leveled a stern glare on the wayward teenager gazing at him with all the innocence of a newborn puppy. "I'll go get you some water. Give me that." He held a hand for the bottle. Stark eyed him, conceding only when a dark eyebrow was arched against snow-drift skin.

In the kitchen, John Constantine looked at him sleepily. "Your boyfriend is loud." His words were soft, husky, tired. Loki wondered if he looked as exhausted as his dorm-mate.

Loki sighed. "I'm sorry. He's just..." He shrugged. The whole world knew about Howard's death. And his funeral. And how Anthony seemed to be struggling with coping and taking over a business- which was really an empire, a country in and of itself- and becoming the highlight of the media world.

Constantine nodded. "I know. I feel bad for the dude, really. But, Loki, I need my sleep. College is exhausting enough without someone banging through the door at 3 a.m." Loki knew he was right. Hell, at this point, he wasn't really sure how he was making it himself. Weariness seeped through his bones, weighing him down, making him flinch when the sun hit him, turning his skin sallow and his eyes dark.

"I'll talk to him about it in the morning. You get some sleep. There won't be any more commotion tonight." He patted the man on the shoulder, trudging back to his room.

His feet dragged across the carpet, and his eyes were already starting to fall closed of their own accord. Sleep wasn't easy to come by these days. Not with worries for Anthony, not with college getting harder- Christmas break was coming up, and god knows, teachers tried to cram in a whole year in the last week before break- not with dreams and nightmares stalking across his eyelids every time they closed. Saying he was stressed was the understatement of the millennium.

Fun Fact #22: Loki needs sleep like most people need air. Without sleep, he becomes a bitchy PMSing wolf who likes to rip people's heads off for fun. Really, it's in the best interest of anyone within a hundred-mile radius that Loki gets his sleep.

He handed Anthony the water, then climbed into the bed beside his boyfriend. Everything smelled warm and like whiskey and Anthony. The arc reactor thrummed a dull blue beneath Anthony's t-shirt. And for a minute, that's all that existed. Smell and blue light. Until, he was bundled up in strong arms and warmth and kisses skittered across his face and down his neck and Anthony was whispering how much he adored him in his ear and imprinting the words on his skin, and Loki couldn't help but love this man. This fucked-up, broken, ruined human being who couldn't cope with loss, who couldn't understand regret, who couldn't pick himself up off the floor when life knocked him flat. And isn't it perfect, how humans can love the most flawed of their own species, and think of them as angels, when really, they're just pretty demons? And isn't it funny, how Anthony was both hellion and angel, and how Loki was both saint and sinner. And isn't it beautiful, how they found each other, and found their soulmate in someone as fucked-up as they themselves?

So, Loki moved into the kisses, let his leg hitch over Anthony's waist, let himself be pulled flush against the drunken genius's chest. He could feel the arc reactor pushing against his skin through their shirts, he could feel Anthony's fingers slide across the bare skin of his waist, he could feel Anthony's warm breath on his shoulder. He let his shirt be pulled off, let Stark bury his face in Loki's neck, let himself melt into the embrace. It's funny how much he had changed, from hating physical contact after the destructive relationships he had been in, to letting someone kiss and hug and hold him like he was their lifeline. To letting this pugnacious, fists-up, barred, walled-up human being break through his walls, and let him tear down his, and let them show their hearts to each other.

Yes, they were wrong for each other.

Yes, they were perfect for each other.

A/N: Well, it ended a little ambiguously.

And i'm not sure where this chapter resides on the spectrum from good to SHIT. So tell me, please. Don't hold back.

And I'm sorry.

I'm having a shit week, month, year, life? So, hopefully this chapter doesn't reflect that.

By the way, there is an end in sight for this. I have planned out the rest of this story (and we allllll know just how fucking gloriously I write when there's an actual plot). BUT ( I like big buts and I cannot lie), what do you guys think about a sequel to this? Like, I'm not SURE. But, I've been considering it.

To all my reviewers, readers, and ghostly viewers- I love you all. I've been having, as I mentioned, a really hard...indeterminate amount of time. And seeing all of you have read, reviewed, viewed my story is a really uplifting thing for me. Writing is my one happiness in life. And knowing you wonderful people enjoy it makes it like three billion times better.

-MEGA INTERNET HUGSSS-

~xoxox, Rayn