Meraki: The soul, creativity, or love put into something; the essence of yourself that is put into your work.
Modi hums to himself - horrendously off-tune, Loki thinks, and he certainly had his father to thank for that - as he scribbles busily over a pad of paper, the crayons leaving fat smears and oily slivers all over the table. Loki sweeps them unceremoniously onto the floor and revels in the scent of wax and childhood.
"And who are you drawing?" Loki asks, hiccupping a little spark that flies into Modi's hair and sets a bit ablaze. Loki pinches it out quickly, and ruffles the blond curls to hide the little singed patch. Modi remains blissfully unaware of his unborn sibling's attempt on his life, which, for all parties concerned, is much for the better. "That's you, I believe. And who is that little thing next to you?"
"Is baby," Modi says, turning to Loki and rolling his eyes in such a manner that Loki wants to pinch his cheeks and tell him how cute he is, while simultaneously wondering if he had been that annoying at that age. Modi points to Loki's stomach. "That baby." Loki isn't even showing yet.
"I see. Of course it is," Loki says, pressing a kiss to his son's forehead. Modi, at the tender age of ~18 months, had intuited far more than his father of ~9000 years could possibly fathom. Loki, as a sort of joke, had managed to convince Thor that he came from a mixed breed of jötunn and dragon. Thor had accepted this idea as easily as could have been expected, and still was under the impression that Loki, once every blue moon or so, transformed into a mythical creature and flew away to ravage virgin princesses (or princes, as the case was).
"We put this in the baby room," Modi proclaims, holding up his drawing, childish scrawls of wax proclaiming his love for his unborn, unknown sibling. Loki smiles and tells Modi that that will indeed be the first thing the baby sees when he wakes up in the morning, and Modi smiles, sunshine and happiness.