Hidden Troubles

Chapter 50

A/N: this chapter's more of Loki confronting...life.

The awkard cold of the beginnings of spring had long been forgotten, as May gave way to a steady stream of heat that maintained its peak all the way through to the afternoon, leaving all the residents of Stark Tower rummaging desperately for much more suitable clothing. Stark's air-conditioning could only do so much.

Indeed, Loki was currently struggling to find anything short-sleeved; it all seemed to have been shoved unceremoniously to the bottom of his drawer over time. He wasn't usually one to fling his clothes about, but the ones he pulled out weren't tossed so gently onto the ground.

For Hel's sake, he merely needed-

His fingers froze as they brushed against something cold and hard. A flat, smooth surface, deceptively innocent.

A mirror.

Loki vaguely remembered shoving into the abyss of his drawer after venting his violent frustrations on the larger one in his room, and the other in the en-suite. His knuckles tingled eagerly at the memory, the rush of blood roaring in his ears synchronising with buried screams.

Loki had been careful to avoid his reflection; eyes pointedly darting away from the glass walls and his reflection in Stark's ridiculous sunglasses the man insisted on wearing inside. But it had been too long since he'd seen himself in such clarity.

The last time he'd seen his reflection, his skin had been vampirically pasty, strained blue veins branched across his skin and shadows engraved beneath his eyes.

Phantoms lay beneath your eyes, little prince.

The last time he'd seen his reflection, his skin had been stretched taut by protruding cheekbones, and his lips had been bloodlessly pale.

do not speak do not speak do not SPEAK—

The last time he'd seen his reflection, dead seaweed eyes had stared back at him, full of spite and hate and disgust, and Loki had wanted nothing more than for his reflection to reach out and kill him.

To desire death, to imitate death, but not to receive death. Never to receive death.

But did he truly want death now? In heart and mind and soul—away with the waters of the past that chased him daily—did he truly want death now?

There's a glow about him now, Loki could see, in the way gentle, white skin had moulded itself around cheekbones that didn't scream atrophy. His eyes had come alive with a green that leapt out and claimed a long lost jollity. The zombified look had faded with the dark circles; the phantoms had faded and gone and run away with the past.

He looked... different now.

Healthier.

He should hate this.

There was fat, clinging to him like slime, suffocating him, dragging him down to dissolve into a puddle of grease and lard.

So fat, so fat. You were so close before.

Close? Had he ever been close, ever been happy, with gelid hands clamped over ears taut with pain, an avalanche of screams commanding his brain to not eat, not drink, not breathe—