~8:13am, April 3, 2019~

Eight months prior

Waiting in line at Ground Support to grab a black coffee to bring to his meeting down at HarperCollins, Loki stared down at the Google docs app on his phone, scrolling through the fourth chapter of his third novel, which he’d started working on last month once the Sunlight madness died down a bit.  He was on page fifty-two when Sigyn’s name and picture lit up the screen, and he tapped the AirPod in his right ear twice to take the call and turn off his music.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said, looking down to slide his phone into the front zipper of the leather laptop bag slung across his torso, “you want me to swing by your office and bring you a latte on my way to HC?  I mean, I might as well since I’m already at-” he stopped, his eyebrows pulling together when he realized she was crying.

“What’s wrong, love?” he asked, head still down and keeping his voice low since the cafe was crowded with the typical busy morning rush before work.

“It’s T-tony…he’s…oh…my…g-god…”

He blinked mutely as she continued stuttering into her phone.  Turning around, he sidestepped a woman with a baby strapped to her chest and a toddler in a stroller standing in line behind him, and went back outside.  He made a left, walking to the edge of the building and stepping just inside the small alley to get out of the unseasonably chilly, blustery wind that had no business showing up in spring.

“Sig?” he spoke louder, adjusting his AirPods a bit, “Sweetheart, I can’t understand y-”

“He’s not…” she croaked, coughing into the phone on her end, then wheezed a little, sounding like she couldn’t breathe, “h-he… I… didn’t… know… he… didn’t… t-tell… m-”

“Take some deep breaths, love,” he exhaled, not saying it only for her sake.

He had enough anxiety on his own without hearing her voice sound like this.   Something was horribly wrong.

“Lo-ki… Tony… is… dying… I… I can’t… what t- do…”

Eyes blowing wide, his mouth fell open.  Had she… had she just said that Tony was… dying?

DYING?

No no no no no no no.

Bile crept up into his throat, and he put the back of his hand over his mouth.

“Wha…” he exhaled, unable to get the full word out.

He eyed the small tree planted in a tiny square of dirt on the pavement, wishing it was possible to discreetly vomit into the mulch.  He wasn’t going to risk running back into the cafe lest the restroom be occupied and locked.  The closest trash bin was up the block a bit on the other side of West Broadway, and he doubted he could make it that far.  Getting hit by a car while throwing up in the middle of the street wasn’t a good look.  He glanced around behind him, spotting the alley dumpster that the businesses in this group of buildings shared.  No, he wasn’t about to touch one of those things, and he sure as hell wouldn’t put his face anywhere near them.  Maybe he should just go ahead and throw up on the concrete.  Who would even know?  No one would see.

“Loki,” she sniffled, “are you… are you there? Please tell me you’re still there.”

God, his girl’s voice sounded so small, and it woke him from his ‘I’m going to be sick’ stupor.

“Tell me where you are,” he said, walking back out of the empty alley and instinctively turning south.

He yanked his Ray Bans- the mirrored, silver aviators he’d bought on a whim last weekend when spring fever had caught him by the throat -up off the top of his head and set them properly over his eyes.  It wasn’t sunny at all.   It was cloudy and grey and cold, the most it had been in over a month, but he needed these peacocky, envy-inducing, fucking hollow accessories to hide his now watery red eyes.

“Sig,” he spoke more forcefully because she hadn’t answered him, “tell me where you are.”

“Oh, sorry…sorry…” she stammered, “I’m… distracted…I’m so-“

“Sig, STOP,” he cut her off, uninterested in useless apologies when all he cared about was getting his arms around her, yet still didn’t know where the hell to go to make that happen.

“Tell me where you are right now,” he barked, though his tone lacked bite.

He wasn’t angry at her.  He was just desperate, and it made him want to put his fist through one of these store windows just to hear the crash of glass shattering.

Their close friend was dying, and he was only fifty.

FIFTY.

He hadn’t felt this helpless in over two years.  How was he supposed to watch Sig live through something like this?  Something as devastating as the sudden permanent loss of a man who had been like a second father to her for a decade now?  Chewing his trembling lower lip, he lifted his sunglasses for a second to rub his burning eyes.

I’m not strong enough for her.  I’m going to lose her.

He sucked in a shuddering breath, and grit his teeth, putting one foot after the other.

You need to move faster, LO.

Picking up his pace as he neared Broome Street, deftly dodging what felt like hundreds of people purposefully blocking him from his girl, he checked his left and right before hurrying through the crosswalk.  He pulled his phone out of his bag and looked down at it, pretending he didn’t see or hear the group of a dozen university-aged students on the other side of Grande Street who were discreetly waving to him.  He’d noticed them ten seconds ago, and they were probably lovely people, but if he acknowledged them at all, even with a quick wave or nod, he would have to act like he was just fine.  Like this was just another day of strolling through his neighborhood and writing and grabbing coffee or lunch with a friend.  He would have to pretend that he wasn’t on the verge of saying “fuck it” and legit running like a madman down West Broadway with his bag in the crook of his elbow.

Because he had a brand to maintain now, didn’t he.  He couldn’t just be Loki.  No, he had to be effortlessly yet perfectly coiffed with casual yet tailored GQ style, dark but not broody, deep but still accessible, privileged but not elitist, wealthy but charitable, masculine but not toxic, charming but genuine.  He had to be Loki Starboy Odinson, but not too much.

This, not that.  Yes, but not like that.  No, now you’re not doing it enough.  Woah, too much, back off, don’t over correct.  No no no NO, you’re doing it WRONG.

Most days he could do it.  Most days it was effortless, because that part of him wasn’t an act.  But that was just it- it was only a part of him.  And apparently it was the only part any of them wanted to see.  So most days he would pause to take a few selfies, exchange a few jokes, maybe even sign a few books.  Then he would say he was running late for his meeting and leave with a smirk and wink that would break a few hearts just like his publicist wanted him to do.  Seven minutes ago, this could have been one of those days.

Sigyn still wasn’t answering, just coughing and gasping.

“I’m crossing Canal Street now,” he couldn’t contain the growling, impatient edge to his voice, “so tell me where the hell you are.”

He looked up when a flash of lightning crackled across the clouds above him.  He hadn’t even noticed those clouds.  Maybe he had, but had mentally waved them off because surely the universe wasn’t this sickeningly maudlin.   God, the critics would rip him to shreds if he wrote a death scene in the middle of a thunderstorm.

Teeth gritting, he ripped his sunglasses off his face since it was too dark to use them now and slid them into his bag, unconcerned with scratching the lenses or bending them, because only one thing in his entire world mattered right now, and she couldn’t be replaced like some trendy piece of metal and plastic.

“I’m at Tony’s penthouse.”

He barely heard her soft voice over the deafening crack of thunder.  Squinting into the wind, he pulled up his collar.

Don’t rain yet, Don’t rain yet, Don’t rain yet.

“His building is 56 Leonard, yes?”

His eyes landed on the skinny, mirrored, skyscraper up ahead.  If he just focused on that sixty story, glass covered lighthouse in this suddenly claustrophobic sea of brick and concrete and too many people, he wouldn’t drown.

“56 Leonard,” she confirmed, sniffling quietly.

She sounded so far away.

“Loki, I need you,” she croaked.

With his hands in his jacket pockets and his heart in his throat, he crossed onto 6th ave.

Four blocks to go.

“Give me 5, sweetheart.”

Five minutes.  That’s all he needed.  And he nailed it.  Right on the dot.

Sigyn stood on the other side of the elevator when it opened in front of him on the top floor, a look of disbelief and devastation written all over her face.

“He saw an oncologist in December,” she said quietly, looking at the floor as he stepped off the lift before the doors closed on him.

Coming up to her, he slid one arm around her ribs and cupped the back of her head with his other hand.  She lifted her tired eyes to his.

“The guy said he had six months at most.”

His mouth fell open, speechless.

“Oh…” was all he managed.

What am I… what am I supposed to say?

“He only told his wife,” she whispered, shaking in his hold.

He studied her face silently for a moment, running his thumb under her eyes, unintentionally smudging streaks of dark eyeliner and mascara across her wet cheeks.  She looked like a wreck, and much like a car wreck, he couldn’t look away.

“Tell me this is just a nightmare, Loki.”

Her eyes roved over his face, searching for an answer that wasn’t there.

“Tell me I’m going to wake up from it, and he’ll be fine.”

Staring back at her, he pressed his lips together.  He was a damn good liar, but he wouldn’t lie to her.  He wouldn’t say the words she wanted to hear because they wouldn’t change a thing.  Pretty lies wouldn’t turn back the clock.  They would only prolong denial and delusion.  He let out a heavy sigh, hating that he was only human- that he was powerless to remove the cancer that was killing their friend.

Please don’t kill my girl too.

She leaned her cheek against his chest and clung to him.

“I’ve got you, love,” he whispered, pulling her closer as she mumbled “please wake up” on repeat.

He looked out the floor to ceiling windows when the first heavy raindrops pattered against the glass, sounding eerily similar to the clinking of crystal champagne flutes at midnight.

All my New Years are yours.

Seconds later, hard wind-driven rain began pelting the windows like the clouds had a personal vendetta against them.

---

~7:20PM, April 7, 2019~

Four Days Later

Standing amidst the closest friends and family of Tony Stark on a Battery Park City rooftop terrace terrace owned by the elderly father that Tony had left behind, Loki squinted up at the threatening sky over his head, a shiver shooting down his spine as the wind whipped around them.  He wouldn’t be shaking like a leaf if Sig would have just done what he’d suggested and brought her own damn jacket, but of course she hadn’t, and she was now wearing his raincoat over her short-sleeved, knee-length black dress.  He still had his suit jacket, but still.

He hadn’t worn a tie with this charcoal slim cut suit, opting instead to leave the top two buttons of his black dress shirt open, which had been perfectly acceptable before he’d so generously given away his outerwear.  Now his neck was entirely exposed to the elements while standing on top of a 25-story skyscraper overlooking the Hudson.  He should have known that he would end up giving his coat to her the second she got into his car and said “the best thing about your car is the heated seats.”   He should have pulled up the electric parking brake that second and gone back upstairs to grab her coat.  Ah, hindsight.

Everyone had gathered up here for what was supposed to be a private, outdoor sunset memorial service, but low-lying clouds had been hovering and merging together over Manhattan all afternoon, and their tops were now high in the stratosphere, dark and ominous and ready to drop yet another severe thunderstorm over their heads at any second.   The peace lilies standing proudly in strategically placed planters around the terrace didn’t stand a chance against the absurdly strong wind.  Their lovely white petals were torn from their stems with all the care and compassion that an insidious child would show to a cicada while ripping its legs off just for the hell of it during summer break.  If he wouldn’t look completely off his rocker for doing so, he would scream “enough with the theatrics!-we get it!-end scene!!” at those absurd clouds.

With his arm around Sigyn’s shoulders, and hers around his waist, they followed everyone back inside Howard Stark’s home halfway through the ceremony just in time to avoid the downpour.  To think, the old man was pushing 90, yet here he was, standing upright on his own, while his 50-year old son’s body was reduced to nothing but finely ground bones inside an urn sitting on his coffee table.  Why did kismet have to be so goddamn ruthless?

Loki stared blankly out the western windows, deja vu hitting him like a ton of bricks as he watched Lady Liberty all but disappear behind nearly opaque sheets of rain.  Hadn’t he done this four days ago?  Hadn’t he said goodbye to someone on the top floor of a highrise that was shaking from the thunder crashing all around it?  Yes, he had.

Are we done now?

Somewhere in the distance, or maybe it was only a few feet away, he heard Howard’s priest reading scripture that sounded emptier than the four leftover tumblers of scotch on the rocks that he’d seen Tony’s widow go through over the past hour.  Loki glanced at the stoic clergyman for a second then returned his eyes to the storm outside.  Why in god’s name- pun intended -was a religious leader speaking at this gathering?  Tony hadn’t set foot inside a church since the Berlin Wall came down in ‘89.  Speaking of walls…the handwriting was all over the one currently standing next to him- the one Sig was putting up around her.  Glaring, neon flashes of lightning spray-painted the words across the shadows in her face:

Better get used to the dark, Starboy-  that sunlight is fading fast.

Neither of them wanted to stick around to mingle after the service ended fifteen minutes later, so now they stood behind the glass entrance doors to the building, waiting for the valet to bring his car around from the garage down the block.  Admittedly it was a bit insensitive to show up to a somber event in a slightly attention-grabbing vehicle, but he wanted to drive his car today.  He just wanted to get inside this gorgeous creature with all the chaotic potential in the universe, and control the hell out of it because it was the only living thing amidst all this death.

Oh, he needed to write that one down: Get Inside a Gorgeous Creature and Control the Hell Out of It.

Definitely in the running for the title of his third book.  Rated E for explicit extended sexual metaphors.  His parents would be so proud.

He heard the rumble of said gorgeous creature long before he saw it coming around the corner of the building.  They made a dash for it before the valet managed to open an umbrella for them.  After opening her door and helping her inside, he handed the man an especially generous tip, and ducked into the driver’s seat.  Running a hand through his hair to push the damp strands off his face, he watched her dig out a hair tie from her mini bag, then twist it around her previously straightened hair.  As she pushed the curling flyaways behind her ears, he stared at the water droplets sliding down her neck.

Lucky raindrops.

Tearing his eyes away to check his left mirror, he shifted gears and pulled away from the curb and into the street.  Before he reached the first stop sign, he glanced both ways.  A steady line of cars were coming up fast from both directions.  If he stopped, he would be stuck at this insipid intersection for five minutes.  He should stop.  These wet streets might make him spin out, and his girl was in here, but he floored it instead, the powerful engine revving, taking the hard left turn like it was made for it.

Bloody hell, the handling in this thing…

In his periphery he saw Sigyn push back into her seat and roll her head to the side to look at him.

“I had plenty of room,” he explained before she could say anything.  He was in no mood to be scolded for driving aggressively.

She continued quietly gazing at him, and as he pulled to a stop at the red light at Albany Street, he switched on his right turn signal, watching the cars coming from his left.  The cross traffic here was far too heavy to turn on red, so he took the opportunity to skip through the songs on his phone that had automatically connected to the car’s Bluetooth until he landed on a track moody enough for his liking.

“Loki, you are driving a little too-” she stopped mid-sentence when he eyed her sideways.

I swear, if you tell me to be more careful, I’ll make you walk home.

She blinked slowly, looking as though she’d just finished off four vodka tonics.

“-honestly…it’s just too…”

Woman. I swear.

“-sexy.”

Thank you.

Wait…what?

His lips parted, breathing faster when she set her hand on his knee, then achingly slowly, inch by inch, dragged her palm up his inner thigh.

Oh fuck-

The light changed, and she stilled her hand.  Foot on the gas, he instinctively pushed his hips forward, forcing his eyes to stay on the road even though he wanted to close them and let his head fall back as her fingers grazed him through his trousers.  His quiet groan was overpowered by the exhaust pipes making that obnoxiously loud “pop pop pop” sound that he loved as he turned the wheel.  By hell, she was barely touching him, but he was responding as though she’d unzipped his fly and shoved her face in his lap.

How much longer was it to her place?  Fifteen minutes?  Might as well be a century with her looking at him like that, all dark eyes and flushed cheeks.  He saw her lick her lips out the corner of his eye.

God DAMN, sweetheart, put those to better use and wrap them around me.

“I would do what you’re thinking about if that cop wasn’t right next to us,” she spoke low, her voice as smoky as her eyeliner and that half-full pack of American Spirits in the glove box that he was sure he would need after he was done taking her to cloud nine somewhere around midnight.

A lifetime of climbing heart rates and counting heavy breaths later, he pulled up to her building.  Reaching for the door handle, she paused before opening the door, and turned back toward him.

“I know I always have a hard time remembering, but you own a parking spot in the garage a block from your place, right?”

“It’s a monthly lease, but same difference.  I sent a message on their app to pick up my car from your address, and they should be here in-” he looked at his watch “-three minutes.”

Eyeing his mouth, she placed her hand flat on his chest where it was exposed by his open shirt buttons, then she leaned across the middle console and kissed him.  He made a sound in the back of his throat- not a growl exactly, but close -and grabbed the back of her neck, pulling her hair hard enough to elicit a muffled yelp from her.

“Sorry,” he said, instinctively loosening his grip for a second before forgetting entirely and pulling it again as he resumed kissing her.

Even though it had clearly stung her for a second, she gasped and moaned and pressed further into him with each tug.  Good thing too, since he was going to pull on those long, waving, fucking gorgeous locks even harder for several hours.  They hadn’t done this since before Tony died.  For some reason, it had seemed inappropriate.  Now it seemed ridiculous.  Eight days without jumping into bed with her was the sexual equivalent to getting excessively hangry for him.  She whined his name against his mouth, drawing out the second syllable like she was about to beg him for something, and oh god whatever it was, he would give it to her.

“Lo…god!” she shrieked, pulling away abruptly when someone knocked on his window.

She grabbed her bag and dashed out the door.  It slammed behind her as she ran into her building with the tiny bag over her head.  Quite a useless umbrella.  As soon as the garage’s private parking attendant scanned the monthly pass on his windshield and checked his ID, Loki ran after her, splashing through puddles while shouting “not a scratch!” behind his shoulder.  The moment he set foot in her apartment, she grabbed his open collar, pulling his face down to hers for another intense kiss that stole all the oxygen from his lungs.

Can’t breathe, sweetheart.

Well who needs air anyway?  He reached behind his back, blindly twisting the deadbolt on the door as she unbuttoned his shirt with shaking fingers.  Refusing to pull away from her lips, he yanked off his rain soaked suit jacket and tossed it in the general direction of the arm of the couch.  He bent down to grab the hem of her dress, and dragged it up over her hips and waist.  He leaned away from her just long enough to pull it over her head before finding her mouth again, then shrugged out of his shirt as she fumbled with his belt buckle.  The second it clinked open, her hands froze in place.  Fingers clutching his belt, her mouth went still against his.  She stopped breathing altogether, as did he.  Two years ago he would’ve asked what was wrong- “ Did I hurt you? Did you hear something? Did someone knock or something? Don’t tell me you actually JUST got your period.”

But it wasn’t two years ago, and he didn’t need to ask.  He lifted his eyes to hers, not surprised to see tears in them.  Lips trembling, she let go of his belt and put a hand over her eyes.

“I know I started this, but…I can’t,” her voice had never sounded so weak, “something is wrong, and and and…I don’t know what exactly…or how to explain-”

“You don’t have to explain anything,” he said, forcing a gentle tone despite wanting to throw something.  Certainly not at her.   Just, maybe, at the wall or through the window.  He was not in any way upset with her.  Not at all.  After this wretched week, she just wanted to feel good- incredible, actually -and he was right there with her.

“Please don’t leave me,” she whispered, reaching up to hold his neck, her fingers threading through his hair and clamping onto the strands, almost painfully, “please stay with me.”

His jaw dropped, a deep frown creasing his rain damp forehead.  Did she really think she needed to beg him to stay?  God, even if she wasn’t shaking like a vulnerable and gorgeous October leaf on the verge of losing its hold on a branch, even if her eyes weren’t wet and rounded with fear of the hellish fall to the ground, he would never be able to walk away from her.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said, his voice cracking as he slid his arms around her, ignoring the sting of her nails on the back of his neck.

Unless it’s with you.

She tightened her hold on his neck, pulling her body somehow closer to him.  Even if he wanted to go, she wouldn’t let him, would she.

LO’s Forever Dream Girl- Careful, she’s a helluva drug.

---

~9:39AM, May 9, 2019~

One Month Later

Yanking his towel off the rack next to the foggy glass shower door, Loki wrapped it around his waist and grabbed his knife from the window ledge before stepping onto the heated bathroom tiles.  He leaned back against the edge of the slab granite vanity, wringing out his dripping wet hair with a smaller hand towel.

“Ah… fuck,” he hissed, wincing when it snagged on a clump of knotted tangles.

Gritting his teeth, he threw the thing harder than necessary at the laundry basket next to the sink, then he picked up his knife again, opening and closing it over and over.

Swing open.

Click.

Pull closed.

Click.

Swing open.

Click.

Pull closed.

Click.

He stared down at the jagged, curved edge, and touched it with his thumb, testing the sharpness.  Careful not to nick himself because, yes, it was still razor sharp, he resumed opening and closing it with a heavy sigh.  What day was it?  Monday?  Wait…no, it had to be Saturday since Sig was here at his place in the middle of the day.  Lips pursing, he squinted at the opposite wall.

Thursday.  It’s Thursday.  You’re having lunch with Val.

Staring blankly ahead, he shook his head.  Sig must have taken a personal day or something.  Maybe.  He hadn’t asked.  The past month was one monstrous jumble of frayed, bizarre wires turning his head into mush that rendered it impossible to write anything remotely comprehensible.  Virginia Woolf herself wouldn’t follow that stream of consciousness disaster (current working title: FML) on his laptop.  Just stare at the screen with glazed, unseeing eyes and tap, tap, tap, tap.  He was one day away from writing “all work and no play makes Loki a dull boy” until he was blue in the face.

I swear, if I start seeing creepy little girls at the end of my hallway…

Tony’s death had hit Sig even harder than he’d imagined it would, and as though the universe had permanently taped his eyes open, everyday he was forced to watch her disappear behind the clouds.  She didn’t leave her apartment (or his, if she slept here), except to go to work.  She slept no more than two hours every night.  She barely ate, and it showed in the more pronounced hollows of her cheeks and in the lost muscle tone in her arms and shoulders and thighs.

That whole “100% pure dream girl- careful, she’s a helluva drug” reference took on an entirely new meaning now that his girl was sporting that bone thin “all my calories come from smokes and nose candy” look, which had no business being anywhere other than in a mid-90s Calvin Klein ad.  Of course he was still attracted to her, but one can’t just, you know, not eat.   He knew this version of her wasn’t healthy for her.   He wanted her to put some meat back on her ribs, but he didn’t want to say it.  The last thing she needed was to think even less of herself, and he doubted she would interpret his concern as anything other than “Loki thinks I’m ugly now.”

Absolutely untrue, gorgeous girl, but you won’t believe me, will you.

Speaking of not eating, he had to remind her to feed Sketch every day.   How exactly does one not notice their cat meowing incessantly at them?  Obvious answer was critical cognitive dysfunction due to a lack of food and sleep.  He needn’t have a medical degree to figure that one out.  Oh, and another highly disruptive problem- They hadn’t had sex in a month.  She wouldn’t even kiss him.  That said, she most certainly was not avoiding all physical contact.  No, when she laid next to him in bed or on the couch, she held onto him like he was her lifeboat in open water.  He loved the closeness, the way she clung to him, but the selfish part of him was so far beyond frustrated that he couldn’t see straight.  He wanted more, but more importantly, he wanted her to want more.

His knife glinted in the dusty sunbeams coming through his window, reflecting the light onto the wall.  Eyes following the little circle of light moving back and forth, up and down, he continued mindlessly opening and closing the blade.  There it was.  Sunlight.  It was only a hint of its continued existence, but it was still there.  Right?  It had to be.  He needed it to be.

Up until now, the less evolved part of his brain had concocted an all too real fantasy wherein the persistent lifelong whiplash between the high-as-the-stars-ups and seventh-circle-of-hell-lows was over because when Sig burst into his life two years ago, his screwed up head seemed to finally get its shit together.  Certainly she was human, and therefore a flawed creature who was fully capable of falling apart, of being pushed to her limits, of getting down on herself, of crying herself to sleep just because, but nine thousand nine hundred ninety-ninety times out of ten thousand, she did so in his arms, and in doing so, she had remained that ever fixed bright globe of fire that his entire world desperately needed to orbit around.  Now it seemed even the sun herself was no match for whatever fault was embedded in his code. 

Ugh- his incessantly positive mother (who he loved to death) had always said that he wouldn’t be a successful writer if his mind wasn’t so tricky.  He rolled his eyes at the thought.  He must have said “Mum, it isn’t worth it…it’s NEVER been worth it” a thousand times.  Perhaps one of the least “worth it” parts of it was all the well-intentioned advice (see: rubbish) from ignorant know-it-alls to last a lifetime:

“Kicking the soda habit will ease anxiety.  Trust me.”

“Oh Loki, you just need more vitamin D.”

“Aren’t you manic depressive, Loki?  You might wanna rethink that drink.  Alcohol is a DEPRESSANT.”

Their unsolicited advice was infuriating, and he responded to it only slightly better than he would to seeing someone key his car- ie: restraining murderous violence with vindictive, bitchy words:

“Uh, I don’t have a soda habit, but for certain, if YOU kicked your popped-collar-khaki-cargo-shorts-boat-shoe habit, THAT would ease my anxiety.  Trust me.”

Seriously.  Certain fashion choices made his eyes bleed.

“No, darling, YOU need more vitamin D- wait…oh you meant I need more sun?  Ah, I thought you were using slang for dick.”

Please.  As though he actually gave a damn about their sex lives, or lack there of.  One had to be in a highly exclusive circle of people in his life to receive the privilege of his commentary concerning such things.  Namely: Val, Thor, JB, Sam and Darcy.  His sister Hela had once been in said circle, but the one time he jokingly shared his thoughts, she clocked him on the jaw, so…

God, never again.

She’d called it a love pat.  Right…a love pat that knocked him unconscious.  To think, she was his favorite in the family.  Oh, and unless one had a death wish, they would do well to avoid calling him manic depressive.

“Fear not, if this one measly glass of bubbly, which we all know is unheard of on December 31st, knocks me off of my ever so manic depressive feet, I’ll inhale a bit of stardust to put the pep back in my step, mmm-kay?  Now how’s about you catch up to the 1980s, and use the term Bipolar, you fucking FOSSIL.”

Yes, he had said those exact words to a HarperCollins exec at a New Years Eve 2016 party, and he had zero regrets.  It wasn’t as though he was scared of being fired for getting snarky.  That, and the help-I’ve-fallen-and-can’t-get-up dinosaur had been blind drunk, and forgot he’d been told off by that “good-looking Starboy author” who “looked like a younger version of himself” (HAHAHA… DYING) within ten minutes.

Whatever.  If these nanny-type hall monitors only showed up once in a blue moon, he could shrug it off, but this shit happened far too often for him to say “duly noted” and walk away.  So yes, he got a bit mean- who cared?  It was better than punching their lights out, yes?  They were lucky he had physical self-control coming out of his ears at this point (thank you proper pharmaceuticals and Krav Maga).  Come on, keeping a knife on him would be more than a little idiotic, and land him in jail , if he cut every person who told him he was making naughty life choices.

Now remember, LO, no matter how much you might want to, you don’t get stabby with Karen, okay?

Much easier to snap at them, then ghost them, fire them, block them, delete them- all of it.  Oh, he must have dumped at least twenty girlfriends for trying to turn him into their archaic, baseless ideas of a “real” man.  And what the hell did that even mean?  Did they think he would stick around and listen to their “advice” too?  Pfft, the sex wasn’t that good.  Of course one of them actually did believe that he would stick around just for her “talents” in bed.

Lucifer herself-

Amora Tress belonged in a padded room, and coming from him , that was saying something.  He should have dumped her after the third date, but for some entirely self-loathing reason that was in no way related to that empty as hell sex, he dated her for thirteen maddening months .  In the three years of therapy since then, he was fairly certain his “reasoning” had something to do with that assault when he was 17, a younger sibling inferiority complex, and daddy issues.

Oh but what had the final straw been?  Had it been her verbal abuse?  Had it been because he came home one day and found her actually shredding his entire closet with a pair of kitchen shears?  Had it been because she’d stolen his laptop and deleted his first draft of Starboy from the hard drive like some Alcatraz escapee?  As though he wouldn’t have saved another copy of it elsewhere?!

ALWAYS KEEP A BACKUP OF A BACKUP.

No, it hadn’t been any of those obvious reasons to get the hell out of that situation.  Instead, it had been on March 15, 2016—because why wouldn’t a backstabber go for the kill on the Ides of March?

Lip curling, he continued his silent study of the circle of light on the bathroom wall and grit his teeth, flipping open and closing his knife with more force because, fucking hell, remembering it made his blood boil.   That day was cemented in his memory as though it had happened yesterday.  The CCTV in his parking garage with supposed 24/7 security caught his evil ex skipping (no joke) up to his car at 3:07am that morning to commit the crime of the century—

SHE SLASHED MY BRAND NEW $1700 TIRES.

How am I still THIS angry after THREE YEARS?

At least those two security guards on duty caught evil incarnate attempting to sacrifice his Jag to her dark lord before she bashed his taillights with a golf club too.  They detained her in their office and called the cops, and him, of course, but he hadn’t answered because it had been, you know, 3:15 in the morning…

“You’ve reached Loki.  If this is an emergency, please hang up and dial someone else because I don’t care.”

The one time Loki actually would have cared.

“Uh, yeah, hi, Mr. Odinson, I apologize for calling at this hour, but, um, this is Max from City Parking on West Broad—”

The other attendant had been in a panic, shouting in the background.

“Woah woah woah woah wait noooooo—that’s PRINCE LO’S car?!”

Stars above, Loki despised that moniker.  It started floating around the overly privileged (guilty) lower west side social scene around 2011 thanks to his real estate “king” father, and he wanted to throttle the not-as-clever-as-they-thought-they-were idiot who started it.  The background attendant had shouted something about telling his mother that he loved her and regretting that he hadn’t deleted his search history while ‘Max from City Parking’ continued the voicemail.

“There was a security situation here that unfortunately impacted your vehicle — “

“I’m not a SITUATION—”

Amora’s voice had been shrill and echo-y somewhere in that small security office…

“—I am a HUMAN— “

Nice try.  A demon spawn is not a human.

“ —and you are illegally detaining me!”

“A woman named Amora Tress is the responsible party, and the authorities have been notified.  Please call me as soon as possible.  Again, my name is Max, and my number is —”

Loki had seen the missed call four hours later, after lacing up his sneakers, grabbing his phone, putting in his earbuds (ah the days of tangled wires before AirPods), and walking out of his building for his morning run.  He didn’t get the voicemail alert until he was at the corner of Desbrosses and Greenwich, about an 11 minute run away from the garage.  By that point, the damage had been done, so he just called to say he was on his way and calmly ran back to it.  Naturally, the calm ended the second he saw his tires.  Never in his life had he wanted to choke someone to death.  She was lucky the cops had arrested her on charges of criminal mischief in the second degree, and he couldn’t reach her neck behind those jail bars.

At some point (Loki couldn’t recall the exact date) she pleaded ‘no contest’ after bargaining with the prosecutor that lowered the charges from a class D felony to a misdemeanor instead.  She avoided a 5 year prison sentence in favor of a $3,000 fine—crumbs to her trust fund bank account—and a sixth month probation.  He never bothered to actually break up with her.  He just blocked her number, as well as her social, and filed a restraining order against her.

Head shaking, Loki set his knife down on the counter and ran a hand through his hair.  Why was he wasting the little mental energy he had left on some of his worst memories, all of which involved people that he’d never loved?  Releasing a heavy breath through his mouth, he refocused his thoughts on the person he did love.  Honestly, if Sig slashed his tires, he would probably manage to somehow find it arousing.  Or compliment her knife skills.  Not that he didn’t already know this but-

MAD LOVE (adjective + noun) def. Unable to think in a clear or sensible way when in the presence of someone for whom one experiences frantic desire for and/or is excessively fond.  Example: Loki Odinson, upon seeing Sigyn Frey smile at him on 01 January 2017, developed a severe case of mad love, which is to this day, incurable.  See also: Helluva drug.

Leaning his head back, Loki pulled both hands down his face.  At what point would he be forced to tell her (not just mention in passing) to go to a doctor and get an Rx to knock her out at night?  The idea of saying “this is what you SHOULD do” went against everything in him, but it had now been a month, and with her tossing and turning in his bed, he was barely making it through the days.  He had tried a dozen times to get up and go to the couch instead, but she cried some version of “please don’t go, I’ll be still, I promise” every time, and every time, the guilt for even thinking of leaving her alone forced him to stay put.

Yes, but you’re on the verge of an episode thanks to this god awful sleep deprivation, LO.

Jaw clenching, Loki looked at the floor.  That version of him was not all spontaneous fun and boundless, euphoric creative energy.  Shiny Happy Loki sounded great in theory, but that whole “I am a god, no seriously, I am a GOD, you dull creatures” part had a tendency to land him in a hospital, and the crash from the high was even worse.   He’d been shockingly stable in the two years that he’d been with Sig, but that didn’t mean it would stay that way if he continued down this road.  His meds and CBT and gym sessions could only do so much.

“I really will start seeing creepy shit at the end of my hallway,” he mumbled, running his hand through his hair again.

You cannot put this off any longer, LO.  You have to tell her today.  She has to go to a doctor.

Nodding once to himself, Loki turned to go back to his bedroom, but he jumped, grabbing the edge of the counter when he saw Sigyn standing in the doorway.

“Dammit, Sig,” he exhaled, rolling his eyes, “you need to wear a bell.”

Sigyn dropped her eyes from his to look at the floor instead, and Loki’s stomach twisted.  He had a sinking feeling about that look on her face.  He always had a sinking feeling.  He’d been sinking for over a month, and a part of him really wished his body would just give up and drown already.

“So…” Sigyn said, picking at her thumbnail as that one syllable hovered over Loki’s head like a raincloud threatening to open up and drench him.

He swallowed. “So…what?”

She didn’t answer, just continued to chip away at the dark purple nail polish on her thumb.  His heart was pounding so hard, it actually hurt his ribs.  Why wasn’t Sig saying anything?

Oh my god she’s breaking up with me.

Was this why Sig hadn’t gone to work?  After all he’d done for her?!  Was this the “we need to talk” conversation that they were never supposed to have because 100% pure forever dream girl Sigyn Frey was supposed to be Loki Starboy Odinson’s goddamn endgame?!

I was a thirty-SIX year old loaded gun.

This isn’t happening…

A bottle of oxy…

It wasn’t supposed to be like this…

A noose around the neck.

Not with THIS girl…

A razor to the wrist.

PLEASE DON’T END THIS, SIG!

“I’m seeing my doctor’s PA at ten,” Sigyn said quietly, lifting her eyes to Loki’s, “and I haven’t seen her before, but I need to see someone, and I want you to come with me, if that’s okay.”

All the air in Loki’s lungs spilled out so fast it gave him a headrush.  Sig wasn’t breaking up with him.  She just wanted him to help her.  Could one die of relief?  Bloody hell, he adored her, and if she genuinely knew how much, she might think he needed to increase his dose.

“Of course it’s okay,” Loki said after finding his voice, blinking rapidly to clear the salt burning his eyes, “I’ll text Val that I need a raincheck on lunch.”

Rocking up onto the balls of his feet, he stretched forward, and pulled Sigyn into him, though it felt like she’d yanked him to her rather than the other way around.  She glanced back and forth between his eyes, then exhaled slowly.

“I just…I…I really need you…just you…no one else,” Sigyn whispered, reaching inside Loki’s chest, digging her nails in, and dragging him to her by the bleeding mess of heart strings now twisted around her fingers.

Sigyn Elena Frey was not only the sun, but also the moon, constantly dragging Loki’s confused, chaotic tides toward her from hundreds of thousands of miles away.  He leaned his forehead down to hers.

“I’ll go anywhere you want me to.”