[a brow raises with disinterest.]
“I wasn’t aware you honed past experience with myself to make such a statement.”
"I’m not a particularly cautious person, if that clears anything up.”
“… it failed.”
Another scar would only add to a road-map. He’d plenty to last a lifetime, even more, but how much more would it take before he finally shattered and finally apart? Until he finally, really ,broke and crumbled into dust? He didn’t like to think about it because he didn’t think it was possible, as the elements between iron and silver are the most stable on the Periodic Table. It should apply in this case now, even if he was more than iron.
(Was he more than just iron? Would he ever be?)
Tony glances up at Loki at the feeling of his cool breath on his cheek, tempted to reach up and touch him, but he’s too comfortable where he is now, cheek against his lap.
“Still doesn’t man you can’t sleep."
He shrugged. The question is seductive and inquisitive, like the finest of blades, barely felt but piercing his arteries anyways. Loki’s supposed to be the antidote to all his pain, but all he is, is the poison running through his veins, slowly killing him, like a chestful of shrapnel.
"Nightmares, restlessness. What’s it matter? I don’t sleep.”
It is so strange, really. The two of them are absolute halves. The white chess piece, and the black. The shadow, and the light. They require one another, and in a sense, are not as brilliant without the other’s presence.
But do you realize? They are at war. The white chess piece does not comrade with the black. The shadow would never make peace with the light. They are perfect suitors; absolutely fitting together as one; but never have any two beings been more imperfect for the other.
And in some ways, Loki understands that Tony is different to him. In some ways, he wonders, if breaking him; if ruining, the very being he would go as far as to call his ‘half’; was a plan he should; could; continue.
But darkness is there to fall back on; and his soul, is riddled with black. And the black, tells him to spoil and destroy and burn.
Perhaps that’s fire, that’s making his fingertips glow.
“There are reasons,” he states, quiet. “Stress and pressure. Your mind, never truly put to rest, your conscience keeping you awake, your guilt, always there to prevent it.”
He knows him so well, now.
“What makes you guilty?” Loki will ask, voice so calm, so very soft.
“I don’t think I need to grace that with a response.”
"Though I’m sufficiently interested. I’ll give you a few more words to keep that going.”
"Alright then…”
“I would suggest Monopoly, buuuut, seeing how we just met… I wanna start things off on the right foot and uh, we would wind up killing one another. So, how about some Gin Rummy or uh, Poker? Keep it. Simple…Hm?”
"You seem so very sure of yourself.”
“I wouldn’t kill you. I don’t kill for sport, nor for trophy. Though;… you certainly seem to be the type that does.”
“I would, but I would prefer to know who you were, beforehand. More worryingly, where I am.”
“ .. You’re asking me .. where you are? Your dogs aren’t all barking, are they, my friend?”
"I’ll get my own damn drink.”
"I-… anyone in my situation would. How many times does-…“
He’s not normally this confused. "And who is it I speak with?”
“Yes, what is it? I would advise you against wasting my time.”
"I’m sorry, I’m lost..”
"I’m sorry, I don’t care.”
Thin, pianist’s fingers, make Loki very good at the arts, and during his adolescence, he spent a great amount of time playing the piano. He is very gifted with it.
