“You’re right.” No sense in sugarcoating it or, worse, lying. He wouldn’t have been angry had he not witnessed Vel with drink in hand, or perhaps the situation would have gone differently were they not two stubborn, highly strung individuals. Who knew. Though, if asked, it wasn’t necessarily anger that flowed through his veins in that moment. Disappointment, perhaps, but worry, especially. It streamed through his form like a drum, thrumming in all areas, straining him emotionally.
Loki did not back down from his goal even as Vel slightly pulled his hand away. He could feel those eyes glued to him and yet still refused to look at him, primarily because he was too focused on the wound. The grip he had on Vel’s wrist briefly tightened–though not terribly–when movement was made to pull back, returning the appendage back to where it had been so he could resume examining. With his free hand, two fingers hovered just above the wound, working to heal the cut with the sort of casual dexterity that comes with an action one’s completed countless times before. It took seconds to mend the injury, skin flawless–apart from the blood that remained–as though it hadn’t just been marred. The hand was dropped, then, but only so Loki could busy himself by searching for a washcloth or a paper towel of sorts that he could dampen in order to clean the blood up. One was located, and when he returned he finally lifted his eyes to look into Vel’s own as he worked to wipe the blood up off the healed hand.
No answer was given to the question that was posed at him. At least, nothing verbal. A stare, that sort of warning look, certainly was given, however. “You need to stop,” he spoke, finally, voice even softer than before even though his gaze was still hardened. Now, it was less out of anger and more guarded, shielding something away behind a thick wall. “I know it’s not easy to, but it’s not healthy to rely on it and I refuse to let you poison yourself as you are.”
The flinch was harsh when their eyes met, & a small part of Vel wished his raven-haired love hadn’t made eye contact at all. Could he not leave well enough alone? He took his hand back but did not bother looking at it as he did so. He knew what Loki was capable of; there would be no evidence of his anger aside from the glass on the floor — not even a scar upon his flesh.
“You don’t get to decide this for me.” A pause, unwavering as he took a step back & leaned against the wall behind him. Arms came up to cross over themselves in what was very obviously a protective, defensive gesture, & in his silence his gaze went to the window. The dim light made it possible to see the trees outside, if only barely.
“Has it not occurred to you that I turn to such things not only because they give me respite but because they are not healthy?” The words were flowing freely, now, the alcohol helping them along. “We are not made of the same things, you & I. There’s fire in your veins, burning, but I’m made something else entirely; I don’t fear poison, I crave it.”
With a sigh he pushed off from where he stood & walked over to the window, opening it in an attempt to get some air — perhaps will himself to be more sober despite how he desperately wished to be anything but. He was tense, shoulders rigid, curled into himself as much as he could be while standing. Silence reigned for a time & when he spoke, he didn’t turn, but his voice was significantly quieter with far less bite than it had been. "Loki.” Quiet, so quiet. Leave me be. “Is it worth it?”
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