ひまわり の こころ

i think a lot of his nights at home end the same way: he'll be reading, and realize that he hasn't been paying attention for awhile. reorganizing his office and finding that he's caught up moving things around that don't really make a difference. writing, and he can't read his own hand anymore.

showers at night. probably whenever he comes home from somewhere tbh believes in the idea of "not bringing the day into bed."

shower. teeth brushing. not always in that order. 9/10 for flossing habits. moisturizes. simple hair routine. that's probably it??

i see him as a pajama-set kind of guy?? will strip his shirt if he gets too hot at night but i also imagine that he can keep himself pretty well regulated generally. slippers if he thinks he'll lounge around a little more - no cold feet - or barefoot if he's going straight to his bed

wakes up early. i think this is unpopular BUT HEAR ME OUT—it's not because he wants to, but because it's a habit. he was raised as a prince, and i imagine that comes with a lot of early mornings. he would've been so keyed into being a good one that he would've sucked it up and woken up with the sun

conversely i think he's still more of a night person. appreciates the quiet of it, the lack of expectation, the ability to think. the middleground would be: loki doesn't sleep much.

except for when he does, and it's solid, and the kind you hate to interrupt.

funny. sometimes he means to be, other times it's completely accidental. very dry, sarcastic sense of humor that you have to squint past to realize that it's not aimed to be pointed. if you get past that, though, he's easy to see through

reads multiple books at once. partly because he's bored, partly because each book he has open fits a specific mood he's in.

collects hobbies?? that don't have any real value?? he's at the point now where he's learning to fill time. also collects hobbies as a way of being self sufficient: dinners that he enjoys eating, house repair that makes him feel useful.

likes routine when it feels like comfort and not constraint.

there's a market not very far away. he walks to it when he needs things like bread or cheese, sometimes a jar of honey, occasionally a trinket. a handful of people recognize him for who he is, what he's done; for the most part, they all stay quiet about it. in the beginning, loki shies away from their questions—he doesn't feel the need or the right to defend himself. over time, he'll open up subtlety: offers comments on the things he buys, brings treatment if he notices a neighbor's cough, starts to linger like he belongs rather than like he's a shadow to fade away.

he flexes his magic like a muscle to be used, but not as a means to replace manual work. his home is warded; his coat is always the correct temperature. he wants to enjoy his power again, the way that he was taught to. when he's sleepy, he'll make illusions: orbs of light around his room, flickering and dancing with the laziest twitch of his fingers. he'll deny the way that he'll occasionally recreate the night sky on his ceiling, just to prove to himself that he can.

he keeps his hair just around shoulder length - sometimes longer, or shorter, mostly just depending on the timing of things. he likes clothes that aren't scratch - cottons, and linens, picked for their durability and not for their price tag. typically, he keeps to the darker color scheme he's always known.

he has an assortment of rings. which is a kind way of saying, he has a hoard of rings. on any day, he'll wear no less than four. they vary in size, and metal; doesn't care if the metals are "mixed", because they all are specific in their meaning. there are some heirloom, and antique, and even a few that he's made himself. there are some with runes etched in, a few that have gems in them, and a few that he likes just because. there's a ceramic bowl on his nightstand where he he keeps the one that he wears the most often.

there's always a bowl of fruit in the kitchen. orange and apples, typically; occasionally pears.

he whittles, as a means to keep his hands busy. small trinkets litter his house: small animals line the bookshelf, geometric shapes in his living room. he has an unfinished game set stored in a box that he just hasn't gotten around to finishing yet.

never wears shoes in his house. everyday pairs tend to get left next to the doorway, nicer pairs and things he doesn't wear as much stay stored in his closet.

his closet is nice. organized by occasion. will use his magic to keep wrinkles away.

there's a shelf in his kitchen that's unofficially designated for the assortment of bottles that thor brings when he visits. there's a fair amount of bottles on the shelf.

most don't make it past the initial reach. the flickering look in their eyes that alerts loki to their intent. it's in that same moment where loki decides how much of his effort is worth using—are they a threat, or simply an annoyance?

he knew early on that being touched was hardly about him. it was about who could try and who could succeed.

he wasn’t an open invitation. he wasn’t something to be proven. he did not allow hands on him as evidence of access.

he was a boundary not to be crossed.

so he stopped it. with the surgical efficiency that he held so naturally.

he was cold. clean. definitive.

but now, his hair is longer. kisses his trapezius, curls beautifully at the end.

with time came change.

with change came exception.

with you, it's not a game. you don't reach for him as means to stake a claim; you reach for him like a question. you reach for him like you have all the patience in the world for an answer.

sometimes you don't touch him at all, simply content to share his space.

he decides that means more to him than he expected unknowingly, he decides he prefers it when you do reach for him.

when you touch him, it's like clean air. he realizes, not for the first time, that there's not an audience.

eventually, he leans into it.

he almost never outright asks for your hands on him—mostly, he suggests, trusting that you'll know.

in the quiet of the night, when it's been a long day. you've curled into the corner of your couch, the one that sits in your living room that's been warmed by the glow of candlelight and fireplace. your tea has gone cold, but it still sits on the table next to you. your eyes are heavy, but the book you've been reading still lays in your lap.

he comes in, quiet as a ghost. clears the room in five short steps, dropping to the floor in front of you. it's a soft motion, when he leans against the cushion next to your knee, it's loud.

you react like a habit, your hand drifting and finding the softness of his scalp. your fingers card through his hair, slowly. absentmindedly, like this is how the two of you were always meant to fit together.

loki doesn't tense anymore, doesn't search for reasons of why and what would they want from me. his shoulders slump, and his palm finds your knee.

he makes a quiet quip about the book you're reading, the one you'd stolen from his bookshelf. your hands still, long enough to gently tug on a curl, saying that he'd just left it laying around.

when you start reading again, it's aloud.

sleep comes intermittently.

unsure of the hours, you'd blink your eyes open, thinking it's time to get up.

but you stay, curled into the bed, tangled in sheets. your head felt blurry, and your brain felt like it was wrapped in cotton.

when the door opens, it's so quiet that you're barely aware of it. you don't bother opening your eyes—you know it's loki, would know him with or without your sight.

he moves across the room slowly, with measured footsteps, as if he were aware of the pounding at the base of your skull.

he stops just shy of the bed, dropping to one knee. you shift, the barest offering of proof of life.

"i’ll get up in a moment," you mumble.

"you will not," he answers, voice firm. not disappointed. loki's hand dips underneath the blankets, stopping before he makes contact with your forehead. "can i?"

you hum your consent, then feel the press of his palm against your skin. he's always felt cooler to you, but the contrast between his skin and your skin now is even more obvious with your fever.

loki sucks a breath through his teeth. "you're burning up."

you mumble a reply, incomprehensible, nudging closer to his hand.

"why didn't you call for me?" he asks. he doesn't move away.

"you always come back," you murmur. "i'm fine. just sleepy."

in your mind, you can see loki rolling his eyes.

you feel his thumb stroke across your forehead, hear him speak something in a low voice. then you feel the coolness travel from his hand to your chest without him moving.

"feels nice," you tell him, eyelids cracking open. he's eye-level with you, not bothered by being on the floor still. you can see his brow furrowed, a classic sign of his thinking.

“you’re welcome.” he slides his fingers through your hair, gently combing through the few tangles. when he reaches the end, he starts over. "what do you need?" he asks.

you think on it for a moment.

you wanted a lot of things: for the pressure behind your eyes to ease up. to be able to breathe through your left nostril. for your body to decide between hot and cold.

you settle for something practical:

"an orange," you supply.

"an orange?" he repeats.

in another mood, one sans fever, you would comment on the rise of his eyebrow. in another mood, you would've already gone to the kitchen and perused your refrigerator for your own needs.

but your current-self was buried under a mountain of blankets, unmoved for several hours. you could hardly bear the thought of disturbing the system you had made.

you nod, sleepily, eyes fluttering shut from the effort.

there's a small tut, in response.

then the sound of him shifting, and footsteps that drift from the bedroom, to the hallway, and out of earshot.

he can't have been gone longer than five minutes—long enough for you to burrow back into your blanket pile—before reentering the room.

the smell of citrus blossoms in the bedroom.

you open your eyes again, watching as loki carries a bowl and a chair to the bedside. he sits, bowl in his lap, and your nose crinkles.

"you're gonna get sick if you sit so close."

"i thought you said you were fine?"

you make another small, grumpy noise, pulling the covers over your shoulders. loki laughs, settling into the chair until his knees nudge against the mattress.

“rise, little mortal,” he says fondly. “i brought your sustenance.”

you comply, just barely, pushing yourself into a sitting position. three quilts fall away in the process, pooling in your lap.

“ah. there you are.” loki's hair is pulled back, sleeves pushed up, and he looks completely unbothered by the disheveled look you assume you're sporting.

you hum softly, tiredly, your voice unused from a day of lying in bed. "i could've gotten an orange myself," you say.

"i know," loki replies. the patience in his voice is a tone you're not used to hearing him use—but it's practiced, like he'd been waiting to speak gently. "but i got it for you anyway. here," he says, picking up an orange slice and holding it out to you.

you take his offering, fingers brushing against his.

you notice that the bowl has enough slices to equal two oranges, each one bared of even the pith.

it's clear that loki's taken his time in preparing the bowl for you. the realization outweighs the feeling of congestion in your chest.

"thank you." it doesn't feel like enough to say, but it's all you have. you take a bite of the orange, the juice immediately filling your mouth. it's like heaven in a fruit, exactly what you needed.

"of course." loki's hand finds your thigh, giving it a small squeeze through the blankets. “scoot over.”

you open your mouth to protest, but loki speaks before you can—"my immune system is impenetrable. scoot."

you move, creating room for loki on the bed.

he climbs in, over the covers, boots already kicked off. with one hand he grabs the bowl from the bedside table, lifting his other hand in a gesture meant for you to come closer.

there's no fight left in your body.

you curl into him like you were waiting for an invitation, letting the weight of his arm blanket over you. loki crosses his ankles, leaning into the pillows at his back, making himself comfortable in the disaster of the bed.

the moment is quiet. paused.

then he lifts another slice from the bowl, offering it to you.

you accept with a sniffle, chewing and swallowing before resting your cheek against his chest. with bleary eyes, you ask where he'd gone earlier that morning.

loki replies, speaking in a quiet voice, using silver-tongued words to elaborate his mundane task of errand running.