Feeling Worse Than Usual
Going to sleep at night was a huge no-no for Loki.
It didn't matter if the daunting nightmares felt too realistic to be 'just a dream', nor did it matter if it his head just kept twisting and turning its gears to no ends. Nights were supposed to be a time for peace, for solitude—yet Loki found himself drawn to the ceiling more than his life.
Some times at night, he'd wonder and ponder on and on about his mistakes, decisions, and words. He'd wonder if the things he uttered out hurt or comforted them. He'd wonder if his mistakes were somebody's greatest joy or if it were someone's disappointment. He'd wonder if the decisions he had made—especially this one—are the right ones. Loads of possibilities, what-ifs, and second-guesses are brought to life behind those shut eyelids.
There were such times where he'd cry himself to sleep, ignoring his swollen red eyes the next day. If that could help him at least get a good night's sleep, where's the harm in it? He has so many things he could cry over, and it wouldn't harm a single soul. (Okay, well, maybe his, but it didn't matter.)
Loki shifted on his side, snuggling his body along the soft mattress as though it would make it him any comfortable. His lips were pursed in manner that said he was thinking—yet at the same time, his thoughts were too foggy to even think straight. His eyes dart around the around the room like a curious child, an object from afar catching his attention. Slowly, he pushes himself up, nearly tripping on his foot as he staggered his way to the item whose point glinted in the moonlight.
A dagger he had made himself.
It's been around a decade since he created the blade, as it was one of his best creations. When he was young, he'd gatekeep it from his mother and Thor. When Lady Sif had slipped into his room without permission and found it resting on a jeweled platform, Loki ordered her weapons to be hidden and only when she finds it will the order be put off. It was almost laughable about how protective he was over such a trivial thing. Dagger or not, it shouldn't matter that much.
His fingers ghosted the hilt of the bayonet, eyes tracing a beautiful emerald green gem placed on the centre of the cloth-wrapped hilt. The thing was admirable; when he laced his fingers around the handle and when he pointed it into the void, it beamed with the moon—and it truly made him proud. Perhaps this was the first time he's ever been proud of himself. People who called him egotistical be damned.
But he wasn't here to appreciate it—he was just having a moment with it for a while, all right?—he was here to use it for his own selfish desires. So, he gently pointed the end on his wrist, the look of an amateur painted on his face.
This was his first time. Not exactly his first time thinking about it, but first time actually doing it. Many Asgardians—particularly Midgardians—he heard, had described it as something tempting, arousing, and, well, painless. Loki was not sure where he heard that one but he made a mental note.
It didn't look that, y'know, like how those mortals being described it. It could be because it was, after all, his first time doing it, or it could be because the dagger was not enough to make the whole—what was it called?—'self harming' stuff interesting. Nevertheless, as he was already irritated by the intervention of his thoughts, he gently, lightly, traced the point across his wrist. It was going to be an average slit size, Loki decided.
Then, after of long waiting, he swiftly dragged it along—
Ow, that hurt.
His dagger fell with a clatter as crimson red trickled down his wrist. Loki out a silent, painful gasp while he clutched his aching hand. Slowly whilst his breathing was ragged, he slumped against the wall, his head lolling back as he tried to steady his breathing. It hurt, all right, so Loki couldn't understand what the Midgardians had meant about it being "painless".
His eyes glossed with unshed tears, and his lips trembled whilst he gazed at the oozing blood. As he examined the wound he created, he couldn't help but let out a bitter chuckle—closing his eyes when he realized what he had done. He...just sat there, contemplating about his decision. His heart ached and it was like his airway was constricted.
It, in fact, did hurt a lot, but Loki couldn't just sit around and bawl his eyes out because of his curiosity. No. He had to get up, clean the mess, go to sleep, and keep his mouth zipped. Such information shouldn't be discovered by those—judgmental—Asgardians for it might lead to...problems. Huge ones.
Then, liquid trickled down his cheeks. Before he knew it, he was already sobbing—his snot running down his nose while he tried to muffle the sounds. He whimpered, he blubbered, and he wept. No matter how much he tried to wipe the tears away, his face just kept getting drenched in the salty liquid.
What was he to do with his life if this is how he acted like when curiosity blinded him? What would Thor or his mother think when they see him in this...vulnerable state? Thinking about it is really tiresome, Loki realized.
What would Thor do if it was him? Would he clean up the mess and not say a word? Would he talk with Frigga about it? Loki couldn't find himself doing what he thinks Thor would do. He wasn't Thor, obviously, so why bother trying to do the stuff only he does?
That's when it hit him.
Loki could never, ever be like Thor. He could—should—never be like him. Thor was Odin's biological son, so what chance did Loki have? His parents abandoned him, so wasn't it obvious that he could never be loved the same way Thor was? His mind reeled back to Hela—Odin's biological daughter—and wondered why she was never loved the same way Thor was.
Was it because she was just like Loki: spiteful, ugly, and monstrous? Or was it because she loved destruction more than Thor? In some ways—in some ways—Loki figured that he was acting like Hela. From the smile to the weapons, to the...well, similarities in choice of magic, and the outfit.
Loki still didn't understand why Hela was dressed like him, or why he was dressed like Hela.
Ah, that calmed him down.
"What the hell are you doing, Loki?" he muttered softly under his breath, his eyes tiredly staring at his bed.
Even if the tears had stopped and his breathing seemed even now, he could still taste his disgusting snot and he had to make some face movements since his tear-streaked face felt like it hardened.
If he could—If he could just get up and clean up all this mess, then maybe it would be nice. Maybe he'd get another good night's sleep—this time without the need of crying. Everything felt so heavy: his body and his eyes. Dozing off right now would be a questionable thing to do since, if ever, someone might come in his room. Maybe Thor, Jane, Frigga, or Odin himself.
But he just felt so tired....
"Get up, please," despite his pleading, his eyes slowly shut themselves.
A few mutters and Loki's head gradually lolled to the side. The blood on his wrist had dried up a little, though it wasn't enough to hide a rather large slash below it. Crimson red were smeared on the floor, and his precious dagger was left unattended.
"Tired...m' tired. S' wanna sleep..."
-------
When a voice was registered through his closed eyelids, he let out groan, and, as if on instinct, a hand wiped the corner of his mouth—since when had he drooled?—and he cracked an eye open. His eyes squinted because of the bright light that shone through the curtains, and that's when a knock echoed.
"Loki? It is I, Thor." The older's raspy voice was muffled from the blockage of the door.
"Yea, yea, hold on a moment." As he struggled to stand, his eyes caught last night's mess and he panicked. Thor shouldn't see this, oh, no. If he did, then Loki would have to wish it was possible to resurrect his sorry ass.
With a flick of his wrist, and just in time because Thor came in, Loki had fully cleaned the blood-smeared floor and composed himself along with a smile that looked far too innocent. Though Thor gazed him up and down questionably, he didn't ask and just gestured him to come out.
"Breakfast is ready," said the Thunderer curtly before closing his door with a soft thud.
Loki let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. He brought the wounded wrist to his face and grimaced at the sight. Damn, he was going to need an excuse for this. If Frigga and Thor come to find out about his bandaged wrist, they'd load him questions. If he wanted to stop being the paranoid people they were, then he'd better figure out a reason.
Think, Loki, think.
Would the excuse of him "accidentally" scratching his wrist with the dagger be sufficient? If so, then he would need to be truly subtle.
"C'mon, Loki. That itself is enough." under his breath, he had muttered.
He left his room with a wary heart.
------
"Merry morning, second prince," Lady Sif approached him as he sauntered to the dining area.
"What is so 'merry' about this morning, Lady Sif? I, for one, am sure this is again one of the mornings where pleasant and relaxing is frowned upon." Loki said with a small smile, Sif chuckling next to him.
"Yes, yes. I suppose it is. Something made you cranky this morning? It's very unlike of you to say such a thing first thing in the morn." She answered with a teasing tone, nudging the second prince playfully.
Loki scoffed, "Forgive my language, but all mornings here in Asgard are indeed shitty. Hell, I don't even think mornings in Midgardian can compare to these."
A sarcastically positive Loki was always Sif's favorite. Whether it was because of his unusual compliments or his respectfully spiteful remarks for Fandral or Thor, all were favored by the warrior. But she wondered, since this kind of Loki was real seldom, what exactly triggered him to act like this? However, she had to keep her mouth shut. Loki, she knew, was sensitive by the heart. Had she not preferred to walk eggshells around him, he would be hurt both mentally and emotionally.
But how did she know that exactly? Oh, it was but during one of Thor's feasts.
"Loki,"
"Yes?" His green orbs glinted in the sunlight and it overwhelmed Sif.
"Nothing. You may go ahead now,"
Her sudden leave puzzled Loki, but he dared not say a word. He finally then arrived at the dining place. There he settled on the empty seat next to Thor, to which the older smiled. Loki shuffled so that he would be comfortable, his eyes lifting to arriving figure: Odin.
Once everyone was settled and seated, Odin raised his glass and said, "May this morning be a blissful one. For us. For all of them."
"With pleasure," everyone harmoniously returned, simultaneously taking a sip of the mead.
In a short while, everyone's focus was on their food. Fandral blabbered about how he captured three boars with his own bare hands, though all his chattering was a blur to Loki. The food tasted...rather unappetizing. He played with his oatmeal, too distracted to even bother taking a bite.
Noticing, Thor gently stopped Loki's hand from doing absent-minded movements. His larger hand covered that of Loki's and he whispered, "Penny for your thoughts, Loki?"
The green orbs met the clear blue ones, and he shook his head softly. "It is nothing. Just...don't like the food."
"Do you want another set of meal? I can request it if you like-"
"Really, Thor," Loki removed his hand from Thor's grasp, "It really is nothing. A lot on my mind right now, y'know?"
With that, Loki quietly excused himself from the table. As he wandered back to his room, he felt the bile rising in his throat. He needed to be quick, else he'd make a mess right here. Black spot covered the corner of his eyes and he dashed to his room. Right now, he couldn't teleport himself because of his low energy.
Upon arriving, he quickly summoned a...pail bucket? Anyways, as soon as the item landed on his hands, Loki threw up the contents he had just eaten. He heaved sorrowfully, producing sounds one might cringe just listening to. When all but the bitter taste on his tongue was left, Loki felt the world spinning. He was weak on his knees and so decided to lie against the wall.
Who knew just eating would turn him like this?