Life Is Full Of Sweet Mistakes
It's in the most random times when Loki's unanswered thoughts come begging for the reason of their existence—why he never had the brains or the heart to silence their expectations. The thoughts in his head continue adding up the more he procrastinated, each leaving a burning scar as they reached his dump of thoughts. Maybe if he wasn't that spent, he would go far and beyond for the sake of his demanding thoughts. Maybe if he was more productive like Thor, his mother wouldn't be fussing over his state.
He wondered, what exactly was so hard in finding out life's answers? What exactly was so hard in satisfying life's desires? Everything he did had to have reasons—because even if it was good or bad, they'd find ways to degrade him in the most humiliating way. Loki's life just had to be this hard, didn't it?
He just had to be this way, didn't he?
With eyes unfocused as he stared into the wall, in a fleeting moment, he found solace in scratching the scars of the slits in his arms, but he paid no mind to the force of the nails that digged into his skin. Somehow, even after he regained his acknowledgement of reality, Loki didn't—couldn't—stop. The more he scratched, the more it felt fulfilling. He knew he needed to stop somehow, but his hands couldn't stop rubbing itself against his scarred skin.
The world around him blurred, the noises dying out. Loki could feel something warm, thick and slightly sticky trickling down his arm, however, he kept his eyes closed and continued.
Maybe that was why he didn't know a punch was coming his way.
He let out a hoarse groan, his hands leaving the surface of his skin and instead cradled his face. The impact hurt, Loki discreetly admitted. He's been punched many times, but this is one was the definition of excruciating pain. Well, maybe Loki was just exaggerating, and for the one who punched him, he or she didn't even use all their strenght.
"I have told you many times to stop whatever act you were doing!"
It didn't seem like it—but all life was drained from Loki's face, his blood ran cold, and a frightening chill ran down his spine. The hands that gently caressed the purple bruise that bloomed on his cheeks clenched and trembled. He recognized that voice—knew whose voice that was—but he didn't want to admit it. The voices in his head then started to whisper, filling his hazy mind.
Shit.
He saw it.
He saw it!
This is all your fault.
You didn't pay attention, and now even he might think you're a monster.
Stupid, stupid, Loki.
"You are causing harm to your body!"
His attempts to hush them were futile. Weak. The voices kept taunting him. More and more and more. So much to the point he realized his breath was caught in his throat, his chest was heaving heavily, and the blonde figure who he wished never arrived was crouched in front of him. Loki cowered like a baby, his airway itching to get some air.
It didn't work.
"Loki, please. Stay with me. You'll be fine. You'll...be fine, please."
As much as he wanted to back away when the blonde man cradled him way too gently in his arms like he was severely injured or something, a part of him wanted to stay—to let the embrace sink in him deeply. The warmth it brought, the comfort it brought—it was all unfamiliar to Loki, but he loved it. He craved for more.
"Pl-ease," his voice came out rather hoarse from all the screaming, snuggling his tear-streaked face on the crook of the blonde's neck, "Help me."
Loki knew it was very—absolutely—cowardly of him to ask help from someone all because he couldn't handle a mere panic attack. But if it was Thor he was asking help from, wouldn't that be better than asking random people who don't know a thing about him to help? Not that Loki actually did open up to the god.
"I've got you, brother. I love you."
Though his breath wasn't properly evened out, Loki could get a grasp of what was going on, but he was too tired to handle it. His grip on Thor's neck loosened a bit, but didn't back away and lingered there. He tried to take a deep breath—using all his might to inhale through his scratching throat. It worked, though it wasn't a pleasant feeling.
"Loki..." Thor started cautiously after observing his brother's attempts to breath again, "are you okay? Do...Do you need some help?"
He breathed out a weak, bitter chuckle, pushing his brother back to take a good look at him. His green orbs met the worried baby blue ones, however, the contrast between it was immense. Loki's eyes were tired; Thor's were worried and wide. It didn't feel right sitting in front of him looking so vulnerable and weak, Loki admitted. Should he have stopped the pleasuring act, maybe his brother wouldn't be here trying to confront him of what he did.
Loki's sure that his actions confused the thunderer—made him wonder of the thoughts that ran through his mind whilst he was doing that. 'Why was Loki doing that?', Loki assumed that was the first thing he thought of.
"I do not need some help." He answered indifferently, meeting his eyes and pleading him silently to let go of what happened. "Leave, Thor. I'm fine."
Loki internally winced at the venom of his last sentence, but what hurt him more was the look on Thor's face. Confusion? Anger? Nonchalance? Amongst the options, none of them truly portrayed the god's stare.
"You are not fine. You clearly just had a panic attack! Why are you expecting me to turn a blind eye to it? Am I fool to you?"
"Thor, you dim-witted moron, of course I want you to drop it. Was it not clear that I do not enjoy your presence here? That you are doing nothing but making me uncomfortable?" Loki spat out.
"But I just want to help you," said Thor, "To help you know that you're not going through this—"
"By Odin's beard, Thor, can you stop being so sappy? You being so sentimental and aggressively worried about my state is not helping!"
And that kept Thor's mouth shut. His eyes grew wide then shrank, flickering his gaze to another corner. Loki did the same, too, his eyes landing on the abandoned Mjolnir. An argument wasn't something Loki expected to escalate, but here they were, fighting between the 'I'm fines' and the 'You're not fines'. They both looked so foolish—so dumb for trying to reasoned out each other's opinions. But they were, after all, Odin's sons. And what did they all have in common? They listed everything they knew in order to outsmart the other.
Perhaps that's just the way they were. They had prideful guts—always trying to be more superior than the other. Imprudent ones, but guts nonetheless.
"Half of it was..." Thor was the first one to break the silence, "quite plausible, yes, but I'm worried for you, Loki. I...I care for you."
Loki's face scrunched up in disgust, the way Thor was saying it sinking deep in him and making him cringe out. It didn't affect the older, however, for he let out a small chuckle and gently—what was he doing?—reached out for Loki's arms. He thrashed out in terror, curling himself into ball so Thor could not see his red rash-y skin that was covered with the scars of his past cuts. Loki came to a realization that he was yet again cowering in panic—hiding himself like he was a monster.
But he was, wasn't he?
"Brother, it's okay. You...you can talk to me about it, I'll listen. Those scars...they're not normal ones. They look like—"
"Like what?" Loki uttered sharply, his voice laced with a certain annoyance that was reserved for Thor.
He knew very well that Thor understood the meaning of the scars that were scattered around his arms—he knew very well that Thor sincerely meant the reassurances. But somehow there was a wall that prevented him from feeling the words, letting the words settle in his chest so that he may keep it in mind. He built the wall out of fear—out of fright that if he took people's words seriously, he could end up more hurt than he already was—so letting it crumble because of someone who couldn't understand his pain just didn't seem right. He wasn't going to let Thor have his way again. (Not that Loki was trying to compare their conflicted pains.)
"Like what I know they look like. This isn't right, Loki, you of all should know that. The scars that are plastered on your arms are not something to be proud of. Not something to show off. You must know that—"
"So you're telling me that you thought I...was doing all of this for attention? That I endured the pain and continued doing it all for attention?"
"Loki, that's not what I—"
"Now it makes sense. For you, Thor, everything that I do is a futile attempt to gain someone's attention. Whether I kept it subtle or not, you always noticed. Isn't that concerning? Doesn't that mean that our relationship is but a rivalry? Something to compare to another?"
Loki's mind was gearing, yes, but in the wrong direction. This was easy to misunderstand if one didn't know the other side of the story, sure, but even if Loki wasn't that determined of the answer his head had given, no matter what Thor said would not change what he said earlier. The past is past, Loki thought. The words have been uttered out—with or without intention—and now Loki's perspective in all of it had changed. Maybe not severely, but it certainly did change.
"You have to stop twisting my words, Loki. I did not mean it that way."
"It's fine," Loki deadpanned, "It's already been said. Intentional or not, the words are out and have been heard, Thor. You cannot change it."
All Loki wanted right now was to walk away—to lock himself in the room and never come out. His feet were moving before his mind could register it. The apologies and pleading Thor spat out were blurred along with the surroundings. He needed air. He needed to breathe.
He just wanted to hide.
------
The first night of isolating himself didn't turn out as planned as he was forcefully dragged by his mother to eat at the dinner table. The second night, well, that, too, didn't turn out well as Sif requested for help from something Loki would rather not mention. The third night, however, was peaceful halfway through. Because all was well and calm until Odin demanded Loki's presence in a meeting for a pointless war.
Now, it was the fourth night, and the last thing he wants is someone calling him out. He just wants to lay in his bed and gather all his thoughts only for him to scatter it around because there was no reason to overthink about why Thor said that. He didn't care anymore if Thor was honest. He didn't care if Thor was just speaking in other people's point of view. He didn't why he should care.
He didn't care.
He doesn't care about Thor.
He doesn't care about the apologies that sounded so meaningful in his ears.
He didn't care about the times Thor tried to make it up to him.
He didn't—absolutely—care about that oaf.
That overly affectionate and loving oaf.
He didn't care, right?
That he must've hurt Thor?
"Oh, for the love of—" Loki sprang up from bed and sighed, "You're making me feel like a fool, Thor."
Or maybe he did and just wasn't brave enough to admit it because it would make him look like he acknowledged Thor's superior.
Loki cared. And that was all there was to it.