Favorite Game
He’d rather not move. It’s warm and his head feels nice. This head-rub is nice – someone’s playing with his hair he registers abruptly. This smell is familiar this scent: petrichor, dawn. He’s quite certain his limbs are draped over a person. He panics a bit registering who this could be, who this is as he squints sleepy eyes open seeing the underside of Loki’s sharp jawline, book by one hand held up he appears to read, the other busy-made combing through his hair – the sole thought to Tony’s mind is how much he loves head-rubs, how set those dexterous fingers are in detangling all soreness they come along – he bites down the need to vocalize this relief, as he does the logical inclination to get up.
Rather fixated, in the tenderness to the god’s touch – there has always been a certain grace to Loki a certain regal in his every motion. Swift and calculated, meticulous but this. Slow, leisurely, affectionate almost the fingertips stroking down his temple, along the outer-shell of his ear – he suppressed a shiver – really ought rise – he could swear he sees the ghost of a smirk tease the god’s face – who when speaks makes leap his heart high.
“Thor’s coming. You might wanna sit up,” so calmly said patting lightly the smith’s back. As he hastens to sit up Tony highly suspects, Loki’d all along known just when he’d come to – The door opens, Thor at the threshold.
“Hey buddy. What’s up?” he rubs at his face runs a hand through his mussed hair. For a dreadful beat of silence Thor is unresponsive.
“…Bruce says you must eat,” he tells as though entirely disregarding the pair in the bed and Tony’s sleep-riddled posture.
“Uh huh, sure. We’ll be right out.” A sole nod before the god leaves. Irate Loki tsks, hand waves so the door shuts.
For a moment Tony is still, glancing tensely Loki’s way to find he reads still – he tames the sudden urge to snatch and hurl said book across the room, before the smirk stretching along Loki’s lips takes his full attention.
“You’re what qualifies as a ‘serial cuddler’.” Not expecting to hear this Tony laughs, ignoring the heat burning swiftly up his face.
“Well, you are sitting on my bed – you don’t get to complain.”
“I wasn’t,” is the vague response he gets and a mere glance. Perplexed and distressed Tony looks ahead indulging the need to ask, what he should’ve before he’d passed out:
“Why are, you on my bed?”
“It’s comfy.”
“Mm.” Tony cannot fathom how he’d been deemed the god of lies being so poor at lying, though part of him feels Loki’s less subtle around him, intently – and to what intent he knows not yet, so he does not ask again because non-subtle as he can be, as he can be obscure, vexingly so – he will get no straight answer. He can only wait, and watch. He’ll catch it soon enough; with Loki he always does – it’s one of their favorite games.
He heaves himself out of bed and into the bathroom.
Loki sets the book down sets his head against the bedframe. He listens to Tony’s coughing fit, and his chest aches.