Good Friday

They have a word for this. This, the silence, the uncertainty, the apprehension. The fear in every breath, in through the nose, out through the mouth. Heady, heavy, syrup-thick, congealed, blood before it rusts and flakes away. The monotony, continuing despite the fact that it shouldn’t, it can’t. The daylight, terrifying in its promises, absolute in its continuity. The questions. Not why, not who, not where, not when, not what, but how. How, when all else fails, how?

The word is static.

Static, because the cars still drive, the people still walk, the sun still rises in the east and sets in the west. Static, because there is the frenetic movement of one surface against another, and then there is that single, breathtaking, endless second of suspended animation, where the fibres hold out, reach out, like arms in the air, waiting, desperate and pleading, to touch.

Make a god bleed, and people will cease to believe in him.


The first time, they’re angry. They’re both angry, and they’re both hurt, and they’re both tired, and they’re both running away from responsibility and trust and the inconceivable faith people always put in them, and Loki fucks Stark raw over his workbench, chest flush against his back, his hands slipping over sweat-drenched skin and the cold scar of his false heart so frequently that he starts to forget which is which. And later, afterwards, when his hair is tousled and his eyes are bright and his blood is thudding through his veins, Stark says, “So what was that all about?”

Loki doesn’t know.


The second time, Loki isn’t planning it. He’s woven a glamour around himself, a spell that draws the eye away from where he stands, in the corner of Stark’s living room, just watching, observing. And Stark is lost in the images on the screen of the television, and he’s drinking something amber out of a stout glass, and there’s a bandage wrapped around his left hand, and a cut on the bridge of his nose. On the television they’re showing shaky, blurred footage of the Avengers fighting some new evil earlier in the day, and he sees Iron Man half-kneeling on the asphalt, faceplate crumpled.

Stark empties his glass, and he moves to fill it. Loki’s finger twitches – and he swears to himself, later, that it was accidental, it was always accidental – and the glamour falls from around him like burnt silk. Stark sees him, and his eyes fly open, wild and terrified, and his arm snaps back, and the glass sails through the air in a soft, graceful arc, and smashes on impact into the wall, a million diamonds scattering worthlessly over the floor.

They look at each other, searchingly, silently, and then they’re on the sofa, the incurably uncomfortable sofa, Stark’s head thrown back as he fucks himself, the tendons of his neck straining, Loki’s fingers digging so tightly into his waist that when he pulls his hands away there are ten bruise-blue circles pressed into his skin.


There are motels. There are fake names and deceptions and lies, easy as breathing. Subterfuge and deceit, and it’s always Loki fucking Stark, Loki breathing over him, Loki biting into his salty flesh and leaving battle scars behind, and nobody – Loki knows because Stark tells him – nobody asks about them, about the bruises and the bites and the fingernail-trenches dug out of his back. It’s raw, it’s always raw, and sometimes Loki realises that it must hurt, it must ache, but Stark never complains, never tells him to slow down, never tells him to stop.

It only occurs to him after he leaves that perhaps Stark sees it as a punishment.


Stark says Listen, I’ve been thinking and. Don’t give me that look okay you know it. Creeps me out it’s the same. The same look you gave me just before you threw me through that window. Remember that. Yeah course you do you’re like an elephant you never forget. See now I lost my train of thought. Or is it trail of thought. I don’t know. Whatever it is I’ve lost it. What was I saying.

Loki rolls onto his side, making a bracket out of his arm to hold up his head, and he says, “You said you’d been thinking.”

“Oh, yeah,” says Tony. And then: “I’ve been thinking about this.”

“And?”

“And I just.” He’s lying on his back, eyes on the ceiling, on the brown stain that spreads across the off-white paint, on the wallpaper that peels away like dead skin from the walls when it touches the discolouration. The furniture is cheap and threadbare and nasty, and the blankets are scratchy and coarse, and Stark is so hopelessly, mortally warm that when Loki leans across and touches the pads of his fingertips to Tony’s skin it almost burns him. “I want to know what this is. Please. If it’s not too much effort.”

Loki arranges his face into an expression of polite confusion, and he says, “I’m not sure I’m following.”

“Of course you are, you’re just being.” An expulsion of angry air. “Never mind. Doesn’t matter. I’m gonna get some sleep.”

Stark switches out the light, and they both lie awake in Room 207, staring at the filmy threads of light as they pass through the holes in the moth-eaten curtains. And when the clock hits four-oh-six Loki stands up, and he’s acting out the story where Stark sleeps soundly and he’s trying not to wake him when he pads, silent and clothed, to the door, and he leaves. He imagines Stark lying there, lit by the glow in his chest, by the neon motel sign outside (NO VACANCIES, but the NO keeps flickering), bathed in a plethora of colours, eyes open, heart beating, breaths easy and slow.


It’s been three months since the first time, and Stark falls asleep in Loki’s arms, and his brow is clear and his shoulders are sloped and his muscles are relaxed, and Loki lays him flat on the bed. He wants to leave, because this is the first time Stark has ever fallen asleep before he’s gone, but there’s a long, thin triangle of hair sweeping in front of Stark’s eyes and he has to move it, so he does, with a brush of his index finger. And his skin is so soft that Loki touches it again, and the triangle falls back down, and he draws it back up into the mess, and he props himself up on his elbow and draws lines along Stark’s cheekbones, rubs his thumb over his lips, drags a knuckle across his jaw, and he presses his forehead to Stark’s shoulder and breathes in his scent and closes his eyes.

And when he wakes up, it is Stark who has left, and he feels so achingly empty that he vows never to leave Stark’s bed again.


They laugh, sometimes, afterwards. Joke. Tell stories. Challenge each other: Whose father was the most inattentive, the most neglectful, the worst?

When I was three my dad. Asshole that he was. Actually sat me down. And told me that Santa wasn’t real. He used to. He used to kick me out of the R&D lab when I was. Watching the tech guys building stuff and asking them questions. Y’know. Like kids do. And he’d come in like. Tony what have I told you about staying out of their way. And they’re all like No no Mr Stark it’s cool don’t worry about it he’s fine. But he gets my mom anyway and makes her take me out and dump me in the library or something. Asshole.

Odin made it very clear that growing up was a competition. And as such Thor and I both strove. Constantly. To be better than each other. But more than that I suppose I wanted to be better than myself. I wanted to outdo myself. Because I knew that being better was gaining Odin’s favour. That was. That was all I ever wanted. To be worth something.

Stark is quiet after Loki tells him that, and Loki doesn’t like the quiet, because it means Stark is being introspective, he’s reading between the lines. So Loki says, “What is Santa?”

That gets them talking about myths, about fairy tales, about religion. Stark tells him about the Christian God, the omnipotent, omniscient, benevolent God, and His son, Jesus Christ, who, for men and their salvation, came down from Heaven, and was incarnate of the Virgin Mary and became man; and was crucified under Pontius Pilate, suffered and was buried; and arose again on the third day in accordance with the Scriptures; and ascended into Heaven, and sat at the right hand of the Father; and shall come again in glory to judge the living and the dead.

Stark says that every year they celebrate Easter, celebrate Christ’s death and resurrection, and the day he dies they call Good Friday, and the day he’s resurrected they call Easter Sunday. Loki asks why Friday is Good, if it is the day that their God’s son dies, and Stark says he doesn’t know. He’s never known. He’s always wondered, but he’s never known.

And Stark says, “So God’s a shitty father too, if you think about it.” And they laugh, and his kisses taste like champagne.


The first time they argue, Loki hits him.

It’s surprising they lasted this long – four months – without an argument. But really, if Loki thinks about it, that’s because if they’re ever angry, at each other, he’ll go out and he’ll cause mischief – he’ll blow up a building or steal something important or try to destroy a SHIELD base – just so they have an excuse to shoot things at each other with good reason. And afterwards, when they meet in a dirty old motel at the side of a road, they’re not angry any more.

But this time, there are no explosions. No Avengers. Just Loki and Stark and the coarse, violent words hanging between them.

Stark says, “You’re fucking heartless.”

And Loki says, “I only wish you were.”

And Stark says, “Why don’t you just leave me alone if you despise me so much.” This is not a question.

And Loki says, “Why don’t you let me leave you alone?” This, however, is.

And Stark says, “Go on, go, walk out, walk away from me. I don’t care. I don’t care about you. I never cared about you. I never will care. You’re arrogant and and and and rude and you hurt me, all the time, and you don’t even give a shit about me. I’m just a fucking hole that you stick your dick in to get some shred of pleasure. Do you even feel it? Do you even feel anything, you emotionless fucking asshole?”

And Loki says, “Your problem is that you feel too much.”

And Stark says, “No, my problem is that I let myself think you actually gave a shit, but why would you? Why would you stoop so fucking low, huh? You’re an asshole, you’re a fucking asshole. You don’t deserve me.”

And Loki hits him, hard enough to bruise, and the snap of his hand against Stark’s cheek echoes over and over in his head, and he says, “Yes, I do.”

Stark leaves.


A month passes before Loki decides to apologise.

He’s reading a magazine, and there’s an article titled Saying You’re Sorry, and the subtitle is How do you fix the mistake you made with your significant other? And he supposes that, if he were to label him, Stark would be his significant other, so he reads the article. Which is why he finds himself in Stark’s living room, like their second time, only this time he’s clutching a mangled bouquet of roses and a box of chocolates.

Stark says, “What the hell is this?”

And Loki says, “I’m apologising.”

They fuck, and it’s like quenching a month-long thirst, and afterwards they share the chocolates and take turns tearing the petals from the roses, and Stark pricks his finger on a thorn, and Loki brings the finger to his lips and kisses it, just once, and they look right at each other, and the silence is burning his ears, and Loki says, “I care about you, Stark.”

And Stark says, “Yeah, I know, you asshole.”

But he’s smiling, and that means he’s happy.


They meet at half past eleven, except this time it’s not a dank, decrepit motel. It’s a five star hotel in the middle of Manhattan, and Loki stands at the front desk and asks for Anthony Blunt, and he’s shown to an elevator and given a key and he rides to the forty-third floor, the top floor, and he steps out and walks over to the opposite wall. There’s a half-circle of floor-to-ceiling windows, and he presses his hand to the cool glass and looks down on the sparkling city below, and then arms circle him from behind and he leans into Stark, leans into Tony.

They stay there a weekend. They use the hot tub and the shower and the swimming pool, and Tony kneads the stress from his muscles and presses kisses down his spine, and Loki spreads his legs and whispers, “Please,” into the shell of Tony’s ear, and afterwards, after hours of it, hours of bringing each other to the brink and pulling each other back from it, they come, gasping Loki, gasping Tony, into each other’s mouths, and Tony curls up beside him, and Loki draws circles onto Tony’s back, and they fall asleep at exactly the same time.


Almost eight months, and Loki is showering when he realises that he might love Tony.

The water drums over his face, hangs onto his eyelashes, drops from his nose, squeezes between his lips, warm and soapy, and he tries it out: “I love Tony.”

He smiles, and he braces his hands against the tiles, and he says it again. “I love Tony Stark.”

He laughs, and water spatters into his mouth, and he swallows it and he says, “I love you, Tony.”


It’s a week later, on the forty-third floor, in the hotel room with the floor-to-ceiling windows, that Tony says it. He’s half-asleep, and his eyes are closed, and his face is pressed against Loki’s chest, and he mumbles, “I luh yuh.”

Loki presses his lips into soft hair and inhales and says, “And I you.”

Tony sleeps, and Loki, absently, wonders if he heard.


Loki waits for half an hour before he realises there’s a problem. They always meet, even just for a minute, even just so that Tony can press a folded slip of paper, with a time and a date and a place scribbled on it, into his hand, and there’s no reason why he wouldn’t come, so there has to be a problem.

He walks quickly, because he doesn’t want to run, because running is admitting that he’s worried, and he gets to the nearest bar he finds, and on the television bracketed to the wall there’s news that the Avengers have been called out to Chicago, that there have been reports of several explosions, that at least three people have already died.

And then Loki runs.

He runs, because he isn’t thinking straight, and once he is, he teleports himself to Chicago, to the rooftop of the Chase Tower, and he can see Tony flying through the air, loosing shots from his hands, shooting at flying robots. So Loki knocks a few of them out of the air, and Tony turns to him and looks at him for a second and nods, or maybe Loki imagines it, but then he’s off again, responding to the call of another Avenger.

Loki stands on the rooftop, following the speck of red and gold as closely as he can, too absorbed in his task to notice the thud of another presence on the roof until Thor’s voice booms out, “Brother, end this!”

Thor thinks the robots are his, and it almost makes him laugh. Loki ignores him, flitting off to the roof of the Willis Tower, which is taller, and it’s colder, but he doesn’t feel the cold and he never has, and he can see Tony in the suit, and he’s much closer now, and Loki helps as best he can, freeing bolts of pure energy at the robots, and then.

And then Tony stutters back as if hit, and he starts to descend, and Loki frowns because the black swarm of robots in the sky is getting thicker, denser, and he doesn’t know what Tony is doing, but he stops, and he looks down, and Thor is there again, behind him, and they both stare over the lip of the roof of the Willis Tower, and it occurs, quietly, unobtrusively, to Loki that it does not look like Tony is descending any more.

It looks like he’s falling.


The doctors say it’s the impact that destroys his first and second cervical vertebrae. The impact that disconnects his skull from his spine. The impact that locks him into a room in the Intensive Care Unit in the University of Chicago Hospital.

Loki waits until it’s dark before he makes himself known in Tony’s room, and Tony isn’t sleeping, and there’s an ugly metal cage around his head, and they’ve shaved off his hair and his beard and it doesn’t even look like him any more, and Loki doesn’t know what to say, and he can’t say anything anyway because his throat has closed up, so he just bows his head, because he can’t look at him, he can’t look at Tony.

Tony says, and his voice is thin and reedy, “Hey.”

Loki says, and his voice is barely a whisper, “Hello.”

Loki waits until morning, and then he stands up to leave, and his muscles ache. Tony asks for a kiss, and Loki says, “When I return,” and he leaves on a promise that he’ll come back. Because he will.


The doctors say it’s the impact, landing head-first on the asphalt, that forces him into an operating theatre for experimental surgery which attempts to secure his skull to his spinal column by fixing wires under both laminae and using bone from his hip to fit between C1 and C2, and inserting a titanium pin, and fusing the wires with the vertebrae, and drilling holes in his skull and pulling the wires through like thread through a needle.

Loki watches, even though he doesn’t want to, and he’s woven the same glamour around himself that he used the second time, only this time he doesn’t move and he doesn’t break it. And when the surgery fails, when his heart stops beating, and they swarm around him and try to fix it, and they fail, the doctors say it’s the impact that killed him. It’s the impact that kills Tony Stark.

But Loki doesn’t blame the impact. Loki blames himself.


Static. The cars still drive, the people still walk, the sun still rises in the east and sets in the west.

Static. The frenetic movement of one surface against another. That single, breathtaking, endless second of suspended animation, where the fibres hold out, reach out, like arms in the air, waiting, desperate and pleading, to touch.

Static. The feeling that every day is Good Friday, and he just has to wait three more days for Easter Sunday to come, for the miraculous resurrection, for the relief and the calm and the chance to say what he never made absolutely clear.

Make a god bleed, and people will cease to believe in him.

Kill a god, and he’s dead.