Saccharine Elegy

Some nights Tony would drift awake to the melancholy sound of a violin being played on his balcony. At any hour of the night – or early morning – Loki would become suddenly haunted by a past ghost and would become absolutely restless, winding up on the human's balcony. His notes were practiced and skilled, lithe fingers flowing over the strings expertly while his other hand moved the bow with all the grace of water. More often than not, Tony would realize that Loki was playing some requiem from Asgard or making it up on the spot.

Some nights Tony would just lay there in his bed and listen to the music, letting is wash over him and lull him back to sleep – like a mother's voice soothing her child back into a peaceful slumber, all nightmares and monsters in the closet forgotten. Other nights, he would sneak out of bed and over to his piano. Without skipping a beat, he would jump into Loki's song.

When Loki played glossy high notes, Tony would compliment them with silky low ones. On and on, rising and falling with each other, threading notes skillfully to create a musical tapestry unlike any other. They let the music flow through them and Loki let his emotions flow through Tony. It was why and how they communicated so well – why and how they fit together so well. Loki poured all of his emotions – pain, anger, betrayal, happiness, sadness – into his music and Tony threw in his own ingredients, mixing and stirring it. They let it boil or simmer however they both pleased, savoring the bittersweet taste.

In the end, the result was always the same; Loki would rest his violin on the piano and they would let the final notes hang in the air before becoming enveloped in pure passion. A kind of silent music that could only be felt. They kissed and caressed, letting fingers ghost over heated skin and card through hair. Thrust and pull at each other, rise and fall with each other. An elegy that felt so sweet at it's peak and faded away into a saccharine afterglow.

Some nights Loki stayed. He would run his fingertips along Tony's spine until the mortal fell asleep starring into endless – and bright – green. Or Tony would play with Loki's hair, twisting it around his fingers and letting them glide through the ink-colored strands as the god drifted off to the sound of Tony's heartbeat. Loki was content with knowing he owned a spot in there.

But always when Tony awoke the next morning, Loki was gone. He would lay there and stare at the ceiling for what felt like hours until he finally snapped out of the emotion of the previous night. He would get out of bed and place the violin back in it's case gingerly before stepping into the shower to begin the day. He always had a very soft smile gracing his lips on these mornings and would wait patiently for Loki's return on his balcony, soft notes pulling Tony out of his sleep once more.

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