Work Text:
Oh, Loki thought to himself as he stared at the ceiling and listened to Peter's rambling words begin to pleasantly blend into the music, yes, that is a thing I did.
He regarded the remaining half of his post-sex joint, eyes narrowed in a futile attempt to bring its fuzzy edges into focus. It was probably for the best that Peter had accidentally given him the one that he'd spitefully laced all those months ago; all for he now remembered that he'd done it, he wasn't going to know what he'd laced it with until he had more -
The music turned over to something new, and whatever it was - a warm voice, the strum of a guitar, she was only sixteen - ran like liquid down the inside of his spine, the colour of the sound briefly filling his head until he'd grappled the sensation into something manageable. Definitely for the best that Peter hadn't unexpectedly had to deal with it.
Loki stretched out his back so that the music in his spine stopped muddling with his ears, taking another deep drag off his joint. No sense wasting it, now that he knew what it was and how difficult it was to find.
Peter made a joke he didn't quite consciously hear but intuitively understood well enough to snort and smile. Something about the song - I was too young to know, the guitar was almost as warm as the voice, yellow and grass green in his ears - and their sex life.
Time: smooth and unreal. Space: outside the ship, and not nearly so crushing in its emptiness the way it usually was in his head. Space, in the sense of where his limbs were: he could feel the brown of the bunk's interior, could hear the touch of Peter's hand accidentally brushing against his hip. Sound: he could listen, and he could say things. Hearing in a meaningful sense was debatable. Perhaps if he could be bothered to really focus.
But he was warm in the right way, and the air was grass green, and he could tell from the dark blue feeling in his throat that Peter had managed to convince him to do more than hum along with the lyrics of one of the more familiar songs. Something off the Awesome Mix Vol 1.
Loki really ought to ask where the second volume was. Peter said there wasn't one as though he'd actually asked, and Loki sat up to give him such a disgruntled look at the unexpected exhibition of mind reading that the odd expression on Peter's face resolved into laughter before Loki could read what it was about it that was odd.
"I think," said Loki, dropping his head back on the pillow and sighing deep as though settling into a more comfortable position to cover for the fact that he'd briefly thought Peter being able to read minds was more plausible than that he'd thoughtlessly spoken aloud, "that I could stand to have a pina colada."
"Yeah," said Peter, his matching sigh wistful as he took up staring at the ceiling. "Me too."
There was a long pause as the mix continued uninterrupted and Loki forced himself to focus in on reality so as to watch Peter. Who snickered when the lyrics turned to high on believing, hummed along with the rest of the song, and made absolutely no movement toward getting up.
Loki rolled onto his side and placed both hands against Peter's shoulder.
"That was a re-quee-esst," he sang off-key into Peter's ear.
When Peter didn't give him an immediate response Loki moved back to look at him, and was greeted by a grin that, after a moment's study, he concluded meant that Peter had understood him just fine. He smacked Peter's shoulder slightly too hard so that Peter's laugh was cut off by a yelp, rolling out of the bed before Peter could retaliate.
"You gonna bring back drinks?" asked Peter as Loki regained his balance.
Loki scowled down at him, did his best not to smile at the sight of Peter's exaggerated pout, and flipped him off as he turned the corner into the hall toward the washroom.
Peter's laughter followed him, red-brown-purple like the colour of his coat.
"Don't sulk too long," he called, the sound of his voice echoing in the hall so that Loki knew he'd followed him out and then walked in the opposite direction toward the kitchen.
Loki ignored him, his hand against the wall to steady himself as he walked and fingers habitually flipping up the bottom right corner of a poster as he passed it just so that Peter would have to stick it back down again later. He hummed along with the song - if he was humming, it didn't count as sulking - the feeling of dark blue in the back of his throat rich and vibrating all the way out into his toes.
Now that he was moving he found that he was swiftly too warm, and so when he was almost finished in the washroom he set the tap as cold as possible while it ran water over his hands. He briefly resisted the urge to run water over his forearms - such a thing was deeply childish - but the cold was glorious and the water felt lovely and sounded pink and his resistance swiftly crumbled, forearms under the tap, hands cupped, cold on his shoulders, fingers running water pink through his hair.
He paused with his hands still in his hair when he caught sight of himself in the mirror. Green eyes, disconcertingly unguarded in his inebriation. Black hair, just long enough to curl up under his ears. A pale complexion unhelped by his increased time spent aboard the Milano away from the radiation of any sun.
It wasn't... not him, precisely. He'd spent enough time away from Asgard to know that the precision of his usual appearance was a side effect of the pressure of being -
Except that he wasn't, and the old fury-despair reared black and burning, clawing through the high into his shoulders and his entire life had been meaningless and the pressure had been pointless and this wasn't what he looked like at all. What he actually looked like was -
- he had no idea what he looked like.
He dropped his hands back to the edge of the sink as the burning immediately twisted itself into the temperature of morbid curiosity, leaning forward to stare at his own green eyes. Green that should - "should" - be red. A pale complexion that he knew for certain was pale blue beneath his mother's brilliant-cruel-pointless glamour for at least a hand's length of his forearm. Black hair that - well, he could feel it, was doing it again without thinking about it, the slowly warming pink experience of the water still dampening it between his fingers - admittedly he hadn't seen that many frost giants, but none of those he'd seen had hair.
Ice elfs. Kree. Centaurian. Haizli. Trionians. The blue didn't bother him on any of them. He hardly even thought of it.
Although it would explain how easily he’d taken to fucking ice elf women.
Which had him turned around and leaning against the sink staring at the floor, thinking about all the ways that if he could just - there would be so much less maintenance involved in fucking an ice elf if he could just - he'd had a lot of strange erections in his life, but this was quite possibly the strangest, both preoccupied with the black-miserable-fury-shame of being how-what he was and equally if not more preoccupied with how he'd be able to solve quite a few mechanical issues with some of the partners he'd once been quite fond of if he could only just -
He whirled back around and stared himself dead in the eye, fingers on the sink's edge twitching in sympathy with his mental tugging on the edges of his mother's brilliant-cruel-pointless glamour. The glamour that was brilliant-cruel-pointless because she wasn't his mother, and the thought made it all the easier to conquer his hesitation and pull.
It wasn't a flicker of green or yellow or blue as he was used to in the seidr work of himself or Asgardian women or the elfs he'd known. It wasn't a flicker of anything at all, just his eyes slowly turning red as he stared, the blue of his skin spreading outward from his lashes up and down and around until he was breathing sharp and shallow and gripping the edge of the sink so hard he could feel it digging into his (he glanced down and it was) blue, blue skin.
If he’d been sober there was every possibility that he would have been sick. As it was he was distinctly nauseous, but when he looked back up to stare at himself all he thought was strange, I thought that was a mirror, not a window.
A laugh bubbled strangled and miserable out of his throat, stumbling back from the window-mirror so that he fell against the opposite wall, the nausea welling up as he struggled to cope with the idea that that thing was him. And that thing - that thing that was him - registered to his very, very inebriated self as being a not-particularly-terrible-looking Centaurian stranger with odd tattoos.
Another laugh - his voice, he still had his voice, and the reddish tinge that his frost giant eyes granted the world might be from the change in the music, he’d been hearing colours for the better part of an hour (it wasn’t, his sight had changed when he’d held the Casket while entirely too sober), and the discordance between what he saw and what he knew and what he felt was so utterly overwhelming that he could hardly breathe.
He was so hot, the yellow sound of the music soured into sludge and was his voice dark blue because he was a frost giant or was it dark blue because it was his and the grass green of the air was turning to wilted brown and did Jotunheim even have grass? Did they know how it felt to lie in it in the early spring to read a book? Did Jotunheim have books? Did they have libraries? Did they have libraries with courtyards with grass in them like Vanaheim?
The confused and derailed train of thought had him staring at the floor such that when he once again looked up he repeated “strange,” murmured aloud, “I thought that was a mirror,” except that the stranger spoke in his voice and maybe it was him.
Except that he couldn’t be a frost giant, he was raised on Asgard and had an Aesir’s sensibilities and an Aesir’s education and memories of an Aesir’s childhood fears of frost giants and anyway, the greatest faux pas a shapeshifter could commit was shifting their own appearance into the body of a truly sentient species with their own culture which - he shut his eyes and scrubbed his face, a simple truth he’d been studiously ignoring now completely unignorable.
He was a shapeshifter. He knew his body. Knew it intimately in many forms, knew himself as a woman and a cat and a wolf and an eagle and a magpie and his usual appearance was a brilliant-cruel-pointless glamour. He was a shapeshifter and he saw a stranger in the mirror and had thought he was shifting into one body but this was the body he had been shifting into, his so-called mother had used his very own body to lie to him, stolen the most fundamental truth of a shapeshifter from him, had hidden the body he was born in from him, his truest self was a lie.
He had no true self.
A thought that was so disorienting that he couldn’t manage to feel anything about it, couldn’t manage to feel his limbs, couldn’t manage to feel anything at all and -
“Perhaps,” he choked out to himself in his own voice as he stared at the hands of a stranger whose fingers he could wiggle in a way that was both fascinating and hysterical, “you are simply very, very high.”
And hot, it was truly no wonder that ice elfs avoided visiting Asgard in the summer if at all possible and still wore very little in Asgard’s mild winters.
He’d always liked it when they visited. So much less conservative in their dress than Asgardians. A shame their men were so - he sniffed, let his head fall back against the wall, and snickered just as Peter would have - uptight about most things outside fashion.
There would definitely be significantly less maintenance if he had sex with one of them this way, no need for fiddly seidr work as a prelude, no need for - his false mother was brilliant. The glamour was so complete that - that he’d thought he needed to - it was no mere glamour, to call it such was a disservice to her skill - the fury that rose in him was utterly absurd, far more upset about the fact that his mother had made completely unnecessary sex moderately trying to achieve than he was about how she’d stolen his true -
He couldn’t be upset about it because when he thought of it he was staggering in place, unable to quite locate himself in reality, disorienting didn’t even begin to describe it, he couldn’t quite anchor himself to anything until -
“Reaching out,” Peter sang in what was more of an uneven intoxicated shout across the ship in the kitchen, “touching me... touching you… Sweet Caroline! Bah bah bah!”
Affection swelled up in Loki’s chest in time with the rising of the song, the trumpets dragging the soured-brown of the air back to bright, happy, high-as-all-fuckhell-yellow. He laughed, and Peter called something out to him about pina coladas, and Loki happily replied with something that might have been about the water sounding pink and - oh, the water was cold.
He surged forward from the wall to the sink where he’d forgotten the tap was running - warm, the man sang over the speakers of the Milano - he shut his eyes and breathed relief at the experience of pink water over hands pressed to the bottom of the sink - touching warm - he’d thought before that it was cold, but it was rather more lukewarm - reaching out - it was still infinitely better than not having it, the pink now less pink in his high-as-all-fuckhell frost giant ears than something ambiguously pastel -touching me - he hummed along as he began to put the water on his shoulders a second time - touching you - he remembered that the shower also had water - sweet Caroline!
“Bah bah bah!” shouted Peter faint and burgundy in the back of Loki’s ears as he bounce-stumbled to the shower and punched the lowest temperature possible into the control pad before smacking the button to start it with his palm.
Instead of stepping in before the shower had properly begun to run cold Loki remembered that he would likely want a towel afterward, reaching for the one that Peter had left on the rack and tossing it into the corner that he’d spelled to chute directly into the laundry. The clean laundry came out of the machine into a pile in the corner of the bunk room automatically by seidr when it was finished, which, once Loki was staring at the open door, felt infinitely far away.
Loki leaned heavily on the edge of the sink as he squared his shoulders in preparation for the trip, his eyes narrowed as he regarded the open door. The position put him significantly closer to the window-mirror than he had been before, and he thoughtlessly glanced at it - he fiercely focused back on the door in an attempt to ignore the swiftly rising nausea - he did a double take, staring at himself in sudden, strange fascination.
He turned himself so that he could bring his face as close to the mirror as he could get and still see his mouth reflected in it. There were markings there, slightly darker than the rest of his skin, so faint as to be easily missed at first glance. His fingers rose to touch them, following the way that they crossed his lips from top to bottom.
Slowly, slowly it dawned on him - they were scars, fierce pride cascading through his head to fill his entire body as he thought of what he’d done to earn them, the colour of Sif’s hair flashing before his eyes, the agony of the stitching tingling in his fingertips where they touched his mouth, the thing that resembled satisfaction that had justified the pain of slicing open his lips himself just to prove the pointlessness of using an unbreakable thread joining the pride.
He didn’t scar. The marks of any wound, no matter how dire, required no assistance in healing without evidence. Thor had been required to go through potions and salves and extra visits to the healers so as to keep his prince’s physique pristine, but Loki never had. He hadn’t needed to.
Except he had scarred; the brilliant-cruel-pointless glamour of his brilliant-cruel-false mother had hidden the defects he had earned as well as the defect of his species. A frantic survey of his own body revealed mark after mark after mark that had never been tended to outside of the minimum for his health.
First he skimmed about his waist to locate the place to the right of his navel where he’d been stabbed by a Vanir dissident attempting a poorly thought out assassination, the scar there ragged and ugly under his fingers. Ran one hand down to his right hip to slide the tip of one finger against the perfectly round dip where he’d been stung by a bilgesnipe on one of Thor’s worse misadventures. An awkwardly angled further reach down to his left calf, tracing the line of a great slice he’d suffered in his third battle.
Standing up straight allowed him to find another set of scars - scars he was immediately fond of, scars that he’d earned, scars that held memories that mattered. His hands rising from his calf to his left hip and up over his belly to explore the line where old skin met new after the incident with the Eagle. Running his left palm over the inside of his right elbow, smiling at the pinprick mark that matched Amora’s from the clandestine sealing of their friendship in blood that he’d always been secretly upset that he’d lost. He gripped his left wrist so as to inspect the oddly textured place where he’d burned himself when he’d finally - finally - managed to summon a flame by seidr. Admired the more recent, still slightly raised memory of where he’d taken a shot meant for Peter that was mirrored on the front and back of his shoulder.
Aesir healed swiftly, and healed well, and had great stores of knowledge to fix any evidence of wounds that were too grievous to pass by without a mark. Apparently frost giants, by contrast, healed swiftly, and healed well, but did not so easily pass by without a mark, and none of the great stores of Asgardian knowledge had been used to keep his prince’s physique pristine.
With his hands once again at his lips Loki found himself - found himself thankful for it, found himself nearly blind from the relief that came with being able to locate where in the stranger’s face he existed.
“Strange,” he mumbled into his hands, his cool breath on his fingers not quite disorienting enough to detract from the relief that was running liquid down his spine, teal with the grass green in the air and the dark blue in his voice. “I thought that was a window.”
Time: smooth and unreal and both none at all and an infinite amount of it had passed by the time Peter spoke from the door and interrupted Loki’s long, confused, nauseous, fascinated study of himself in the mirror.
“Man,” said Peter, and Loki looked to his right at where Peter stood with a glass in each hand in the doorway. “You are usually way smoother about your weird shapeshifter come-ons.”
It was one time, Loki thought with vague annoyance, but as usual while under the influence his mouth moved far faster than his mind, and what he actually said was “I have scars” through his fingers with all the wonder of a child.
“Uh,” said Peter in his wonderfully confused burgundy voice, “yeah?”
For a long moment they simply stared at one another, the pink-white sound of the shower to his left mingling with the yellow sound of the speakers to cast the moment in unending golden warmth. Then Peter’s expression cleared into a grin.
“Oh man,” he said, and used the pinky finger of one pina colada filled hand to point at a spot below his own collar bone. “Have I ever told you how I got that one?”
Loki shook his head, his fingers still over his mouth so as to touch his stitch-scars.
“One time,” began Peter, “there was this A'askavariian chick, and -”
The words of Peter’s story were lost on Loki within seconds, half-heartedly doing his best not to stare at himself in the mirror instead of paying attention to Peter’s high and rambling story. Which was impossible, given that all he could think about was the many and myriad ways in which he’d been lied to. If the scars were darker than the rest of his (blue, blue, he was still so hot and nauseous) skin, then the near-white pattern of lines weren’t scars, and if they weren’t scars, then frost giants did not, as all Asgardians knew, carve into their babes with ritual knives.
Burgundy was a comforting voice-sound, he decided as he moved one set of fingers up his cheek to touch the pattern, even when it was chattery and didn’t make any sense.
It occurred to him then that there were a great many warriors in his life who had used their scars as an opening to tell tall tales about the battles they’d fought. Usually they were suspiciously grand sagas that only grew grander with ever more ale at a feast, rather than something entirely too plausible that involved Peter getting stabbed with a fork by a woman being told by the man in question while he was standing naked in a washroom, but Loki was nothing if not flexible, and -
“One time,” he interrupted, an odd sort of happiness tingling in his lungs at being able to join in an Asgardian passtime that had always been barred from him by what he’d thought was simple biological happenstance, “my mouth was sewn shut.”
Peter’s eyebrows rose and his mouth stayed ever so slightly open as he blinked through his high at Loki.
“Be… cause of a chick?” he asked at length.
“On behalf of a chick,” explained Loki, the pleasure he took in calling Sif something so dismissive as a chick nearly overwhelming in its spiteful purple. He smirked at the memory of her expression. “Because I stole her hair.”
“Okay,” said Peter, nodding along, “okay, so, that’s a dick move,” he decided, sipping from his pina colada as he mulled the story over. “But the… your…” he gestured at his own mouth with one of the glasses, eyeing Loki’s mouth with concern. “Seems a bit like an overreaction.”
Loki hummed, shrugged, glanced at the ceiling, and wobbled his hand in the air to express so-so.
“Yeeeeah,” drawled Peter in the way he always did when Loki said something he considered utterly bizarre. “Pretty sure it was an overreaction.”
“I cut my lips open to get them out,” said Loki in lieu of explaining the various and sundry ways in which the extremity had been his fault. He then used one finger to touch the place on the left side of his lips where his memories told him he’d stopped just being delirious from the pain and started to lose his grip on the knife because of his shaking hands.
Peter dutifully stepped forward to look at where Loki was pointing, setting one of the drinks aside on the sink’s tiny counter so that he could - something in Loki’s head began to scream alarms but - he really ought to flinch but he wasn’t sure why - Peter went to place his thumb next to Loki’s finger against his lips and - the skin of a frost giant burned everything living that it touched -
The thought came too late, and Peter’s thumb was brushing against his lips, pressing ever so slightly down, his eyes focused on Loki’s mouth as he leaned in significantly closer than he had to to see. It wasn’t frost giants that burned living things - Peter’s thumb was blazing hot against his lips, his fingers searing against his cheek - he gasped, fighting to keep his breath from turning sharp.
“That must have been a lot of blood,” he observed, the burgundy of his voice soft in Loki’s ears, and when he met Loki’s eyes it was with a strange intensity that was both fascinated and guilty.
“The healer slipped in it,” Loki confirmed, the blood in his veins running colder than it had before, his skin warming just enough to keep Peter’s touch from growing impossible to stand.
“That’s badass,” Peter said in the tone he usually reserved for the words that’s hot, the guilt and fascination explained in two murmured words. Between the theatrics and the obsession with Terra and the annoying tendency towards mild heroism, it was often altogether too easy to forget that Peter had been raised by Ravagers.
The unspoken that’s hot filled the air between them - Loki hated what he was and how he was and what had been done to him and how it had happened and what it all meant and it was all, to a one, drowned out by that’s hot, by how Peter was stepping closer - by how Peter still wanted him despite - despite his everything - how high was Peter if he was willing to just accept that he thought Loki’s brutal, bloody refusal to accept his punishment with grace was sexy without any real struggle between Ravager sensibilities and his lingering Terran morality -
“I am hot,” Loki said to himself just before Peter could properly kiss him, wrapping his arms behind Peter’s neck so that when he twisted himself stumbling towards the shower he took Peter with him.
Peter howled out a “Jesus H Christ!” directly in Loki’s face as he passed through the white-pink-sparkling Norns-blessed spray of water. His back hit the wall, and he dropped the half-finished pina colada to the floor so that there was booze and ice under Loki’s feet.
“You don’t even know who that is!” Loki shouted back from two hand’s lengths away from Peter’s nose as he caught himself with his hands on either side of Peter’s head against the shower wall, his constant annoyance with the curse overriding his need to groan from relief as he stopped directly below the water.
“Yeah, well,” shouted Peter, his words briefly interrupted by a gasping shudder, “my grandpa sure was fucking fond of him when he was pissed off!”
“New ship rule,” Loki countered at full volume, “no talking about relatives while sharing a shower!”
“I’m the captain!” Peter shouted back. “You can’t make rules!”
“Oh?” asked Loki with a grin. “One time my brother -”
“Fuck!” interrupted Peter. “Fuck, fine, no relatives in the shower!”
Peter’s next shiver was accompanied by a stream of curses so thick with pidgin dialects that the All-Speak failed to entirely make sense of it, and Loki felt guilty for dragging Peter with him for exactly as long as it took for him to become distracted by the utter bliss of the pina colada ice between his toes accompanying the sparkle-white relief of the cool water covering his shoulders in the concept of pastel.
“Wait,” said Peter several moments later, and Loki found that he had to blink his eyes open to see him. “Was the shower running that whole time?”
Loki laughed - he was high-as-all-fuckhell yellow, but Peter was high-as-all-fuckhell blue, which explained the intense grass-green-ness of all the air cycling through the ship.
“I’m serious,” said Peter, shivering despite his arms wrapped around his body so that he could hide his hands beneath his hunched shoulders. “And why is it so cold, and -” he glanced down - “how the fuck are you still hard?”
Loki opened his mouth on the assumption that it would run faster than his thoughts because of his intoxication, paused at length to consider the - the everything - and shut it in favour of swallowing. His eyes skittered away to stare at the wall to his right, the smoothness of it in his memories of touch translating into the smoothness of time translating into a colour that he realized he was unfamiliar with, something that a frost giant's eyes could pick up to create a pattern deep in the wall.
That, or he was insanely high and still going up instead of coming down like he'd thought.
"Oh," came Peter's voice what might have been several moments or a full hour later, "oooooooooooh, this is about the -"
Loki blinked halfway back to reality, frowning as Peter made a gesture with his hands, eyes wide and earnest. They'd developed a sort of sign language for when everything inevitably went wrong on every second or third job they took and ended up in hiding, but it was significantly harder to parse while staring down between their bodies with narrowed eyes, distracted by the way that Peter's (now a much more tolerably warm) fingers kept brushing his chest.
"... Switching?" he asked, tilting his head. One of Peter's hands moved up, and Loki tracked its movements up to where Peter used his thumb to point at - "the wall?"
"Frost," corrected Peter, and then he pointed down.
"... Frost," repeated Loki. He first stared at where frost was spreading across the wall outward from his hand and then looked down, doing his best to decipher what in all the Nine that had to do with his hard-on.
"Giant," explained Peter.
Loki huffed, rolled his eyes, and stepped back to cross his arms so that the shower water was between them, immediately aware of the warmer air outside the shower against his back.
"Point is," said Peter, first raising a finger and then using it to point at Loki's chest like he'd solved some great philosophical riddle, "not a sex thing. More of a..." he gestured vaguely as he thought, "an angst thing?"
Loki looked past him at where the shower water was already working away at one of the places where his (nauseatingly blue) hands had begun to spread frost, his arms kept crossed tight against himself. He chewed on his lip; considered that he'd begun this entire terrible thing on a whim related to sleeping with ice elfs; considered how good the white-pink water felt against his skin; how Peter had looked at him when he'd spoken of his scars.
The vast majority of people turned a touch green when faced with the reality of what had been done to his mouth. They usually turned greener still upon hearing about his solution. The berserkers in Asgard had held him in high esteem for an entire three centuries for his bloody ill-thought-out behaviour.
None of them had looked at him like that.
He decided that life would be much, much easier if it was a sex thing, and took the two steps necessary to press himself against Peter and finish the kiss that Peter had started before Loki had thrown them both into the shower.
Peter's body was hot, Loki's closed eyes allowing his skin to interpret Peter's warmth as burgundy and the softness of his lips as a long hum in a deep octave, the music he could now barely hear filling his spine with tingles. The water on his shoulders and back carried on with their own white-glitter song, ice forming here and there on his body and then sliding away to leave cool trails of glitter behind, patterns he could half-see in the back of his mind. Peter shuddered against him, his movement soaking into Loki's skin and lighting up lines all across his body in ways that made perfect sense for reasons that didn't make any sense at all.
"Okay," Peter gasped what had to be barely two seconds later, "definitely -" he shuddered again - shivered, he was shivering, and Loki's guts twisted - "definitely a sex thing, but -"
- but I've fucked an A'askavarian and the thing you are is still too fucking much -
"- my balls are so fucking cold they're shrinking back up into my goddamn body," Peter said instead before nudging Loki away so that he could point downward between them for a second time. "So we gotta relocate yesterday if you want any of this."
Loki choked out a laugh as the bizarre un-reality that was every third sentence out of Peter's mouth hit him in place of his irrational self-loathing half fantasy.
"Bed?" Peter asked, now pushing Loki backward through the shower.
Loki obliged, groaning as he walked back through the sparkle-white cascades and tripping out into the washroom proper so that he was immediately leaning against the wall. Peter leapt out behind him, cursing his way through the shower and slipping on the water he brought with him to the washroom floor. Loki caught him - tried to pull him in for another kiss - Peter used Loki's catch to grab hold of his forearm and drag him out into the hall, footprints and droplets of water marking their movements through the ship as they went.
They ran into the walls twice; the first time there was cursing and laughing and slipping with Peter's back against the wall, and the second there was slipping and cursing and kissing with Loki's back pressing against the poster he'd muddled with on his way past to the washroom. Peter's hot body against his front; damp paper behind; the water on their feet swiftly frosting over across the floor.
The paper was damp, then cooling, his body was cooling it, radiating -
"That's not how that works," Loki gasped out against Peter's mouth. His body wasn't radiating anything, it was taking it in, was soaking up the heat of the wall so that what was left was cool stillness, the problem with Peter's skin wasn't that it was hot, it was that it was generating heat and wouldn't stop.
"What's not how what?" asked Peter, moving a palm's length away to frown and blink at him through his high.
"I can't -" it made a great deal of sense, really, that - "I'm not -" stillness, a frost giant wasn't a being of ice it was a being of stillness, soaking in the warmth of the world and then storing it - "I don't -" he had no idea how his own body worked, had only just realized a basic function of it that every frost giant child that had ever existed already knew - "I don't know anything," he concluded with miserable wilted glitter-white waterfall flowers losing petals behind his eyes and in his throat.
"You serious?" asked Peter after a long moment of staring at Loki with narrowed eyes and parted lips.
Loki nodded, jostling all the flowers and not feeling anywhere near as dizzy as he really ought to given the strangeness of the sensation. Which was most likely because it wasn't real, a faintly sober-esque voice in the most distant part of his mind noting that he really ought to track down whoever had grown this particular plant and congratulate them on a job well done.
Peter studied him, slowly nodded, and tapped Loki's forehead. You seriously need to get out of your head echoed Peter's voice in Loki's head the same as it had sounded when he'd said it on the day they'd met.
My head is just fine, thank you, Loki's thoughts bit out. "Fix it," he commanded aloud instead.
Peter laughed and did as he was told, leaning in to kiss him and changing his mind at the last second, grabbing Loki's hand to pull him the last part of the way down the hall and around the corner to his bed.
Loki yelped, the sound strange in his ears - had his ears changed as his eyes had? Had he heard like a Jotun all his life and had no idea that Asgardians heard differently? Did any of it really matter in the face of Peter shoving him down to the bed so that the sheets scattered around him like soft autumn leaves to go with the weight of Peter straddling his hips, watching as Peter leaned down and this time didn't change his mind?
It was a languorous sort of kiss, a comfortable settling of feeling despite the fact - because of the fact - that it burned the shape of Peter's lips against his.
Above him something clicked, and a moment later a new song began. Loki laughed; somehow in the midst of the autumn golds and mahogany world of Peter's bunk he'd missed the fact that Peter wasn't just kissing him. He'd also been manipulating the tape deck above Loki's head, an unfamiliar song floating brassy through the ship.
Another kiss, the heat of Peter's body and the bed beneath Loki's back both soaking into his skin. Slowly but surely his body pulled enough heat from the bed that it reached a pleasant, floating sort of neutrality, but Peter's body did no such thing. It burned, and burned, and burned, and Loki found himself trapped, utterly unable to decide whether he wanted to shove Peter away or reach down with his frozen blue hand and grip Peter's hardened cock just to see the way he jumped.
Words drifted into Loki's head just before he began to snake his hand between their bodies - what I've got, full stock - Loki paused to listen, something told him the next words were important - of thoughts and dreams that scatter - he snorted at how very literal the metaphor currently was - and you - he chose that moment to catch Peter's eyes - pull them all together.
They were green, though not so green as his.
Usually.
They were green, though not so green as his usually. Now they were something else entirely, a colour Loki couldn't quite name, and quietly, ever so quietly, in the very furthest reaches of his mind, he decided he'd like it if it was his Jotun eyes that were seeing it instead of an effect of the high. If it was, he could almost guarantee he might see it again.
"Sentimental," he murmured, and hadn't the heart to push the silver-brass sensation of you make my dreams come true away.
"You know it," Peter replied with an infuriatingly bright grin.
Loki snaked his hand between their bodies and gripped Peter's cock with his frozen blue hand just to see him jump.
"Motherfucker!" Peter shrieked, his burgundy voice rising into higher shades of red as he jerked in around his cock in an attempt to protect it.
Loki laughed and released Peter's cock from his grip, his laughter interrupted by his own soft moan as cool air filled the space between where Loki lay on the bed and Peter defending his cock from Loki's cold hand above him. His voice sounded dark blue and - a glimmer of burgundy touched it from where they'd kissed, the colour shifting indigo.
"The fuck was that for?" Peter snarled, his burgundy-red voice sending the autumn leaves that filled the wrinkles in the fabric of the sheets scattering outward for the sound.
"'s too hot," Loki slurred, his eyes blinking as he realized just how far gone his mind truly was. A deep breath helped to steady him, his vision clearing as he took in the better-than-green colour of Peter's eyes.
"Well," Peter replied, his frown stupid in his own inebriation as he glanced down between their chests at Loki's - he was blue, his skin was so blue, it was nauseating except - "maybe just say something next time?" he suggested.
Loki hummed, a quiet debate playing out in golden autumn and wilted grey as he debated between the better-than-green and the nausea - but for now it was a sex thing, and so he dismissed the debate in favour of slowly, gently placing first his fingertips and then his palm against Peter's chest.
Peter shivered, the hair on his body raising in a way that might have been subtle if Loki wasn't so finely attuned to every whisper of a change in the temperature of Peter's skin and the air around it. And yet - and yet it was something like the sound of a sunset instead of petals falling from the grey flowers behind his eyes, Peter's breathless laugh encouraging Loki to continue moving until he had a hand on the outside of each of Peter's arms.
"Let me make it up to you," he purred, the lyrics I ain't the way you found me rippling in grass-green over mahogany earth in his head. And I'll never be the same, the singer added, the words so very sentimental and caring and true that if Loki had been anything other than on a trip of joyful synesthesia he would have scoffed and changed the song. "Please?" he asked instead, his entire focus on Peter's drunkenly suspicious expression.
"Fuck it," Peter said with a shrug half a moment later.
It was all the permission Loki needed to summon the instinct of two-thousand years of sex and sparring to smoothly flip them over so that Peter was the one pressed into the pleasantly-cool autumn-sheets and Loki was the one with warm air caressing his back. Peter gasped but didn't curse, the sound of hardly any note to Loki as he ran his hands down Peter's chest.
Peter was a being of nothing but heat - of movement - at once familiar and foreign to Loki's fingers. He knew each scar, each line of muscle, the trail of hair that lead down from his navel to his cock. But every piece of familiarity simultaneously felt foreign beneath the icy stillness of his blue hands, a bright sensation of radiant light cooled - stilled - calmed by his touch, the warmth of most life reduced to a vibration that he could feel in the sound of the music ringing colours he could hardly name in his ears.
The moment was beautiful in the overwhelming sort of way such things were, the autumn leaves that shivered across-beneath-within the sheets disrupted by the realization that something felt... wrong about Peter's body. Loki frowned, his mind slow and filled with altogether too many pretty things to function on anything aside from instinct and fickle emotion; the impulse rose to trail his fingers back up Peter's chest, past his neck, to clasp his cheeks and study around his eyes before running his hands back down Peter's arms to inspect his wrists.
Peter stifled a laugh more than once through the entire process, disrupting the leaves and flower petals in Loki's head with a pleasant sunshine breeze. Loki ignored it as he so often did, engaged in study as he so often was.
"Lookin' for some of these?" Peter asked, his burgundy voice touched by indigo and deepening into the colour-sound of Alfheim's finest red wine.
As consumed as Loki was with the sensation of wine, he didn't entirely feel the way that Peter was grasping his wrists until he felt it. Felt Peter's thumbs touch the shimmery lines of almost-white that ran from the back of his hands up over his arms, felt the touch shiver upward, felt Peter's thumbs follow the preceding sensation with callused fingers that were simultaneously everything Loki wanted and far too rough.
Felt sensation expand out over every one of the lines in the pattern from crown to toe, every nerve ending in every line lighting up with inexplicable pleasure from Peter's grip on his arm. He hated the patterns over his skin even if they weren't scars. He hated what they represented, though he couldn't - quite - articulate why. Hated that they were a part of him, and knew of the hate intellectually, and discarded the hate in favour of experiencing the delight of having his every contour drawn across his skin, along his arms, up his neck, over his cheeks, through his hair, complex twists over his chest and back, an extra erogenous jolt around the sides of his cock, down his legs and inexplicably-amusingly between his fingers and toes.
Peter released Loki's arms and Loki heard himself let out a moan - perhaps not his first, but the only one he could remember - panting as he regained proper consciousness.
"'Cause I ain't got any," Peter said, and when Loki managed to look down he found that Peter's eyes were wide with surprise.
Surprise that was followed by a smirk and a much more enthusiastic press of his fingers against the pattern that adorned Loki's chest, tracing it on either side as Loki once again lost himself to the pleasure of it.
"Sure fuckin' wish I did, though," Peter said, his voice so distant and muddled with the sunlight of the music that Loki barely understood it.
"You don't," Loki gasped out a moment later when Peter mercifully-miserably released him.
"Why?" asked Peter, and Loki desperately fumbled to grab Peter's hands to keep them away from inflicting a counter argument before Loki could even get out a response.
"Because," said Loki a moment later when he had Peter's brightly burning hands within his grip.
He paused; there was a reason, a sense of disgust he could remember but not quite locate, a place he knew he could visit if he so desired but that contained naught but wilted grass and the autumn leaves of the sheets wet and grey in the morning and light that shone altogether too bright in ugly gold buildings and a location that he simultaneously recalled as a welcoming deep blue darkness coated in beautiful silver dust with a frost giant's eyes and an isolated dead frozen wasteland with his other eyes and he didn't particularly want to be in that place, and so he stayed right where he was.
"Because," he declared without conviction into the strangely-infinite safety of the over-warm false-wood panels of the Milano, affection for the ship and her protection filling his spine in the same orange and blue as her paint job accompanied by the bright bounce and trumpets of Peter's playlist.
Something about walking and sunshine and life and love and don't it feel good? the Milano asked.
"That's a stupid fuckin' argument," Peter replied to Loki's declaration before Loki could try to wriggle out of answering the Milano's difficult, impossible question.
"Consider," Loki began. He paused to be sure he had Peter's attention, then threw Peter's hands away before shoving himself backward on the bed to better locate himself between Peter's legs instead of over his hips. He'd said that he was going to make up for his frozen grope at Peter's cock, and the idea of hearing Peter moan until their voices matched in colour if not form was wildly appealing, especially when compared with the possibility of breaking the harmony of the moment into conflict.
Peter startled and laughed and startled again when Loki's cold fingers brought stillness to the inside of his burning thighs. For a moment Loki hesitated; but the words Peter had spoken in the washroom ran across Loki's mind in an incoherent babble of burgundy accompanied by intense, focused usually-green eyes.
If Peter didn't want him - whatever he was, given the stranger in the window-mirror who spoke with his voice and owned his scars - he'd had plenty of opportunity to express it.
And so Loki carried on, exploring the familiar-foreign world of Peter's body with slow, deliberate movements so that his rattled, over-full mind could properly drink it all in. The way that Peter gasped when Loki took his balls in hand, the way he tensed, the way that he slowly, slowly began to relax into Loki's cool touch as Loki stroked his cock.
Peter moaned when Loki brought his mouth to his cock, his hips rising in drunken thoughtlessness to push it past Loki's lips a little faster than Loki had initially intended. Without hesitation Loki obliged, wrapping his lips around it and sinking down with an open throat where he promptly choked on the searing heat that he'd decided it was a good idea to suck on.
Loki reared back, his ears full of the mahogany-maroon vibrations of Peter's uproarous laughter at his expense as he gasped in too-warm air. The air was better than Peter's cock, which Loki regarded with wide eyed offense for the way it had betrayed him, which succeeded only in causing Peter's laughter to redouble in shades of crisp autumn leaves and evening starlight in Loki's own throat as he realized how ridiculous he must look and joined in Peter's laughter.
"C'mon back up here," Peter gasped out between his peals of laughter, a hand made of the same searing heat as his cock coming down to paw drunkenly at Loki's shoulder. "We're both waaaay too fuckin' blazed to be puttin' shit in our mouths."
"I am not," Loki objected, though he continued to eye Peter's cock warily and didn't trust himself to touch it. Neither his hands on Peter's cock nor Peter's touch on his shoulder burned the way that Peter's cock in his mouth had, but it still somehow felt risky. "It's just... hot," he added even as he leaned in to breathe against Peter's cock, his hands back on Peter's thighs.
"I know I am babe," Peter replied, and clumsily sat up enough to hook one hand around Loki's arm and ineffectually tug him up into bed anyway. "But I'd rather play with your new toys," he added, his other hand coming down to stroke over one of the lines that graced Loki's body from his collarbone to the outside of his shoulder.
Loki shuddered at the pleasure of it, the feeling of Peter's voice lighting up the lines on his body with essence of burgundy that started beneath his hand and trickled out through the rest of the lines. It was a pleasure he hadn't realized he'd been desperately missing, a lack of sensation he'd somehow known was there but could never articulate, and damn his not-mother for hiding it from him.
The flowers behind Loki's eyes blossomed burgundy and indigo as Peter helped him back into the bed, petals scattering in amongst the leaves of the bunk's blanket as he collapsed at Peter's side. Loki caught Peter's cheeks and kissed him - slowly, languidly, like he wasn't pretending they weren't lovers in the most sentimental meaning of the word, like it was easy to sink into the colour of that voice and the texture of that body and the warmth of that man.
What I like about you, the bright happy sun-yellow of the music sang out in Loki's cool blood as they kissed, caressed, rubbed against one another until the separation of the atoms between their bodies began to blur in his mind with the unreal hallucination of nature inside the womb of Peter's ship, you really know how to dance. When you go up, down, jump around - space, a haunting void in Loki's thoughts now filled with leaves and flower petals and glittering frozen water and all painted with the colours of Peter's music - think about true romance!
Loki did as the song bade him to, memories he usually avoided of partners he'd cared too much for despite the futility of all his relationships arriving in his mind less in the gritty, grief-filled details and more in the joy of the feelings. The colours. The sensations. Blues and reds and golds and silvers, warm and cool as the personalities involved, brassy and shining, dimly lit comfort, other beds cloaked in rich fur instead of coarse synthetics, other homes in other places holding other secrets.
Peter's laugh wasn't the first laugh he'd loved, but it was the one he loved right now, his presence with Loki a thread of burgundy that kept him tethered to reality. Peter's laugh, Peter's voice, Peter's cock grinding against his, Peter's hands tracing over lines on Loki's body that Loki couldn't believe he'd found nauseating as recently as - time, no longer smooth and unreal, but rather infinite and coiling and beckoning Loki forward with the pleasure of an unpredictable life instead of the grey repeating doldrums that Asgard had been able to offer him - Loki smiled against Peter's mouth when he felt him tense and groan, his own laughter caught dark blue and carefree in his throat.
A hand reached down between them - it was the same temperature as he was, so it must be his - to feel the seed slick between their bodies. Loki liked the texture of it; liked the way its heat stuck against his cool skin and rapidly stilled the vibrations of its heat, liked the way that Peter shivered at his touch and pressed in closer anyway, like it really, truly didn't matter to him what Loki was so long as he was Loki.
Peter's hand joined his, unmistakable in its radiant heat, touching the mess that Loki had made of his palm before spreading it across the lines on his chest. The change in texture on the brand new erogenous zones had Loki seeing fractals on his breath as he moaned, colours and lights shifting in his mind as Peter's hand followed the lines down and down and down to Loki's cock.
To which the lines extended; Loki could see them clearly in his minds eye, the way they ran over both the top and bottom, curled into patterns around the head. A texture he wished he'd been able to share with his partners over the years, no longer as concerned with his own monstrousness as he was with the pleasure that monstrousness could apparently bring him.
Was bringing him, in the tender-if-clumsy ministrations of Peter. He wasn't tripping like Loki was, but he was drowsy from his climax and under the influence of the same amount of substances, even if the substances in question were different - and yet he still managed to stroke Loki's cock just-so, managed to focus his attention on the lines of pleasure on Loki's cock until the outcome of Loki's pleasure became an inevitable wave that entirely cast off his already tenuous grasp on his own consciousness, his pleasure resolving itself into the feeling of an entire world pouring into his head.
The entire world - all of Yggdrasil - every tendril he'd ever brushed against while walking the Realms, every mote of seidr he'd ever touched, every single thread of fate that clung to him from every moment of his life came into view. The weaving of the Norns that he'd seen when he'd visited them and failed to comprehend now presented in perfect clarity, the cord of his own life woven into the fibre of the whole of the universe, the smallest thread briefly able to comprehend the whole of the pattern in all its infinite spiralling fractal glory.
Out it all went, and out and out and in and in and spinning through and through until the he turned to a we turned to a... until...
Until...
...
..
.
I feel inclined to blow my mind
Get hung up, feed the ducks with a bun
They all come out to groove about
Be nice and have fun in the sun
.
..
...
Consciousness returned first as a vague sense that something now belonged to someone else, the familiar sound of a lighter clicking nearby drawing reality back into focus in much the same way it always had in the seventies. The ffshht of whatever herb that mimicked the effects of Midgard's marijuana Peter was using this time did the same, reminding him that there was a singular him at all, and that singular him might have been spending time peacefully at one with existence, but his body was still lying in a bed next to someone else who might like to have him back for company.
His body. Loki blinked his eyes open - red eyes that saw the world with far more clarity, of course he hadn't been able to properly see what the Norns were weaving when he'd visited them, he'd been looking at them through the veil of Frigga's glamour - and was greeted by a grin from Peter.
"I wondered if a post-sex joint might wake you up," Peter said, pulling from the joint but not yet offering it over.
Loki hummed, the dark blue of his voice in his throat now accompanied by echoes of the fractal patterns he'd just been consumed by. His dark blue voice... his still Jotun vision... with a mild curiosity that contained none of the nausea he'd felt before the highest moment of his trip he lifted his hands to inspect them. Still his. Marked both with dark scars that had been hidden from him in the life he'd lived and the pale lines of the Jotun life he'd been stolen from.
"Yup," said Peter. "Still a blueberry." He took a second drag; he might not be intending to share at all. "Think you might stay that way?"
"No," Loki immediately replied - he might feel fine with things now, but he had the sneaking suspicion that when the giddy high of lying in a bed of flower petals and beautiful autumn light overlaid by the mathematical perfection of seidr visualized by his subconscious as spiraling geometric patterns wore off, so would at least some of his peaceful curiosity. Then he frowned at his palms and glanced down the rest of his body. "I'm not the colour of blueberries," he added.
Peter considered, tapping his chin with the lighter in the deeply philosophical way that getting high tended to inspire in him, the joint held out so that it dropped its ashes on the floor rather than the bed. It was with a wave of deep burgundy fondness that Loki watched him; when he'd bought the lighter on Midgard he'd often found all the same habits of other partners while high annoying.
In Peter it was the thing that made him consciously agree with what his subconscious already knew: the lighter now belonged to Peter, another vintage item to add to his collection of Terran memorabilia. It was even properly American, a Zippo imported to Norway with custom engraving that resembled Asgardian knotwork which now writhed and shifted and turned with colour in Loki's drugged Jotun vision in time with the music still playing in the background.
"But," Peter said with a slow, blinking pause, "you're blue -" and he said it so neutrally, like it didn't mean anything about Loki that it was true, and for the moment Loki found he could agree - "and blueberries are blue, so..."
"They're mostly greyish purple," Loki corrected with a smile, the flower petals in his mind falling in whispered patterns as he shook his head.
"Well then what're they called blueberries for?" Peter asked, his offense exaggerated the way it always was when he discovered that something on Midgard wasn't quite how he expected it to be. Still, it was pleasant how obvious it was that his offense wasn't aimed at Loki - he was still offering Loki the joint, after all.
"Anglophones are very confused," Loki replied with a shrug, taking the joint without thought and pulling from it. He might be on the downward side of his trip, but he still had a ways to go, and had no intention of being anything like sober until they pulled in to port two days from now.
Peter thought, and for but a moment Loki was concerned Peter might finally demonstrate the same black misery he himself so often felt about his own personal history about Midgard. Instead Peter placed his now joint-less hand on Loki's arm, tendrils of pleasant sensation running up and down the pale lines in a distant imitation of the pleasure from before.
"Let's see them," Peter decided, eyes - a colour that only Loki's Jotun vision could see - focused as best they could through his high.
Loki pulled on a thread of seidr to send the joint to the ashtray on the sidetable, the green of it spreading through his skin and his bones and the petals of flowers and filling the autumn leaves scattered in the blanket with summer life. Another twist, and in his palm between him and Peter he held an illusion of blueberries.
Peter stared at them. Narrowed his eyes. Nodded his head.
"I think," he said, "that you got high on somethin' just a little stronger'n me. 'cause that ain't any of those colours."
Peter raised his hand off Loki's arm to gesture, and Loki ignored what he'd said in favour of a faint gasp and snatching Peter's hand back, placing it directly where it had previously been on his arm. The touch might have milder effects than before, but Loki somehow felt like a man who hadn't realized he'd spent his whole life on the edge of starvation seeing a feast for the very first time.
"You okay?" asked Peter, his brow furrowed and his hand on Loki's arm gripping a little tighter, his free palm placed against Loki's chest and on top of the swirling patterns of the lines that ended there.
Loki shuddered at the additional touch, briefly lost in all the ways that the patterns on his own body mirrored the patterns he'd seen in his outing to become one with the weaving of the World Tree.
"Yes," he concluded a moment later when the heat of Peter's skin against his had sent enough distracting vibrations into the stillness of his Jotun body to draw his attention back to reality. "But," he continued, "I think if you stop touching me, I shall be off somewhere else again for a time, and I would prefer to be here with you."
"Keep touchin' or you'll fly away, got it," Peter confirmed, nodding his head and rubbing Loki's arms in a way that sent maroon shivers through the lines on his arm and his chest that travelled across the lines to gather comfortably in his spine. "That's good actually, 'cause I got some questions."
Despite the high and the trip and the moment of existential peace, Loki felt nausea rise in response to Peter's question, a faint echo of his earlier discomfort with his own body. Perhaps Peter was annoyed that Loki hadn't warned him about the tripping; or perhaps he was going to ask questions about his anatomy that Loki couldn't answer; or perhaps Peter had somehow heard the colour of Loki's heart when the lyrics I've got a feeling, a feeling I can't hide sang out through the sound system and felt the need to address Loki's crass emotionality sooner rather than later.
All these years I've been wandering around
Instead Peter ran his hand down Loki's arm, tracing the line there until it reached his elbow, then skipping down to the line on Loki's hip until it came to rest on a place where a scar actually broke said line, the pattern ever so slightly misaligned in the exact spot that still occasionally ached. The scar was one of the largest Loki had, the place where the great eagle atop the world tree had pierced and ripped from hip to navel with one giant talon.
Wondering how come nobody told me
"Who'd you piss off enough to get this damaged?" asked Peter, the heat of his hand feeling like it was going to leave a permanent mark in the shape of his five fingers atop a patch of blue skin that was a slightly different shade from where it had been regrown in Asgard's healing halls.
All that I was looking for was somebody
Loki felt a smile curl across his lips and a laugh rise in indigo fondness through his head as all the petals fell away from the edges of his vision to leave nothing there but Peter and his curiosity. All Peter ever really wanted was to know him better with nary an ulterior motive in sight.
Who looked like you?
"I stole a feather," Loki explained as he explored the scar himself, his fingers brushing against Peter's as he recalled the incident and summed it down to its most important component parts. "From a bird so large she contains galaxies. She was not pleased."
Peter paused, digested, muttered the word "cool," as though Loki's statement wasn't quite possible to handle while high, and moved on to the next nearest scar with fingers trailing mahogany acceptance across Loki's skin. "What about that one?" he asked.
Loki laughed - he didn't want to dwell on the eagle either - and spoke.
He couldn't ever say how long they stayed there like that, trading stories of scars and exploring primarily his new-found-self in a haze of half-conscious hallucination-touched tranquility. Couldn't explain exactly when they transitioned from one state to another, when they changed from tracing through all of Loki's history across all his different bodies using the scars that had been left on his Jotun body but never appeared on Frigga's glamour to sleeping in one another's arms to taking their pleasure together once more.
But he could say that even after it ended, he knew that things would never quite be the same, and that for once, the truth of inevitable change was a blessing instead of a curse.
Shall I stay?
Would it be a sin
If I can't help
Falling in love with you?