[TWIG] Chapter 13/14: What I did for love

[terresdebrume]

TITLE: The way it goes
FANDOM: Marvel’s MCU
SERIES: Standing on tiptoes (1/3)
RATING: Teen and Up
PAIRING(S): FrostIron
CHARACTER(S): Loki, Tony Stark, Thor, Odin, Frigga, Farbauti, Laufey, cameos by multiple others.
GENRE: Alternate Universe (Ballet)
TRIGGER WARNING(S): None, although there is some mildly explicit description of violence in the first few chapters.
SUMMARY: Loki is a ballet dancer juggling between two (or three, or possibly four) different lives. Tony Stark is an engineer's son who goes into theatric props to piss his father off. Then they meet, and worlds collide.

STANDING ON TIPTOES ON LJ: [Series masterpost] Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9, Chapter 10, Chapter 11, Chapter 12,



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Tony

He flinches when he hears the worrying crack of knuckles against cement wall and Howard looks at him with venom in his eyes.

He thinks it’s ridiculous, really, that he is still afraid of him after all these years when, technically, Howard never raised a hand on him. Still, whatever happens, Tony has never liked the sight of an angry Howard. It’s always been the start of trouble, and the way his father keeps his voice low and rough and dangerous for his next question makes his heart climb up in his throat, his back start to sweat, and he kind of hates himself a little for that.

“Are you telling me,” Howard says, “that not only you’ve decided to abandon what we worked for all our lives for the most ridiculous job in existence, save maybe dance itself, but on top of that you’re letting this—this fairy put it up your ass?”

“Actually,” Loki answers without missing a beat, “we’re partial to sixty-nine-ing.”

It’s a lie and a shameless one, at that; they haven’t done much more than make out yet, because Loki is apparently a master at the game, and Tony doesn’t feel ready for anything more –how Loki is even willing to wait for him, he has no idea- but the calm with which his boyfriend –oh dear. Can you believe that? Boyfriend. Tony is apparently back to thirteen- speaks the lie and the gaping of Howard’s mouth make it more than worth it.

Tony knows he should probably try to make amends. He knows that Loki is afraid that Tony will come to regret parting with his father, particularly in these conditions… and to be truthful, Tony already does. But the thing is, he doesn’t feel like he has a choice.

He doesn’t want Howard to die convinced that he hates him, not at all. Only he feels that if he wants to grow up and finally become his own person –and he is past thirty, it’s high time he did- he needs to take his distance from Howard.

It’s not his fault they’re both the all-or-nothing type.

So here he is, clenching on Loki’s hand while Howard rages on and on and on, questioning his life choices –again- questioning his worth –again- questioning his love.

“My love?” Tony asks, incredulous. “I love you!” How he can admit it amidst all the anger and the hurt and all the frustration and yearning he built up for the past thirty-odd years, he doesn’t know. He thanks Loki’s hand in his, the reminder that he will not be alone when all of this is done. “I love you, I’ve always had! I spent my entire fucking life trying to do what you wanted me to do, trying to make you proud! And what did I get for my trouble? Barely a glance and never a good word! You never even looked at me when Mom died! It’s not me who doesn’t love you Dad!”

And yet. And yet, Tony hesitates. Because what is it he sees in Howard’s eyes if not pain? What is it that makes his brow furrow if not refusal of the situation?

But the instant is fleeting and long gone by the time Tony notices it, smothered under the blank mask of indifference he knows so well, and for the briefest of moments, he considers apologizing, making amends and coming back to his father’s side, his father’s house where he has always been, where he should always be.

He looks at Loki.

He could live without him. He could live without his smile, and his eyes, and his lips. He could live without the little groan he makes every time Jarvis and Fenris beg for a walk and he could definitely live without the knowledge that a python will come to live in his house, eventually.

But then Loki looks at him, and he smiles, fingers pressing against the back of Tony’s hand, and he settles back in his own skin. He can go back to what his life was before. He doesn’t want to. So when Howard goes to speak, Tony raises a hand, more sad than angry, and says:

“I know what you’re going to say. Leave him or leave you. And I pick him.”

He feels kind of proud of the way he doesn’t hesitate, or stumble as they walk out, Jarvis and Fenris at their heel after a mere whistle of Loki’s, both dogs scrambling for a caress of their tall master. (Fenris, who still has the advantage of height, is obviously winning, but that doesn’t mean Jarvis doesn’t try, and Tony chuckles at the sight.)

“I always knew you’d be his favorite dad,” Tony says with a smile.

“It’s alright,” Loki answers easily. “I’ll let you have the kids.”

Thor

Jane couldn’t get out of work today.

She tried, she really did, and Thor is grateful for that, but her lab is reducing effectives now and her best chance to keep her job is to put in as much work as she can, show she’s present and motivated and useful. Thor wishes she’d come with him, but Jane’s love for her work, and her determination to never depend on him are things he loves about her, and he doesn’t want to force her to make a choice between him and her career.

So he’s alone.

There are a lot of people at Odin’s funerals, but not many who really knew him. They stand here in prim dresses and properly dark suits, and they all look bored and awkward, watching Frigga’s face with feral eyes, trying to spot any sign of deceit in her expression. Thor wishes he could comfort her. He knows, though, that she wouldn’t accept it. She hasn’t wanted anything to do with him since he spat his anger and sorrow at her face two weeks ago, and he hasn’t dared to go against that. He hasn’t dared to risk going back to his former ways.

He wishes getting Loki back didn’t mean losing his mother. He still does his best to rebuild his relationship with Loki, though. Loki, who isn’t here. Loki who, apparently, had to go and see this Stark man’s father.

Loki, who has yet to tell him that he is dating the man.

His heart is in his throat by the time he has to go up the front and speak. Frigga, of course, was tactful and loving in her eulogy, but what should Thor say? I loved him and I thought he was the best father in the world until our family blew up in our face.

He dealt with his career a lot better than he did our family.

I wish he’d been as good of a father to my brother as he was to me.

His heart stutters. His eyes fill with tears.

“Odin… Odin was.” He breathes in. Deep. “Odin was an excellent boxer,” Thor says. He thought it would be best to start with things that wouldn’t make him feel like he’s somehow lying, no matter what he says. “He won quite a lot of competitions, as my mother told you earlier.” People nod, and Thor knows it’s not so much for Frigga’s words as for the way he didn’t stand by her side, while Loki was absent. “He was a most able business man and probably one of the most impressive figure you’ve ever met. I remember, when I was a kid, Loki and I—”

His throat stops working.

For a moment, it looks as though he is going to be left alone here, struggling and bleeding openly in front of people who are not all vultures, but none of them are true friends. He can spot Fandral, Sif and Volstagg waiting for him outside –Mother didn’t allow them in. Thor wishes they could be here as he feels tears burn on his cheeks, hears them splatters on the wood of the microphone stand in front of him.

He breathes in, deep and wet with grief, and when he raises his eyes again, Fenris is sitting by the inside door of the crematorium –Odin was fervently atheist- while Loki walks up to him, his satin suit shining black against his long, long legs.

Thor feels his brother slide beside him an take a look at his note –a doodle of children climbing onto a grown man- and sees Loki’s lips curl in the corner of his eyes.

“When we were little,” Loki pursues smoothly, “we used to climb on him. He would pick up one of us with each arm, and turn around making airplane noises to make us laugh.” His voice is strong, stable. Thor notices his eyes straying to the windows, where Tony Stark is standing in a dark grey suit. “Odin adopted me when I was but a baby. He gave me a home my parents wouldn’t have been able to give me. He gave me a name, a place to stay, a mother… and he gave me a brother. All the love I have gotten in the early stage of my life, I owe it to him. I know he and I had our different, and we fought quite a lot, but I will always be grateful for the family he gave me.”

Thor is in tears now, and he doesn’t even try to hide it. Because it is his father’s funeral, of course, but also because Loki is here by his side, and they are working as a team, as they used to do a long time ago. And no, not everything is fixed, not everything is fine. It will take them a long time before they can work their way through the problems they have.

But at least, they are on the right path, and that makes today that tiny bit less gloomy.

Frigga

It’s been a month since she last saw either of her sons.

She has had time to think, and time to grieve. She isn’t at peace with what happened. No matter what, she can never accept that Loki is only a victim in this. She has, however, come to realize that maybe –just maybe- she needs to make some efforts, too.

She doesn’t think she is all to blame, no. But she doesn’t want to lose her sons and, for that, she is willing to say things she doesn’t really believe in. If concession is the price for her boys to remain her boys, well then. She didn’t make her marriage work by taking every problem upfront.

She ignores the protests of a good half-row of spectators as she makes her way to her seat, and promises herself to get reacquainted with driving as soon as possible –letting Odin drive her never bothered her, but she’s damned if she’s going to let herself go helpless now that he is gone. He loved your strong head, she tells herself when she feels tears tugging at her throat. Better make him proud now, woman.

It’s hard though. Harder than it was to marry without her father by her side, harder than losing her first son to a stupid –unfair- case of sudden death of the newborn; harder, even than birthing Thor, and that took about sixty hours of sweating and swearing and suffering –sixteen hours that left her sick and barren, and bedridden for weeks afterwards. It’s harder than any of that, to make herself go on. Most of the time, she feels like her heart has grown teeth and gnaws at her lungs, cold and bitter and angry, like her stomach is filled with so much bile and anger and fear she’s going to drown in it.

Still, she makes herself go on. She never waited for Odin to take her life in her hands, and although she was content to follow him, she will not go so far as to follow him in the grave. She has, after all, still things to do. She thinks one day, she may heal. Maybe she will love again –she doesn’t know. All she knows is, she spent more than thirty years of her life by Odin’s side, working and sweating alongside him to build a life they could be proud of. Sure, they made mistakes, and she knows she will still make some, but what she has she earned, and she will not let anything or anyone destroy it, not even herself.

Three rows down, she can make out Thor’s broad shoulders, and Jane’s petite silhouette, her hair rolled up in a French bun. She sees the unruly hair of that man who was at the restaurant that day, and at her husband’s funerals, too. There are others with them: a tall man with black hair and sharp cheekbones, with his wife and two boys who probably aren’t even of age.

Frigga sees them, and yet she doesn’t look.

Because on the stage, Loki is dancing.

She hasn’t seen him dance since she went to his first recital in secondary school, and she is startled to see how much he changed. Nothing remains from the awkwardness of his youth, nor the shyness of his moves. He is sure of foot now, tall and proud and beautiful and Frigga thinks of her mother, tall and thin and eve so elegant, who liked ballet above all else and tried to make her like it in vain for twenty-four years. Now, watching her son live and dance and die onstage, free like she has never seen him before, she finds herself understanding what her mother meant when she said dancing sometimes looked like flying. She kind of regrets being so steadfast about her refusal to go to any kind of ballet before: maybe if she had, some of the problems her family has now wouldn’t exist.

Frigga, however, was always headstrong, and never a coward.

So when the curtain falls and admirers gather at the artists’ entrance, she takes a deep breath, steadies her hands by smoothing down her gowns, and steps up to the tall, tall man with Loki’s lips, and extends a hand.

“Mr. Laufeyson?” she asks.

“Yes?” The man looks surprised and, from the corner of her eyes, Frigga sees Thor’s eyes widen, his mouth fall open.

“Good evening, Mr. Laufeyson. I’m Frigga Borson, Loki’s mother.”

She doesn’t have her sons back yet, and when she does, they’ll be different, she knows it.

Still, she is their mother, and she will be damned if she lets her pride destroy her family.

She smiles.