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It was absurd how fragile Midgardians were, really. One shove too hard, one kink in the armour, and they're gone forever. Past where magick could possibly help.
No one would expect the villain to weep over the death of the hero. A villian shouldn't shed tears over the death of a hero he killed with his own two hands. Killing someone of the opposing side should feel like a victory, not like losing a piece of yourself - much less the most important piece.
A god shouldn't be stunned still and silent in the middle of battle. He shouldn't stop fighting and drop to his knees, embracing his enemy, trying to help him, trying to bring the man whose life he ended back to life.
A Frost Giant shouldn't try to make a lover out of the Man of Iron.
Yet Loki Laufeyson remained curled over the armoured body of Anthony Stark in the middle of the rubble that was his Malibu house, clutching him close. He kept murmuring incantations over and over, weeping and rocking, and believing in his heart he could save him, that there had to be a way.
The cracked light in Iron Man's chest flickered back on a few final times before going out for good. The metal armour surrounding it had collapsed into his chest, shattering the arc reactor inside. It couldn't hold up against a god taking out his angers from a fight the previous evening in combat, and the man inside it wasn't ready for the hostility behind the attack.
They always went easier on each other during their working hours. It was typically a game for them, and they tended to any wounds inflicted on each other later in the night. It was their secret. Both men enjoyed the sense of danger that came with fucking the enemy, and the fun it brought to battle.
The Avengers watched, stunned to silence, as Loki laid his head against the hot metal of the damaged chestpiece of the suit, tears rolling down his face as his lips moved quickly, trying in vain to bring his lover back. The tender kisses and lustful nights they shared were gone, replaced by broken electronics and bones, and blood streaks against red and gold and the pale skin of Loki's hands. He wondered to himself why it always came to this.
He should give up on everything. Caring. Anything.
Anything to keep this from happening again. He'd finally found a soul as lost as his own, who enjoyed a good prank and a fun time, yet knew the darker corners of the hearts of people. He was someone who was originally an outcast, but just wanted to be seen. Someone who knew the pain that came with life, and the lonliness of isolation. The perfect person for him, dead. Dead by Loki's own hand.
Anyone who came close to him was burned. Loki was a monster, he'd known it for a while, but as he sat there clutching Tony he realised that he truly wasn't good for anything other than destruction. Everyone he cared about betrayed him or died, all at his own fault. Loki was war, chaos, hatred, and death.
He was a killer.
He was alone.