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Jealousy is in some measure just and reasonable, since it merely aims at keeping something that belongs to us, whereas envy is a frenzy that cannot bear anything that belongs to others.'
François VI, Duc de La Rochefoucauld, Prince de Marcillac
`Please…. Please let me go. `
He comes into the café every morning. A flawless, breathing and breathtaking, clockwork by which I have set my watch and heart. In the months since I have first laid my eyes on him, he has become a part of me. So well do I know the precision of his movements, that even without my constant, cheating peeks through the old, bubbled-glass windows I would anticipate his approach. The sure sound of his steps. The soft tap of the nearly un-necessary cane. I could easily, with exacting accuracy, though lacking in his effortless grace, shadow his each and every motion from the moment he first steps through the door, to the last miserable breath in which he leaves. I had had even given some considerable thought to attempting it, were I not certain that I should be immediately arrested for accosting a cripple. Not that I have ever thought of him as such, not I think does he think so of himself. There is a presence, a majesty, about him. The confident, powerful elegance of a dancer or a martial artist. My friend Natasha, who is both, moves in very much the same way, and I have often wondered who and what he was before he became blind.
His mornings are routinely the same. He will walk in, rain or shine, a smile on his lips to the baristas behind the counter, returning their greetings by name, knowing them all by the sound of a voice, the scent of perfume and in one case the soft chime of a charm bracelet. I envy them his casual affection, covetous of the cool smiles he drops all too readily, ignorant or unmindful of their quiet sighs, when they think him not paying attention. He will take his usual spot by the window, carefully draping his coat on the empty seat, and ensuring that his enormous, and eerily silent dog, is safety tucked away under the table.
I am a scientist. Engineer. Inventor. Or I was prior to the accident which robbed me of both research assistant as well as the desire for research. For all that, logic remains my religion and reason my God, but since first seeing him, never have I so desperately wished myself to be proven wrong. Would that some all-seeing, kind and generous deity take pity on this poor mortal and move my spirit into that of the grey monster, whose head I regularly see him caress and into whose ear he would all too regularly whisper.. Is it wrong to be envious of an animal? I find it difficult to care, when it might mean that I could feel the warm touch of his hand, his breath on my face. His soft voice, murmuring secrets and confessions in my pointed, shaggy ear. Commanding in its deceptive softness, it pours over the senses, teasing with sweetness, tantalizing with unspoken promise. I have a good ear for languages, for all that the majority of those I have speak are never heard, and were born in order to make it easier for us to communicate with the very machines we ourselves had created, but I have yet to place his subtle, liquid accent. All too many times I have *nearly* crossed the room, only to pause at the last possible moment, inventing a reason why I was taking such a lengthy detour to the bar, to place an order for another unwanted latte, or men’s room where I will spend five minutes staring mindlessly into the mirror, wondering what the hell it was that I was doing.
`I will tell no one. I will not identify you, or this place. Please let me go. Please. `
His dog does not trust me. Does not like me. I watch the dark eyes following my steps from table, to the bar and back, while his master’s fingers continue to dance over the pages of those ineffable braille books. Not being able to read the cover I cannot even use the excuse of recognition. With all my heart I envy the waiter his myriad justifiable reasons for being near him, and have once ever briefly considered getting a job there, if I thought for one moment that a uniform and a name-tag would provide me with confidence where name and bank account have failed.
He was possessed of both money and taste, or at least ready access to an excellent and willing tailor. Although I would gladly spend the remainder of my days in jeans and a shirt, I have been known to ‘clean up’ once or twice, given the right incentive and my ideas of ‘cleaning up’ have always included Armani and Gautier, as apparently do his. Reclining in his chair, legs a mile long, in those pencil-thin slacks Gautier was so fond of, that made lesser men look like stick-figures, comfortable in the stiffness of his near-formal clothes that drape him with an untouchable aura of aloofness that no mere mortal, no matter the credentials or zeros in his account might break.
His order is ever the same – espresso grande, and a dog biscuit that the café staff have taken to keeping behind the counter. This often will earn them a second, more genuine smile. I’ve been considering carrying dog biscuits to see if I might be similarly rewarded, but this would require my actually speaking to him. His coffee will be doused with a sufficiently liberal application of sugar, until I have to wonder if he likes the taste of coffee at all, and then spend two hours nursing it by the window, face tilted to the light, while his fingers skim over the pages. I stare, unashamed, pretending to admire the dog – some unbelievable mixture of Russian wolfhound and pony, judging by the size – and watch the sunlight play over his skin, imagining how those cheekbones, or one of his rare, private smiles would feel under my hand.
The first time I saw his eyes was a Thursday, and it was raining badly. I had begun to think that perhaps he was not coming, and almost left myself, when a familiar, grey head pushed open the door, clearing the way for his master, and I realized that I had been holding my breath, hoping, and waiting, for him to arrive. He was every bit as wet as his dog, and I shook my head, amazed, without being in the least bit surprised that he could maintain a stylish appearance in the face of a New York downpour. I wondered just how far he had to walk, and why he would not just take a cab. Claiming his usual spot, although there was no sun to worship him through the window, he took off his glasses, drying them impatiently on a sleeve.
Did I make a noise? I must have. His quiet and impeccably polite dog sat up with a growl, massive head turned in my direction, and he turned, already speaking to the dog in some quick and flowing language that was not English, trying to locate the source of the disturbance. I saw his eyes then. A startlingly clear, dark, bottle-glass green, that was all the more shocking for the pale, milky pupils. I did make a noise then, a quick, quiet intake of breath, while my mind struggled to process the raw, damaged beauty of this man. Not quiet enough as it had turned out. With a mocking twist to his thin lips, he dropped a handful of bills on the table, replaced his glasses and left, just as quickly and suddenly as he had appeared.
`Why are you holding me here? Are you asking for money? I have money, I can… I will pay you. Just let me go. Please. PLEASE! Just let me go…’
It was several months before I saw him again. I had stopped spending hours in the café, stopping by briefly at my usual time, and placing my order to go. Hope had become habit, and habit fed memory, that being the only thing left to me. It was not until the snows had melted and the trees lining began to sprout the first buds of spring that he came back to the café.
At first glance he looked the same, the same tall, shaggy dog at his side, but on closer inspection he seemed worn, tired, the pale skin translucent and drawn over the elegant bones of his face, the pallor only heightened by the severity of the black three piece he wore over a black shirt and tie. He looked so fragile and alone, sitting at his solitary table, with just his dog for company. I stood, determined to finally, after months of deliberately stalking this man to walk over and introduce myself. Just as I was about to reach the table, the door opened and a blond giant burst in.
On second look, the man was not nearly as tall as he appeared – taller than I, but at my modest 5’9, most men are – perhaps 6’2 or even 6’3, but broad to the extreme, with a great head of shining, golden hair. He took the briefest of glances around the café, immediately spotting his target, and made his way over.
Ignoring the dog, even as the beast rose up, ready to protect its master, the giant enveloped the object of my desire in his arms.
Were there a weapon in my hand, I would have, at that moment become a murder, and all my half-formed plans for naught. Until the instant that the blonde goliath set his hands on him, I did not fully appreciate the depth of my all-consuming obsession, but in that moment, I knew. And in that moment I began to plan in earnest. I had the knowledge, skill and access to all the resources and discreet manpower than I would need. And I have long developed a certain… reputation for eccentricity. Should anyone learn of my plans for a new lab, no one would question it. But likely, no one would ever learn.
’Why are you keeping me here? Will you not speak to me? Who are you? What do you want? Speak to me… please.’
The giant addressed him in the same flowing language, which I have since learned is Finnish. They argue briefly, before switching to English. In part I suspect, because the giant – Thor, he calls him – is considerably less comfortable speaking it than Loki – my beloved’s name is Loki – and Loki would see him put to a disadvantage.
‘Loki, Father is –‘Thor’s voice is cajoling, soothing, but Loki will have none of it.
‘He is NOT my Father.’ Loki’s tone is sharp. The softness, the fluidity I have so come to love is gone, as if it never was. I have not wanted him so much as I did in that moment. ‘Do you not remember? He’d said as much himself when he learned of my… proclivities.’
‘Loki… please. He was surprised. Stunned. It was said in the heat of the moment and you know he’s recanted his words since. He’s written you, called you, begging you to come back. It’s been twenty years and now he’s dead. Surely you can forgive him now? Come home Loki. Come back to us. Mother asks of you daily.’ The giant, Thor, lays a gentle hand on Loki’s knee, and for a moment I think that he will allow it to remain, but with an abrupt movement he throws it off.
‘If she missed me so much, she should have said something when he was throwing me from the house, or stripping my inheritance. Or perhaps when I lost my sight. No. You were all too terrified of F.. Him to seek me out. To find me. I did not expect you to help. I did not need your help, but it would have been good to know that I was not alone. You did not want me then. I do not want you now. Go home Thor. Tell… tell your Mother she has only one son.’
‘Loki…’ Thor tries to take his hand, but Loki jerks it out, standing with the first inelegant movement I have seen him make yet, knocking over his chair in a rush to get away. The dog rises, large head easily topping Thor’s waist, to stand between them with silent warning.
‘Touch me again Thor, and I will set Fenrir and my lawyers on you. Of the two, I would fear my lawyers more. Go. Leave. Return to Oslo. I have nothing further to tell you.’
Thor backs off. ‘I’ll be in town another two weeks. Here’s the number at my hotel. Call me, if you change your mind.’
Two weeks. Not a great deal of time for an ordinary man. More than enough for someone of my talent and skill.
Loki remains standing until Thor leaves, and only then does he drop in the chair, the dog, Fenrir, coming to stand beside him, enormous head in his lap. I use my earlier momentum to finally close the distance between us.
‘Excuse me,’ I stop a few comfortable feet from the table. Loki starts only a little, undoubtedly aware of my arrival, but not expecting me to speak.
‘I’m not signing autographs today.’ He does not look at me, even if the dog does. I ignore the dog, and file away the denial for autographs. Is he someone I should know? The data-bank that is my mind eventually supplies the appropriate entry. Loki? Loki Laufeysson? Appeared out of nowhere on the pop-culture scene about fifteen odd years ago, as the next ‘big thing’. Some sort of ‘psychedelic pyrotechnic’ artist, first made his name in supplying effects for concerts and tours eventually producing his own stage shows. For over 10 years he was proclaimed to be the Merlin of the modern age, doing things that people claimed were impossible given current technology and legal restrictions. There was an accident, something about an explosion. Rumours of sabotage by a rival artist. He went into seclusion. Vanishing as suddenly and unexpectedly as he appeared. And now… now he would soon vanish again.
‘Autographs?’ I shake my head, pretending at not recognizing him, a little embarrassed because clearly he feels that I should. ‘Oh I see… You must be famous. I’m sorry, I don’t get out very much. No, I’m sorry… I just.. I could not help but overhear. I did not mean to intrude, its’ just that... I have seen you here for so many months, I almost feel as if I know you. I realize that gives me no right to your privacy, or to give you unrequested advice, it’s just that.. I know something about… complicated families, and sometimes… sometimes it helps to speak with a stranger. Forgive me. I had not meant to intrude.’
A pause. I turn to leave. Counting to five in my mind. If I reach five I will walk away and the opportunity will be lost. Plans will need to be changed.
On the count of four, he speaks, face turning in my direction, those glorious eyes hidden behind dark lenses. ‘Yes. My family is… complicated. Will you… will you have a seat?’ He gestures to the empty seat across from him, and I sit, carefully, gratefully, still disbelieving of my luck. ‘Loki Laufeysson.’
‘Anthony… ehh.. Tony Stark.’ His hand is smooth, cool and softer than I had expected, with the subtle remains of what feels like calluses at tips of his sensitive fingers. I hold his hand perhaps a heartbeat later than would be considered polite, and when I release him my hand brushes the centre of his palm in what might, if one was so inclined, could be considered a caress.
‘Tony? Tony is that you? Why are you doing this? Keeping me here? Tony… Tony please speak to me! Say something! Please!’
Ours is a whirlwind romance. A courtship born of mutual pain and shared past containing ‘complicated’ family relations. I take him to the symphony. He takes me to an exhibition of weavings that are as much a tactile feast for the senses as they are a wonder to the eye. Watching his long fingers spread across the giant rug I wall in love with him all over again. It’s only an unfortunate circumstance that the exhibition burns down two days following our visit. Electrical fire is the fire marshal’s eventual verdict. Loki is devastated of course, and it’s nearly impossible to keep from spoiling the eventual surprise.
The first time I take him to bed is… is magic. The feeling of moaning and crying out wordlessly as my mouth and hands play havoc with his body is indescribable. Slowly sinking into him, feeling my Loki move beneath me only strengthens my resolve. He was made for me for me and me alone. None other may be permitted to look upon, to touch his glory. Soon.
Thor leaves without making any further attempt to contact Loki again. At the coffee shop I casually make mention to the servers how incredibly distraught Loki has been over the whole experience, and how desperately I am attempting to convince him that he should travel to Oslo to see his family. At least once.
Two weeks following Thor’s departure, Fenrir is killed in a hit and run. A car, speeding out of nowhere crashes into the dog, mere inches from Loki, while the two were out on their nightly walk. He calls me, sobbing, distraught, still on the scene of the accident, I can hear the sirens blaring in the background. Fenrir had been with him since the accident, and with the exception of myself was the closest thing to Family that Loki had. Fenrir was a large dog that would have undoubtedly left significant damage on the car that hit him. The police are confident they will find the driver. I arrive immediately. Bring him home. I could stay with him, in fact were he not so very broken up, he would have suggested that very thing, but I bundle him into a car and back to my apartment before he can fully grasp the situation. We are almost there now.
The next day we travel to the café together. He was considerably more reliant on Fenrir than I had initially realized. On the street he clutches on to my arm, as he never had before. I wrap my other arm around his shoulders. He is mine to protect. Guard. Keep safe from all that might hurt him. From all that might touch him.
While Loki washes his hands, I allow the plane tickets to Oslo to fall from my wallet while I pay our bill. The servers smile and nod knowingly. They are pleased that he has found someone who will make him so happy. If only they knew. They easily agree to my request to respect his privacy and say nothing of this impending trip to Loki.
That night after he falls asleep, exhausted from a trying day and the sleeping pills I carefully added to his nightly brandy, I move him to his new lodgings. He will like it there. His favourite books, symphonies, as well as the hanging he so admired are all there. The ‘cave’, as I have dubbed it in my mind has a singular glass wall through which I can observe him and all that he does. Camera monitors are mounted in all the corners, so that I review my darling’s actions while I sleep. I know that I will need to drug his food initially so that I may bathe him, and wash the occasional bloody smears left by his hands on the glass walls. He is strong my Loki, I have learned this in the most pleasant of manners, and have no wish to be on the wrong side of his wiry strength. Eventually I know, he will understand why I have had to do this, and I will experience his strength again. Why I have to had to guard him, hide him from the world which has so betrayed and abused him. After all, I am the only one who understands him. I am the one who loves him. And why should I not? He is after all, mine.