On Wednesday, Ms. Stark packed her things and left for San Francisco at twelve in the morning. She paused down the hallway to look through Tony's door, and observed him with his head shoved beneath a pillow, the air conditioner on low and pressuring the sheets; sleep never came easy to her boy, but it was obvious that he was shut in the dream world, muttering to himself quietly like a newborn baby. The angel he was to other people, Tony never took the time to nurture himself, just like her, and most definitely like his father. He was always giving to someone in some way, whether it was to tutor the neighbor's kids next door or joining community service for their weekly mass to raise money for more public trash cans around the area. Tony was seldom selfish.
Of course Natalie took care to give him his space during these activities, sitting back with ashes in her throat, the weight coming off emotionally and physically all the same. The cannabis was just an excuse to fill herself silly and stay high through the emotions, she would tell Stark. Growing up around the bad crops of the season planted those habits in her head—yes, all the more reason to make sure their son wouldn't grow up the same way she did, with the same habits and bad choices. So Natalie sent herself to court for rehabilitation, for closure. It wasn't until San Francisco promised a rehabilitation opportunity that she couldn't get there, locally, that the judge swept his gavel down and put their home on lockdown.
Child's protective services, for Christ's sake.
She was trembling, couldn't handle the heat rising within their household. Tony sat back and watched with such stubborn dignity a teenager shouldn't have had at his age. And her husband.... Well, if the papers for absolute custody over their son was any hint, Natalie promised to herself that she would sleep alone from then on.
Now she shakes herself out of the lethargy, giving a bittersweet smile to Tony as he shifted and twisted the sheets. With the deadline approaching so eagerly, those last images were what she chose keep archived in her memory for when the house spat back with chewed up divorce papers, signed and mailed off to the judge.
______________________________________________
She languished in a hopeless marriage,
feeling stupid.
She longed to lay in bed with Him,
still feeling stupid. She
looked at Him and thought,
What the Hell did I do to feel so stupid?
________________________________________________
At midnight, the Stark name was lost and luggage was packed. She had courage to feed herself to the strange world, dying, as Natalie Ray left no evidence for Tony to find in the morning, when his life would take a most dreadful turn. His last source of comfort vanished, totally, as the car purred and drove into oblivion.
_________________________________________________
The sun rose again,
another evening fell.
Clouds couldn't mask the sun—he was blinded
Rose petals curled in baked masses, then fell
and refused to bloom again
Everything was dying.
_________________________________________________
Tony was benign to any emotion whatsoever as the three-day mark came closer. To describe his depression most accurately, one had to picture a snake hanging on their person, like a burden intent on making your life Hell, simply to spite what your morals challenged. He felt annoyed that Steve hadn't taken their last discussion seriously and continued to pursue Bucky with valentine intentions despite the pending answer the blonde owed. Steve didn't understand that Tony needed something to stem from, someone to blame. What, was he supposed to guess? Did their scholarships mean nothing? Did Tony have to travel alone, halfway across the country because Steve would drop everything to attend to Bucky's needs?
Was he truly so deserving, so destined to have everybody take the word 'love' and shove it up his ass at some point? Was the real question.
And Tony had no answer.
By Thursday afternoon Loki's sources were completely unreliable because nobody followed up on Peggy's scheduled work days, where she would be out and about the school to collect information for the paper. Without them, it was impossible for Loki to intercept the red head; singly pure anticipation pointed them nowhere.
"I am sorry that this escalated so far." Loki said. His words seemed to be genuinely sincere, for Tony felt the soft, cupped palm of the God's hand on his shoulder, warmed with blood. The blood thriving in his veins that kept him alive and kicking, the blood he shared with Thor and the Odins, the blood that would spill a rich maroon and later spill into the heart of someone more deserving than family.
It was impossible to not feel envy for the gifts Tony would never have.
He tried his best to pass off every emotion as nonexistent, but the muscles in his face were too tired to hold a smile for seconds at a time; and before long, the snake dragged them down as well. Occasion after occasion, Coach Wade threatened to bench him during the game if his trembling hands didn't 'catch that ball one more time'—Steve even took his leading position for a while—but worst of all were the pitying looks he received during passing period, exclusively from people of journalist majors with early access to the juicy gossip. This included Thor's friends, who called themselves the Warriors Three.
"It's...quite a mess you've gotten yourself into, Tony." they mocked. The brunette swallowed thickly, letting the pressure behind his eyes quail, once, twice, as their unwanted criteria nearly pushed his tears to the surface.
"Yeah? Well...."
Loki shouldered Tony harshly to get to his brother's friends, as composed as a psychopath telling himself that he belonged anywhere; their condescending nature was less important than any article in the limelight. He hissed in their faces.
When the fight calmed, it was quiet in his head. Loki's threats sounded like water in a seashell. The Warriors Three, no longer condescending and shrunken into their usual posture, almost looked ashamed—dotting on me, the brunette realized. Sympathizing.
He let his vision exhaust its focus as one of them deleted the recording, holding his phone face-front so that Tony saw the empty video slot.
Notes:
I have such bad writer's block, you guys! Where do I go with this?
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This is Our Design
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