eye of heaven // Frostshield

gold complexion

Golden.

Shimmering, shining, radiating with...with pure, unadulterated good.

He is the picture perfect representative of what the mortals would refer to as 'the american dream'. Locks spun as sweetly as gold sweep atop his head. His eyes glimmer, blue, impossibly blue, that when Loki stares into them he can almost imagine an eagle soaring through their depths. A pair of pink lips shyly smile (though not at him - of course not). They are bitten, but remain pale, unused, untouched.

Unkissed.

There are a hundred, a thousand things Loki loves likes about the Captain's appearance.

But it's the eyebrows he finds himself drawn to most.

Such as when they are drawn down in what is only describable as pure righteousness; he orders, sharp, swift, sure.

Or when they almost comically float above his eyes, accompanied by the dusting of his cheeks at something barked by the man of iron, or his idiot brother.

Often, sometimes too often, Loki thinks against his better judgement, for it does him no good to think these things, they furrow, hands fumbling with yet another cursed piece of Midgardian technology so far from his time, or when he turns to celebrate with a comrade who he has forgotten is but a memory, or when he runs fast, ever so fast, and yet not fast enough and he can't quite reach that civillian in time-

Yes, Loki thinks. It is against his better judgement to think these things.

And yet, sometimes he will catch a special glimpse of just one upturned brow, the twitch of a corner lip, crinkling of eyes, the ink of amusement written into the pages of his face. Comfort and relaxation woven into the wood. Familiarity.

Home.

He likes that look the most.

Steve Rogers truly is golden, or at least, he appears to be quite literally as he emerges from the burning building, bathed in the light of the flames, dancing atop his skin. Loki almost snickers at the irony of the thought. At least he would, if he weren't currently crushed under a piece of debris, one that had just so happened to have fallen from said building currently ablaze.

Of course he'd been the one to cause it so.

The hilarity of irony was fickle.

He curses everything in his life that lead to this moment.

He curses the Allfather, for stealing him away and sweetly spinning lies all these years.

He curses himself, for flinging himself off the edge of the bifrost what felt like an eternity ago.

He curses his Jotün blood, for practically paralyzing him under this insufferable heat.

He curses Steve Rogers, golden as he is, for ignoring the cries of his comrades, running back into the fire, the glimpse of raven strands of hair and pale, pale skin peeking out from amongst a wall of red and orange ever present in the Captain's mind.

He curses him, as impossibly strong hands (what isn't possible about this damned blessed mortal, as perfectly flawed as he is) wrench shattered slabs of stone away from his bleeding body, and sinfully gentle hands ease him into an even more sinfully careful grip.

He curses that face. Those eyebrows he cares for so much are drawn tight.

Concern.

Loki almost laughs at the sight. In fact, he does, which only furthers Rogers' expression. He asks if Loki is alright, and now really, that is just too amusing.

He has not been alright for a long time.

Far too long.

Rogers always did remind him too much of Thor, he thinks, as he feels himself carried away from that blasphemous heat.

Maybe that is why he infuriates him so. Maybe that is why he placates him.

Despite their similarities, there is something Loki knows seperates them indefinitely.

Thor lies.

He calls Loki "brother".

He lies.

Ah, he was a fool to compare them, it's clear to see. Rogers places him on the ground, and Loki curses again, he curses himself for allowing the mortal man to lift him out of that place, when he could have gone any second, but didn't, allowing himself to feel warmth flickering inside his chest at the feeling of the captain so close.

Loki is not a creature deserving of warmth.

He gazes one last time at the golden soldier's face. Absorbs his light. As though he could latch onto it and never let go.

And then he is gone.

Honest.

Too honest for his own good.

Loki sees foolish, honest concern glittering in the Captain's eyes moments before he leaves. The kind that should be reserved for his equals, as though Loki is just another someone in need of a saviour, another someone deserving of it.

As though the two of them could ever be the same. As though Loki is anything other than the antonym of honesty.

As though he could ever tell Steve Rogers how he feels.

He is golden.

Loki is not.