california 02 // loki's romanoff prelude

twenty-one // chill out, it's just a love story

His bag.

His bag, which would get considerably heavier as the days went on, as they visited places and he filled it with other lost memoirs: a pin badge from Salt Lake, another postcard from Idaho Falls, a daisy Natasha picked from Rock Springs preserved within the pages of his book, Wuthering Heights. A wild chain of printed photos from a photo-booth in New Mexico of the two of them - pulling silly faces; posing like they were from an action movie; laughing; kissing. A sticker book from Jefferson City. A packet of strawberry-flavoured cigarettes from Detroit he bought just to look at the printed picture of a pink alligator on it.

Later, he would always wonder why he'd done this. Had he known, even then, that it couldn't last forever? That he would need some means to remember her by? Was that why he collected all those Midgardian memories in his Asgardian bag?

But he was seventeen - basically. Seventeen and wild and free, and he was with the girl he loved and he wanted it to be that way forever. He was seventeen, and he was happy.

(Wasn't he?)

The scars on his mouth healed. He healed. Life was perfect. They snuck into pools and jumped into the sea and went sightseeing and ate ice cream by day and drank whiskey by night, they robbed people for money; they burned down abandoned houses for fun, laughing when the cops showed up; they talked nonsense; they kissed; they did things in motel bedrooms, hotel bedrooms, even in the back seat of the car, that Loki's mother would have cried at if she knew.

Life was perfect.

For three months.

(Where did it start to go wrong?)

(Where did it all start going downhill?)

Afterwards, he would always ask himself that question. But he was never able to decide upon a single answer.

Loki tried smoking.

He tried it because he wanted to, and because Natasha said people liked it in the way people liked alcohol. He tried it because he was sick of the Loki he had been, and the Loki he had been would never have dared to try something as drastic as smoking.

He took a deep drag from the cigarette Natasha had lit for him and immediately started coughing. It was bitter - but so was alcohol, he supposed.

'Are you alright?' asked Natasha, half-laughing at him. She looked beautiful. She was wearing her black vest and black shorts and he could see the gas light shining all over her skin. 'No, you do it like this.'

She lit one for herself expertly and inhaled, then exhaled. The smoke curled out of her mouth in shapes - butterflies, birds, fairies, anything with wings.

They were sitting on the top of the car bonnet, somewhere around Kentucky. That was when he started smoking. That was when, maybe, when he thought on it, things started to change. Not just because he'd started smoking. Natasha and him and had run from so many things, and it was obvious that sooner or later, they would catch up with them.

Not now, though. Now they were smoking. Now they were playing at being the cool kids on an off-road in Kentucky, with no one else to see them.

Flashes. He'd always remember those three months in flashes, like lightning.

Flash.

They're in Utah, and they're dancing outside a party. The bouncer wouldn't let them in, but the music booms out onto the street, and Loki twirls Natasha round and round to the voice of Nirvana. It's dark, nobody can see them; it's just the two of them.

Flash.

They're drunk somewhere in Denver, and the gas station cashier is a little too friendly with Natasha. Loki sets the whole station on fire, and to the both of them, it's the funniest thing in the world.