Hello there! Let's have some sweetness, shall we?

To all my followers who (may) be freaking out about me abandoning If and Only If-not likely. This is just something for the between spaces, as updates there will slow down so I can have more time to edit. In turn, that leads to this sweet thing. I do hope you enjoy.

This story is not unlike how it feels when I fall in love. I do hope you stick around and enjoy.

Prologue
He opened his eyes slowly, head throbbing and still able to taste the remnants of honey and fire. He didn't know where he was—there was some thick plush… rug across the entire floor, and there were little squares of paper stuck helter-skelter all over the room. There were things on cabinets, gleaming and quiet and black, and he realized, slowly, he was on Midgard. He had seen things like this in Iron Man's Tower.

Loki pushed himself to sitting, entire body aching. It felt too fragile, as if he were a bird with its hollow bones. He stared at his hands, not seeing the ripple of energy across them and his face twisted into a self-deprecating smirk. Of course they wouldn't just put him on Midgard with his magic and strength intact. Eir and Frigga (mother) were not stupid, even if they would intervene on his behalf.

He spied a small book, leather bound, and a smaller… pouch? (wallet, one of the vibrantly coloured squares of paper informed him) on top of it. He set the 'wallet' aside for the moment, next to a cell phone. Planner another note said of the book and he peeled the note off, thoughtfully sticking and unsticking one finger on the adhesive as he opened the planner. There was a piece of parchment inside, a note from his mother who has saved him from darkness and gutting that he was going to be condemned to.

It smelled of lilies and indigo. Frigga's handwriting was neat and precise on the page; it looked not unlike Loki's own handwriting. His brows furrowed.

Loki,

I love you. You are still my son; if not in blood, then in spirit. I wish only the best for you, and I am sorry I could not provide for you better, that I could not ease your pain. This is the only gift that I know to give you, veiled as it is in punishment. I hope you will understand one day.

Forget us. Forget Asgard, forget the life you had before, my son. Unburdened from responsibility as second prince, removed from the shadow that you have stood in, find your own way and make your own path.

Live, as you could not on Asgard.

Loki read the letter again, licking his lips. His fragile mortal heart thudded in his ears and he worried that it might burst in the sudden quiet silence of his head. He chuckled shakily after he reread the letter a third time. What was he supposed to do? This was what she decided would be best? He knew nothing.

He sat there, head resting on his knees, heart fluttering and head aching, for an hour, two. He did not cry or curse or bewail his fate. For the first time in years, his mind was blank.

Eventually, he unfolded and picked up the planner again. There were notes in it, explaining what it was, explaining the wallet and what it contained, explaining the phone. He flipped to the little marker that indicated day, and found a schedule written neatly. There was an address, time, art modeling. He picked the phone up, pressed the little round button beneath the black square and it lit up, cheerfully informing him it was 10:45 and January 3rd, 2012. He had an hour and fifteen minutes until it would match the time in his planner. He played with the phone, until he finally got the little square 'map' figured out, till he could see the little blue line route that will take fifteen minutes to walk to. He set the planner and phone down, picked the wallet up, and sorted through it.

Green paper—smaller note: currency—several plastic cards. He pulled out the one that had a picture of him (did he truly look like this, young and sardonic smile and no sign of what had transpired?), his I.D. He studied it: Luke Friggson, born May 1st 1989 (whatever time that indicated), green eyes, black hair, sex: M. It had an address (he presumed the one he was currently at), and, in one corner, his distinctive signature—large looping L with the other letters crouched in its swirls, keeping themselves hidden, no last name.

"Luke," he said, testing the name out. It was not the name he would have chosen.

He stayed there in the floor, checking the time on his phone occasionally, and let the silence fill him again. He read the letter from his mother again, rested his finger tips on the last line.

Live, he mouthed silently, tracing with one finger. He stood, taking his wallet and phone, shoved them with unsteady hands into his pockets, grabbed a jangle of silver keys that rested by the door and did not hesitate as he walked out into a world he did not know.