Chapter Text
Fenrir had always argued that this wasn’t a choice. None of it was. Ragnarok would come. He would kill Odin. Vidar would kill him. Steve and him were careful to avoid the topic, usually, because Steve was just as adamant that things could change as Fenrir was that they couldn’t.
When the time came, he wished Steve had been right.
.x.
It started as a prickling; goosebumps that would never quite go away, hair standing on end, anticipation coiling in his gut. Fenrir kept it to himself, even if he was sure Steve noticed. The Wolf (because that’s what he was, that’s what he’d always been and would forever be) ignored it. Kept on with his life, with Steve. Days of goosebumps and a fluttering at his core turned into days of nausea and cold sweats; turned into aches that nothing could soothe, turned into headaches which turned into full blown migraines.
“I love you,” he would babble as he sobbed, clutching at Steve, wanting to tear himself apart with the effort it took to remain. “I love you I love you IloveyouIloveyouIdon’twanttogo—”
.x.
He made love with his husband over and over. That evening they started and just kept going until it was well past midnight, until they lost their voices, their limbs turned to jelly. Steve had asked, demanded, and begged to help.
Fenrir left while Steve slept, unable to delay it any more, and before Steve could find someway to sacrifice himself for this. He left his phone on the bedside table, a note underneath it reading: This isn’t your fault. I love you. Thank you for making me want to survive live.
He considered leaving his ring, too, but couldn’t bring himself to take it off.
.x.
Blood coated his maw. Fire had singed his fur, a few slashes bled from his sides and his eye. Ragnarok raged on; flames eating up Asgard, all the great waters churning, Yggdrasil herself shaking. Day and Night collided, their gods already eaten, casting the worlds in a strange red glow.
Fenrir limped from his battlefield, weary and lost and knowing that somewhere his brother was dying from their uncle’s blows, that his father would fight Heimdallr to their deaths, that his sons most likely already lay dead somewhere.
His revenge left him cold, Odin’s blood heavy on his tongue.
The great wolf fell to the ground and awaited Vidar, wishing for death.