Chapter Text
Strong legs wrap around his waist – pulling him deeper into the scorching, tight heat of the body underneath and keeping him there. If he had energy to spare, Thor would have laughed – like there is any other place he would rather be, now or ever – but as it is, he merely snaps his hips harder, and leans toward the pale expanse of a neck, arched invitingly, and closes his lips over the pulse point. It earns him a low, throaty chuckle, but it quickly dissolves into a moan when Thor wraps his hand around the straining length of arousal trapped between their bodies.
Fingers of his other hand are digging bruises into the other man’s hip, and there are already at least dozen bite marks and dark bruises marring the pale skin Thor has tasted and grown addicted to, but it is not enough. Not nearly enough. If he could, Thor would cover every inch of it with bruises matching his fingers and teeth, to stake his claim, from this moment until the day the World Tree turns to ash and The Nine Realms crumble into nothingness.
Entire world narrows down to the where they are joined, to where strong fingers are holding onto his shoulders with a sort of desperation matching Thor’s own, the sound of half-choked moans mixing with his low grunts and the sounds of flesh slapping against flesh.
Thor wishes he could prolong this, slow down and keep it gentle and languid, but he cannot. He drives deep into the lithe body beneath his own, his thrust hard and relentless, but no matter how deep he is, it never is enough.
Thor feels pressure building low in his belly, like tidal wave, his thrusts growing sharp and erratic. He is close, but he wants to make the other come before him, to feel his body clenching around him. He quickens his strokes along the other’s cock, his hips snapping with almost violent force. It takes four firm tugs and the other man is coming, spilling over Thor’s fist with a wrecked moan in the shape of Thor’s name.
Thor’s thrusts reach almost violent force, and Thor knows he will not be able to hold off for long. Pushing himself up on his elbow, he looks down at the face he knows better than his own, the twinkle of mischief even now present in the green eyes, half closed in the aftermath of his orgasm, a shadow of that infuriating smirk curving his lips. Thor wants to taste it, with urgency that steals his breath. He leans down, so close to capture that wicked mouth with his own…
And then he wakes up. Achingly hard.
A cry of despair and frustration tears from his throat, his chest rising and falling with harsh, panting breaths. Grabbing the furs, Thor tosses them down on the ground, his fingers closing around his arousal, his eyes fluttering closed. When the dreams first started – after that wretched feats and his ill-conceived acceptance of Loki’s proposal of playing a game – Thor tried to ignore his erection, willing it away, but it soon proved futile, making his mood volatile, frustration and lust coiled just underneath his skin.
The images from his dream flash behind his closed eyelids – Loki’s body arching underneath his own, Loki’s fingers wrapped around Thor’s cock, Loki’s mouth open around a moan – and it takes but a few firm tugs and he is spilling into his fists and onto his stomach, copper flooding his mouth from where he is biting hard his bottom lip, but it keeps him from crying out his brother’s name.
Loki, Loki, Loki, Loki.
It is like there is a sickness inside his blood. Dark and twisted hunger focused on his brother, need which with every passing day grows stronger and more demanding, slowly but surely chipping away Thor’s already tenuous control.
Thor has never been prone to regret and wishful thinking, but now there is not a day that he does not wish to go back to that night and stop himself from playing his brother’s game. To stop himself from starting on a path which led him to standing frozen on the spot, while lust raged inside him, his fingers itching for the feel of his brother’s skin. That is what he wishes when guilt and self-disgust become too heavy a burden, but most of the time he wishes he had not stayed still, petrified with shock and horror when Loki turned and left Thor on the balcony, staring at Loki’s retreating back until he saw nothing, his heartbeat a deafening roar in his ears. He wishes he had reached out and tugged Loki back, pushed him against the cold marble and took him right then and there.
As he does almost every night since then in his dreams, and no amount of mead or willing, female companions are doing any good in stopping the dreams or his insides quivering with barely suppressed need to stalk to his brother’s chamber and put an end to this torture once and for all.
But he stops himself every time.
His brother can turn lie into truth and truth into lie with effortless ease, and Thor fears to trust his own memories of that night. But the questions remain, taunting him with possibilities, mocking his doubts and fears. Was that wretched game just a particularly cruel Loki’s jest? Or was that tiny flicker of want he saw in Loki’s eyes real, and not merely a figment of his fevered dreams and heart’s desires?
Thor has faced many foes in his life, but this one, this sickness of his heart, is the most formidable yet. He does not know how to face it, how to fight it. He is not even certain he wishes to fight against it.
But he knows he cannot simply do nothing. This will not pass on its own, like a momentary lunacy or mead induced fever dream, it has taken root inside his heart and it seems to grow stronger with each Thor’s breath, with every beat of his heart. He needs to put an end to it, but he knows not how. For the first time in his life he is allowing fear to guide him, hoping beyond hope that his heart will heal and he will once again be able to look at Loki and not ache for things that are forbidden to him.
Thor opens his eyes, disgust and guilt already settling in the pit of his belly as he stares at the mess on his hand and stomach.
Thor grits his teeth, and gets up, heading for the baths. At least this he can wash away with ease. Make the evidence of his shame disappear.
But that will do nothing in relieving him of the shame. Or the yearning.
***
Thor grinds to a halt as he enters the small, private dining hall, reserved solely for the royal family. He had not expected to find anyone present. Especially not his younger brother.
Loki’s eyes flick toward him, a small, knowing smirk curving at his lips, one eyebrow arched mockingly. “Another eventful night, brother?” Loki asks, the false sweetness of his voice making
Thor’s lips press tight together even as a wave of heat ripples through him. It is maddening, this slowly blurring line between his dreams and reality which makes him believe that he knows the taste of Loki’s skin and the way his hair, always slicked back with careful precision feels between Thor’s fingers as he tugs on it, exposing Loki’s neck for his greedy mouth.
Thor swallows, his own smile feeble and thin as he finally forces his legs to move.
“I did not expect to see you here at this hour, Loki.” Thor answers, ignoring Loki’s taunt, taking up his seat. He dismisses the servant when she appears, opting for serving himself. He needs a distraction, a means to occupy himself while gathering his shaken calm. It is laughable – and Loki would be the first to mock him to no end for it – that he would march into Jotunheim if need called for it and do it with a smile, but the unexpected sight of his brother turns him into a fumbling, frightened boy.
That damnable smirk widens as Loki leans back, his eyes resting on Thor’s face with careful consideration. It is truly frightening that Thor counts it as victory to be able to return Loki’s gaze without flinching. “And why is that?” Loki counters. “Perhaps I too have had an eventful night.”
Thor’s fingers freeze over the tray with fruit, images of Loki locked in an embrace with a shadowy figure assaulting his mind. He glances away from his brother’s penetrating gaze, busying himself with filling his plate with food. He recognizes the snarling beast in his chest as jealousy, but forces himself to stay deaf to its angry roars. He has no claim over Loki. He cannot have a claim in this matters. Not as a brother, and especially as a lover.
“I am glad for you, brother.” Thor says, somewhat taken aback how easily the lie slips past his lips. But, perhaps, it is not truly a lie. His madness aside, his brother has always held his heart in his hands and Thor has never wished him anything but happiness. “You have been wretchedly gloomy as of late.”
Loki’s forehead creases into a frown for a brief moment, making him look almost unsure, but he masks it quickly with an amused snort. “Have you heard of hypocrisy, Thor?”
“Have you heard of exaggerating?”
“So you have not been awful to be around lately?” Loki says slowly, still watching Thor with sort of unwavering attention which makes Thor feel stripped bare, almost as if Loki can see right through his feeble act of normalcy and down to what he so desperately wants to hide. “Either skulking around like a moody child or glaring murder at anyone in your vicinity? Not to mention you seem to be spending almost every night at local taverns.”
“It is hardly your place to tell me how I should spend my free time, Loki.” Thor snaps, his fingers closing into a fist.
Eyes narrowed into a glare, Loki straightens, shoulders tensing. He looks ready for a fight. Thor feels relieved. They have been arguing a lot lately – over simple, inconsequential things – and in most cases, after either he or Loki stormed off, Thor found himself at a loss as to how the argument began in the first place. But now he yearns for one. It will chase Loki away and make him keep his distance at least for a time. Time Thor desperately needs to rein himself in.
But the look in Loki’s eyes softens into something borderline wistful, the smirk turning into a hesitant smile and when Loki tilts his head, regarding Thor with open affection, all Thor can see is his younger brother, guilt and ache and love forcing all air from Thor’s lungs. For one terrifying moment, Thor is certain he will suffocate from the weight of them.
“Can I not worry about you, Thor?” Loki asks, softly, and Thor already has the words of an apology on the tip of his tongue. He swallows them down, each feeling like a jagged shard of glass, tearing his throat open. “I am your brother.”
He forces his fingers to unclench and he reaches after the goblet placed on the table. He tips the goblet in Loki’s direction. “I am tempted to believe the sincerity of your statement.” Thor says, grinning. “But recently, every time you assured me of your concern, I have found myself facing embarrassment not long after. Coincidence, brother?”
For a moment – brief, fleeting moment – Loki looks genuinely hurt, but in the space between two heartbeats, his expression becomes closed off, his lips turning up into a smirk.
“I cannot tell whether I like this newfound wariness of yours, Thor, or should I feel offended by it.”
“That depends.” Thor says, and this comes natural to him, despite the lingering heaviness settled in his chest. Have they always been trying to one up the other and Thor only recently became aware of it? Or is this competition, this need to rise above the other’s challenge, something new?
Loki arches an eyebrow. “On what?”
“On whether or not you were sincere.” Thor says bluntly, and brings the goblet to his lips, dawning its content.
The wine flows smoothly down his throat – rich, heady and sweet, but with a hint of bitterness, not all that different from his younger sibling – and even if Thor prefers mead, he welcomes the heat.
When he puts down the goblet, Loki is still keeping his silence, his eyes resting on Thor’s face. It is easier now to return his brother’s gaze, but the notion of either staying away from Loki or keeping up pretense when in his company makes Thor’s insides twist into a knot. It is not who he is. Masks and games and lies are not weapons he knows how to use well. Or even wishes to.
Abruptly, Loki rises to his feet. Thor follows his brother’s approach with a weary caution, Loki’s steps slow and measured as he saunters to where Thor sits, leaning down to whisper into Thor’s ear.
“A word of advice, brother.” Loki says, voice low and husky. Thor is not entirely certain how, but he manages to stay still and not flinch away from the heat of his brother’s breath against his face. Or to turn and drag Loki down into his lap and shut that wicked mouth with his own. “Mead is very poor advisor. Usually, it only invites new problems.” Thor draws in a sharp hiss of breath when Loki leans even further, bracing himself on Thor’s shoulders, his lips brushing against Thor’s jaw. “I have thought you braver, brother.”
Thor’s control snaps, his frustrations and pent-up lust breaking down the wall Thor has built around his own deviant desires.
With a low growl, he rises to his feet, his chair flying backwards, only to clatter to the ground with a loud bang which barely penetrates through the rush of blood in Thor’s ears, his vision sparking bright red.
When he regains a minimum of control, he becomes aware of the lithe body pressed against his, of his fingers digging deep into the soft leather of his brother’s coat, no doubt leaving bruises on the skin beneath. The thought fills him with wild, possessive satisfaction, but it evaporates quickly, turning to cold and heavy weight of self-disgust and agitation at the sight of Loki’s triumphant smirk. Much like the one he wore on the night of the feast.
Thor pulls his hands away hastily and steps back, his face contorted into a pained grimace. “I am done playing your games, Loki.” He grits out.
“That is a pity.” Loki smirks, his eyes twinkling with dark amusement. “And you were just beginning to learn how to play.”
“If there is something you wish from me, Loki, then simply say it.” Thor demands, but his voice lacks the strength and heat, making his words more a desperate plea.
A look of incredulity passes over Loki’s features, followed by a short, sharp burst of laughter. “And you say I am the one playing games.” Loki says when his laughter quiets down, his lips curved in a mocking smile, but there is a brief flicker of hurt in his eyes. Thor wishes he could trust it, could trust his own heart which cannot forget the easy camaraderie and undisputed trust of their days of youth, but Loki has become a mystery to him, carefully guarding his thoughts and emotions. And now Thor cannot even trust himself anymore, not when it comes to his brother. “Sometimes I wonder who of the two of us is the bigger liar.”
Thor’s jaw twitches at the insult, but underneath the anger welling inside his throat, there is also shame, and it burns through him like poison.
Loki stays silent, waiting for Thor’s reply, the moment stretching until the silence becomes too heavy, full of unanswered questions and brimming with tension.
Surprisingly, Loki is the one to break it. He straightens, his expression shifting to his usual casual indifference.
“You remember the task father asked us to accomplish?”
Thor frowns, Loki’s question catching him by surprise. He does remember, some tedious work involving Asgard’s trade relations with Nidavellir.
“You said you were going to do it alone.” Thor says, slowly, but even before Loki’s lips stretch into that insufferable grin, Thor already knows where this conversation is going.
“I changed my mind.” Loki announces sweetly. Thor grits his teeth, stopping at least three curses from leaving his mouth. “Do not make that face, Thor, I have already covered two thirds of the material, you only need finish it.”
“This is petty and spiteful, Loki.”
“No, it is called duty, Thor.” Loki shrugs, his face blank, but the glint in his eyes speaks a different tale. “Ruling is not only about prancing around in your armour in front of adoring masses, or swinging that precious hammer of yours. You will be king one day, it is time you start acting like one.”
Too incensed to form a reply, Thor merely stays frozen to the spot, watching Loki turn and leave the dining hall. Once Loki is out of his sight, Thor turns and grabs the empty goblet from the table, throwing it at the nearest wall. It clatters to the ground, the sound ringing hollow in Thor’s ears, doing nothing to calm the storm raging inside his chest.
***
Thor rolls the goblet between his palms, staring at the golden liquid inside.
Loki – no matter the reason behind his words – was right. There is no answer for his troubles hidden at the bottom of a goblet. Only a brief reprieve of false joy, followed by a headache and foul mood the next day.
His eyes flick sideways, his eyes catching the gaze of the tavern wench, invitation clear in her eyes. He glances away, not missing the disappointment flashing in her eyes. Nor is the solution in sating his hunger with any willing companion. He can achieve physical release, but it is bitter and hollow pleasure, serving only to strengthen his yearning for the one person forbidden to him.
Loki – his cursed wretch of a younger brother.
And yet, despite the futility of it, here he is. But what is he to do? He has never faced a problem his strength could not solve, and when he had, he went to his brother for counsel.
A bitter, dark laughter tears from his throat.
And who is he to turn to now, when Loki is the core of his plight.
With a grimace, Thor rises the goblet to his lips, draining it in one long gulp.
Slamming the goblet down on the table, Thor pours himself another round, the large pitcher already more than half empty. Thor takes a glance of the tavern, seeking his maiden, finding her trying to capture the attention of a young man sitting alone at the table in the far corner, oblivious to all but the goblet in his hands. A small, amused smile plays across Thor’s face at the speed with which she abandons her pursuit the moment she notices Thor’s gaze.
Thor hides his grin behind the rim of his goblet, emptying its content. A pleasant wave of heat washes over him, his thoughts already calmer, his chest lighter. Oh, the ache and shame and helpless frustration will return in the morning, Thor knows it, but at least he will not dream again, dream of green eyes and wicked, smirking mouth.
Thor is already half-rising from his seat when the door to the tavern slams open, and familiar voices, loud and joyful in their laughter, fill the room.
For a moment, Thor wishes he could escape unnoticed, but that thought disappears quickly, followed by a pang of guilt, and he straightens, his lips stretching widely.
“My friends.” Thor calls, his voice rising even above Volstagg’s booming laughter. “Come, join me.”
Three faces turn in his direction, each a proof that this is not the first tavern they have visited this night.
“Bring me two pitchers of mead and a bottle of your best wine.” Thor orders, ignoring the scorn in her eyes as she turns and strides at toward the counter, turning to greet his friends.
Hogun greets him with a nod and Volstagg pulls him into a tight embrace.
Volstagg is still holding him in a tight embrace when the pretty tavern wench comes with a large tray, placing it down on the table with more force than necessary. Thor offers her a small smile of apology, but she ignores him, her eyes narrowed and head held high.
“You have become a recluse as your brother, Thor. We have hardly seen you since that feast.” Volstagg accuses good-naturedly, releasing Thor and sitting down next to Hogun and Fandral. Something shifts in Thor’s chest at the sight of Fandral’s smiling, relaxed face, a beast rising its head after being roused from sleep by the scent of prey. Thor ignores it, but it does not stop it from snarling in rage in the back of Thor’s mind. “Last time you were absent from our company this long, you were punished by working in the armory because of…” Volstagg pauses, frowning, then he turns to Fandral. “What was it? Come now, you are younger, help me out.”
“A scandal involving a noble from Alfheim and his ward.” Fandral obliges, a sly smirk flashing across his face. Thor’s fingers twitch involuntarily, an image flashing before his mind’s eye, but he shuts it down before it can fully form. “Am I correct, Thor?”
Thor chuckles, sitting down. “Aye.”
“How long did your sentence last that time?” Volstagg asks, filling his goblet with mead.
“Half a year.” Thor smiles. In truth, it was not a hardship. He had learned much about weapons during his punishment. Loki called it mockery of a punishment. “But I have no regrets.”
“If my memory of the maiden in question is even remotely close to the truth, neither would I.”
Hogun’s eyes flick toward Fandral, a small, barely-there smirk curving on his lips. “One day, Fandral, some jealous father or husband will show you the meaning of regret.”
Fandral merely shrugs, wide and completely unperturbed smile playing in his lips. “I fear only boredom, my friend.” He says, reaching after the wine. “Not jealous relatives.”
Thor’s smile fades, his fingers curling into a fist, Fandral’s words, however inadvertently, stinging like a slap to the face. He does not bother denying the nature of the feeling struggling to set itself free from the confines of Thor’s will. It is jealousy, vicious and fierce, taunting Thor with the truth of Fandral having tasted what Thor never shall. Save in his dreams.
“I’ve no idea who dared to anger you, Thor.” Volstagg states, rising his goblet in Thor’s direction. “But I would not wish to be in their place.”
Thor blinks, startled. He never bothered learning to mask his emotions. He never thought it necessary. Apparently, he was wrong about so many things.
“Fear not, my friend.” Thor says, leaning back in his seat, glancing pointedly toward the tavern wench. “Violence is far from my mind.”
Volstagg frowns, then follows Thor’s gaze with his own, shaking his head slightly. “You are almost as bad as our friend here.” Volstagg sighs, inclining his head toward Fandral. He pauses, a frown appearing on his forehead, soon to be replaced by a wide, taunting grin. “Or should I say worse. How long were you trying to charm that beauty from Vanaheim, only to have her stolen under your nose by our royal friend here?”
Thor feels a hot wave of shame flooding his chest. “I am truly sorry. I behaved dishonorably that night.”
Fandral merely shrugs. “There is no cause for an apology. The lady made her choice.” He says lightly. “I cannot blame her, if I were her, I would have also chosen a prince of Asgard instead of myself.”
“Why, Fandral, I believe this could be the first intelligent thing I have heard you say.” Volstagg says with mock surprise.
A loud explosion of laugher follows Volstagg’s words, and Thor finds himself joining in, but his joy is tainted, a shadow hanging over him even now, and, as he rises his goblet in salute with his friends, he wonders when his path diverged from the one he always envisioned himself on, leading him to where he finds himself now – lost and unsure, his future, always so clear to him, now covered in shadows and doubts.
***
It takes but a few sweet words Thor to coax forgiveness from the lovely tavern wench. They barely make it to her room above the tavern, clumsy and ungraceful in their hurry.
Thor takes her against a wall, still dressed, save his tunic, mead and his continued balancing on the very verge of despair and unfulfilled desire, make him less kind than he wishes to be. She does not seem to mind his forcefulness, her nails digging deep in the skin of his back, leaving bright streaks of pain in their wake.
His release is sudden and violent as their coupling, his grunt muffled by the soft skin of her neck.
Thor leaves the tavern with the first light of dawn, a dull, throbbing pain in his temples matching the one concentrated in the hollow of his chest; that last, parting kiss tasting like ash and regret in his mouth.
***
Thor runs into Sif in the open corridor connecting two wings of the palace. There is a moment of hesitation in her steps, but she shrugs it off quickly, passing Thor by with barest of nods.
A sigh falls from Thor’s lips, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment. It would be amusing, were it not a constant source of aggravation since then, how many ill-conceived decisions he had made in a single night. All following on the heels of him saying yes to what should have been simple, innocent fun.
He should have known better. Perhaps he had known better, but the lure of Loki’s company, willingly offered, had been stronger than the voice of reason. It always seems to be.
“Sif.” Thor calls after her, the bright heat of shame now dulled to a cold and heavy weight of regret. “Wait.”
For a moment it looks as if she will ignore Thor’s call and continue on her way, and Thor knows it in his heart that it would be well within her right to do so, but she takes three more steps before she halts, her shoulders tensing as she turns and heads back.
“My Prince.” She says in lieu of a greeting.
“We have been friends for almost as long as I remember.” Thor says softly, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “And now you seek to call me by my title?”
“It is because of our friendship I am calling you thus.” She says, meeting his gaze steadily. “And not something worse.”
“I have deserved that.”
“Yes, you have.”
And worse, remains unspoken.
“And forgiveness, my Lady?” Thor asks, a self-deprecating smile flickering across his lips. “What can I do to deserve it?”
A small, almost involuntary twitch of her lips gives Thor’s hope, even if her eyes stay hard.
“Time, Thor.” She says finally, her voice a touch softer. “And distance. At least until I can look at you again without wanting to knock you to the ground.”
Thor chuckles softly. “It would not be the first time.”
“Perhaps, but now I wish it to hurt.” She says, bluntly, and the smile slips from Thor’s lips.
“I am sorry, Sif. Truly.” Thor says finally, his voice earnest. “I behaved dishonorably and carelessly.”
A grimaces passes across her face, her lips tightening briefly. “At Loki’s behest.”
Thor frowns, displeasure and denial twisting in the pit of his belly. It would be easy to place the blame on Loki. He had done it that night, angry and ashamed, but…
“Loki has no place in this.” He says, firmly. “My actions were my own, and so is the blame.”
Something flashes in her eyes – sadness? resignation? – softening her gaze.
“Your love for him does you credit, Thor.” She says, her voice tempered by a feeling Thor cannot identify. But is closely resembles pity. “But it also makes you blind.”
Thor opens his mouth, a harsh reply ready on his tongue, but he swallows it back, opting for a much simpler truth. “Loki is my brother.” He says, a note of finality to his voice.
Sif sighs, and now there is no doubt in Thor’s mind about the nature of the sentiment in her eyes. It stings, sparking something akin to hurt inside him.
“Perhaps you should remind him of that.”
With that, Sif turns and leaves, and this time, Thor does not attempt to stop her.
***
A loud curse falls from his lips, and only by some miracle does Thor refrain from flinging the table and all its content against the nearest shelf.
Loki did not lie when he said how much work he had done on compiling a brief summary of trading relations between Asgard and Nidavellir. What he, conveniently, neglected to mention is the fact most of information he went through was already filed in the central data base. Leaving Thor to deal with ancient texts before even Odin’s time. Half of the time Thor was wary of even touching the texts, afraid they will crumble to dust between his fingers. Even worse – and frustrating beyond words – was his utter lack of interest in reading about antiquated laws and political economy of a time so long past, it was nearing becoming a legend. Even in Asgard’s terms.
Rubbing his temples, Thor blinks, then frowns, another curse leaving his mouth at the realization he had been staring at a single line of text, completely forgetting what came prior.
“So you do know how to find the library.” An amused voice drifts from behind his back. Thor manages not to flinch, but his heart, foolishly, like he is some inexperienced boy, stutters in his chest, a surge of heat filling his veins. “Although, your knowledge of the proper etiquette is lacking.”
Thor grits his teeth, narrowing his eyes into a glare when his brother saunters into his field of vision, taking up the seat opposite to Thor.
“If you have come to mock me, Loki, I am warning you, I am not in the mood.” Thor forces through clenched teeth.
Loki blinks in confusion, his face a perfect picture of innocence. Thor clenches his jaw harder.
“Why would I mock you, brother?” Loki asks, voice honey-sweet. Thor’s hand curls into a fist almost of its own volition.
“You know damn well why.” Thor snaps, a low growl of frustration falling from his lips when he notices his fingers have closed around one of the texts. He uncurls his fingers, a sigh of relief leaving his lungs at the slightly ruffled, but otherwise undamaged state of the text.
Loki’s eyes flick toward the discarded text, then back to Thor’s face, beginnings of a smirk tugging at his lips.
“Most of these texts are only remaining testament of times most have forgotten.” He offers lightly. “It makes them priceless.”
“If they are so damn valuable to you, why are you not the one dealing with the gibberish they have to offer?” Thor snaps, belatedly realizing it is exactly what Loki wants.
Anger flares within his chest at the sight of a triumphant smirk on Loki’s lips, but the anger is not directed at Loki.
“Have you slept through every speech about responsibilities and duties we were ever given?”
Thor snorts. “So this is all for my benefit? How generous of you, brother.”
“One day you will thank me.”
“For this?” Thor exclaims, bitterness heavy in his voice. “I cannot imagine why.”
“You cannot always get what you want, Thor. Not even you.” Loki says, tone even.
A sharp bark of laughter tears from Thor’s throat, Loki’s words cutting deep and striking too close to his heart.
A frown appears on Loki’s face, his usual indifference faltering. “Am I amusing you, Thor?”
“I have simpler tastes than you, brother.” Thor smiles. The frown on Loki’s face deepens, and for a moment he looks uncertain. “I seek joy alongside others, not in them.”
“Not according to the tales circulating Asgard for quite some time now.” Loki says, dryly, one eyebrow arched.
Thor bursts into laughter. “You have no decency, brother.”
“I am not the one who gave the incentive for the stories.” Loki shrugs. Then, cocking his head, he adds thoughtfully. “Although, I have always thought the one with half a dozen maidens was a bit too much.”
Thor chuckles, leaning back in his seat. In this moment, it takes little effort to pretend that all is well, that nothing has changed between them.
“My brother, ever the suspicious one.” Thor says, smiling.
Loki stays silent a moment, then a soft smile slowly stretches across his lips. “My brother, ever the arrogant one.” He says shaking his head lightly. The motion causes a single dark curl to fall across Loki’s forehead, and Thor sucks in a harsh breath, his fingers burning with the sudden need to tangle inside Loki’s hear and make a mess of it, to see it framing his brother’s face-
… a dark curtain of hair, sweat-soaked and clinging to a pale neck, so soft under Thor’s fingers as he brushes the curls aside, his mouth seeking to taste the soft skin underneath.
And, just like that, the pretense shatters, the light teasing of the moment drowned in the sudden flood of longing, surging through Thor’s veins and heating up his blood.
He swallows hard, but he cannot draw his eyes from Loki’s face. He knows every line of it, but now Thor sees it with different eyes. His brother is beautiful – dark-haired and pale of skin, slender and lithe, so different from the usual paragon of masculine beauty in Asgard – and that is nothing new to Thor, but now he wants to keep that beauty only for himself, a vicious and fierce possessiveness inside him demanding of him to stake a claim, to leave a mark no one will dare to question.
“Thor, it is not polite to stare so openly.” Loki says slowly and carefully, his eyes resting on Thor’s with a guarded expression. “Not even at your brother.”
Thor blinks, his lips forming a thin smile, but he has no success in convincing his eyes to leave his brother’s face. Or, as it turns out, his mind to catch up with his mouth.
“I miss you.” Thor blurts out, the words falling from his lips without preamble but holding nothing but the truth.
A frustrated grimace flicks across Loki’s face.
“We have already had this conversation. Several times, in fact.” Loki says, his tone clipped. “You cannot miss that which is not lost.”
Thor knows he is stepping on a dangerous ground, with little to no chances of a positive outcome. But he never claimed to be wise.
“I miss my brother. The one who shared every adventure with me. Who made me laugh-” His voice cuts off, his throat closed tight around the words burning inside like hot coal. He swallows. Then does it again. “Are games and petty spite all that is left for us?”
Loki holds himself deathly still. A statue carved of marble and shadows – cold, silent, expressionless. Illusion breaks with a slow blink, the green of Loki’s eyes filling with something dark and furious.
“I am not the one playing games, brother.” Loki hisses, the last word coming out like an insult. “I am not the one lying to myself.”
Entire universe grinds to a halt, everything stilling save the rapid beat of Thor’s heart.
If Loki knows… why is he even here? Is a confession of this madness of Thor’s heart what he seeks? To what end?
A dozen upon dozen thoughts race through Thor’s mind, until they crystallize into one terrifying notion – to confess, to finally make an end to this constant agony of wanting what he cannot have. What he should not have.
Thor opens his mouth, words ready on his tongue-
A crash breaks the silence, Thor’s head instinctively jerking toward the source of the sound, his eyes taking in the sight of the old librarian crouching as he gathers the books scattered across the floor.
A shudder runs through him, his heart all but freezing in his chest at the realization how close he had come to making the biggest mistake in his life. How close to risking everything he holds dear.
Starting with his brother.
He closes his mouth, his fingers closing into a fist. A strange expression twists Loki’s features – part anger, part hurt and part disappointment, but it shifts into carefully constructed blankness quickly.
“Speaking of games, I have met Sif today.” Loki says, his tone light, almost bored, but his eyes are like twin daggers – sharp and cold. He leans forward, the chair scraping loud and shrill against the marble. “I swear to you, her glare could thaw Jotunheim.”
“I spoke with her today.” Thor says, almost reluctantly. Sun is spilling gold and bright through the high windows, and yet Thor suddenly feels cold.
“Oh?” Loki arches an eyebrow, the thin line of his lips gaining a cruel, malicious edge. “And did you explain to her how you were nothing but a poor, innocent victim, and I the cruel and capricious villain?”
Anger rises inside him, but it is but a faint flicker of the usual fire, tempered by hurt and sorrow.
“Were I to call you cruel it would not be a lie, Loki, but your fault does not erase mine.” Thor says. He pauses, holding Loki’s gaze steadily. He wonders, briefly, how they would seem to a stranger. Like brothers, or bitter foes? “There was a time when your games brought joy, not regret, anger and shame. More the fool I, for holding on to false hope.”
Loki straightens, the muscle in his jaw twitching faintly. Thor expects an outburst of fury, braces himself for it, but all Loki does is snort in disdain, rising to his feet.
“Ever the noble one.” His voice may be soft, but it is dripping with venom. He regards Thor with cold eyes, but ice burns too, much as fire does. He pauses, a wicked smile tugging his lips upwards. “Fandral had said something similar to me about my games that night.” He takes another pause and makes a step forward, leaning so he could bring his face to Thor’s level. Thor manages to keep still, but it takes all his will to do so, the heat of Loki’s breath on his face tearing at his feeble self-control, already struggling with the unwanted surge of jealousy at the mention of Fandral and that accursed feast. “And yet, despite knowing the truth, he participated. Quite enthusiastically, I might add.”
A low growl tears from Thor’s throat utterly against his will, his vision flashing red for a moment. But the moment ends as quickly as it came, and when his vision clears, Thor is alone, his brother gone, but the sound of his mocking laughter still lingers in the silence of the library.
***
Heimdall’s level gaze does not move from Thor’s face. “You are going alone, my prince?”
Thor grins. “You think I have something to fear in the wilderness of Alfheim?”
“One might say you need not leave your home and have a cause for fear.” Heimdall points out. Thor frowns, unsure whether a hint of a smile on the ever stoic Guardian’s face is true or a trick of light. “But that was not the purpose behind my words. It is not often you leave Asgard unaccompanied.”
Thor shifts uncomfortably under Heimdall’s ethereal gaze. Never before had he felt the weight of it as he does now. Annoyance flares inside him.
“I go as it pleases me.” Thor says bluntly, lifting his chin. Heimdall’s face stays impassionate, despite Thor’s tone. “Is Bifrost closed to me?”
“Save the direct order from your father or a threat to Asgard’s security, Bifrost will never be closed to you.” Heimdall says, his voice not changing in tone, but something in it makes Thor feel like a petulant, cruel child. Shame is not an emotion with which Thor had many dealings in his life. But ever since that damned feast, it has become his close companion.
Without another word, Heimdall closes the distance to the raised platform occupying the central place in the Observatory. The sword slides easily into its proper place and with a simple flick of his wrist, Heimdall twists its handle to the side.
Swallowing, Thor nods curtly, the Bifrost flaring to life in front of him in a multitude of colours. Thor waits a moment, then tightens his hold on the reins of his horse as he steps forward, the animal following obediently.
“I hope you will find that what you seek.”
Heimdall’s soft voice drifts over to Thor, rising above the bridge roaring to life, the words, no doubt said in good will, feeling like a twist of a knife in his side.
Perhaps he will find a moment of peace, a short reprieve from the ache inside his foolish heart, but, as Thor is slowly starting to realize, nothing will ever be as it once was.
They are drifting apart, Loki and him, they have, it seems, for a long time. Even without the sickness he carries in his blood, he is losing his brother, and he cannot understand why. Or how to make everything right again.
With a small, wistful smile curving on his lips, Thor enters the portal, a million of colors bursting around him and taking him far away.
***
Thor pats the horse’s back, dark hair damp beneath Thor’s palm.
“You did well, my friend.” Thor says, smiling. His breath is still coming in shallow pants, his pulse racing from the run, but his chest feels free of the constant weight of conflicting emotions of the last few weeks, his blood is thrumming with excitement, his every nerve-ending sizzling with heat.
He feels alive and free to breathe freely for the first time in what feels like an eternity. His mind clear of images of green eyes and pale skin.
The noble beast turns his head toward Thor, its brown eyes staring at Thor in what almost seems like kindness.
A laughter ripples through Thor’s chest, coming loud and carefree out his mouth at the way his horse nuzzles into his open palm. There is something immensely comforting in the unconditional loyalty only animals can offer. Unlike men, with their shifting interests and greedy hearts.
With one last pat, Thor ties the reins around the trunk of the sole tree, standing high and proud above the green grass, stretching miles and miles in every direction. He lifts his gaze toward the thick tangle of branches above his horse, certain it will provide a shelter, beginnings of a grin twisting at the corners of his lips.
What he means to do, he has not done in a long time, not since the first decades of receiving Mjölnir, arrogant and proud, unthinking of others, but he needs it now. Needs to feel something other than like he is trapped in quicksand, his struggles only dragging him deeper into the ground.
With Mjölnir in hand, Thor moves away from the tree, his steps easy and light. His eyes flick toward the sky – clear blue, with not a cloud in sight – his lips forming a wide, toothy grin.
Halting his steps, Thor starts to spin Mjölnir, faster and faster and faster, his eyes focused on the darkening sky above his head.
Once, a long time ago, Loki asked him how he does it – how he controls the storm – and Thor merely smiled and said: “I do not control the storm, brother. I am the storm.”
Loki called him arrogant and boastful, but as much as he had said it to annoy Loki, it was also the truth. To Thor it always seemed as if the every storm he created started inside him, building and building until all that power and rage in its destructive force erupted out in the open, Mjölnir being its conduit.
Thunder roars close by, a flash of lightning following close on its heels, illuminating briefly dark grey sky above Thor. Wind is howling all around him, tearing at grass and forcing the air out of Thor’s lungs when the first drops of rain start pouring from the sky.
Thor allows Mjölnir to fall down on the soft grass, satisfied with the strength of the storm. Spreading his hands wide, Thor lifts his face toward the sky and closes his eyes, his laughter rising above the howling wind as he stands in the downpour.
***
Heimdall makes no comment when Thor steps out of the portal, once again back at home, even if his eyes linger briefly on Thor’s wet hair and clothes clinging to him like second skin.
Thor is almost out of the Observatory when he is stopped by a softly spoken question.
“Did you find what you sought?”
Thor stops, grin wide on his lips.
“Yes, I did.” He says, without turning around.
But even as the words leave his lips, a voice inside his head adds in barest of whispers.
However briefly.