"Were you aware that Freyr has decided to spend Vanaheim's summer years in Álfheim, under Driflar's golden boughs?" says Loki, seemingly deaf and dumb to Thor's show of peevishness. He slides a hand up the column of Thor's throat, over his jaw, past the curve of his ear, until he can sift his fingers gently through the spill of Thor's yellow-flame hair. "To Freyja's great displeasure, he took his leave in the midst of our trade negotiations, taking with him the loveliest maidens of the court. He will be enjoying the spectacle of Driflar's blossoms giving birth to mage-stars by now, I'd imagine."

Loki speaks with a melody in the sweep of his tongue, sweet and soft for all that Thor's grumbles are nothing but. Idly, he tucks a lock of hair behind Thor's ear. They are men, grown into the breadth of their shoulders if not yet the weight of their royal burden. Still, Loki knows to nudge the soft underside of Thor's jaw, to smooth his palm across the rough curve of cheek, as if his brother were yet a child. Even Loki can gentle the sharpness of his knife-hands, if he knows that he alone holds dominion.

"Freyr is a better teacher than Father," he murmurs, tilting Thor's face upwards so that the weight of Loki's sympathetic gaze will not be lost. "As am I, as you may soon know. If you promise to stop sulking and destroying your belongings, I will travel with you. Father has already allowed it."