Yet Thor cannot conceive of the weakness, for Loki is brother, Loki is friend and companion and shadow, one who has always accompanied him, one whose place is by his side. Loki is one whose hands have gentled even the most tumultuous swells of passion within him. Thor has lain in his arms and known only the utter blindness of joy, which chases away all ugliness and shadow, and in the light of which even the most terrible hungers might be sated: he loves Loki, and takes love in return as his due, as what only befits the generous gift of his own great heart.

So too he loves the comfort of Loki's hands.

"Now I see it: you wish my company only that it might grant you to the sanctuary; you have not missed your brother at all." He speaks mournfully, but he teases now; he does not really believe it so at all. "I do not see that this is so much to thank you for." He has risen from the chair, followed Loki to the window. Thor presses near to him, great arms wrapping up his narrow waist; his cheek rests against his brother's, the cool, pale skin against his own warmth, the prickle of his beard. Those green eyes glinting mischief at him is a pang of happy anticipation. How clever, how wicked his brother.

"You have missed me, have you not?" His mouth is at Loki's ear, his voice low, warm, murmuring. "I have til morning that I must be ready to depart; and I would have time with you, hours enough that I might be sure to thank you properly."