brodir | (no subject)

(no subject)

Thor is no poor hand at drinking, but the firewine, delivered among other lavish gifts from Freyr's generosity, for services rendered in battle, is like no other liquor ever tasted: a flame upon the tongue, burning in the veins as much as its name might suggest, kissing the flesh with color. He feels its effects pleasantly now, in the wake of a feast gone late so late into the night that the sky seems now to hint at the coming of first light, and Loki in his arms appears nearly soporific, his dark head pillowed upon Thor's broad shoulder. He murmured only, some protest which went quite ignored by the elder brother, when he was lifted from his chair in the feast hall, the last of the stragglers already gone to seek their beds or someone else's.

He wonders if Loki is really asleep, or if he might perhaps only be resting his eyes before preparing a withering tongue-lashing the likes of which Thor has been obliged, in past evenings, to patiently bear for the crime of cossetting his brother as though he is a maiden swooning from her feet, and which does not stop him from doing so again whenever the rare opportunity arises, for he enjoys cossetting Loki nearly as much as he enjoys making love to him. Indeed, who better than he? Who else could hope for the chance? Loki is his, and so his indulgences must be satisfied: as Thor will be his king someday soon enough, does he not have the right?

He brings his brother to his own chambers, his own bed, embers glowing in the hearth, the sleek glossy furs welcoming them.

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Loki, too, needs little instruction in the art of drinking, but his slight frame has done him no favors in tonight's revelry. The firewine is true to its name, setting even the perpetually-cold tips of Loki's fingers into unbearable heat. He doesn't quite know when lucidity gives way to the dream-haze that follows, but by the time Thor lifts him into the cradle of his arms, Loki is far away, in lands shaped by his own mind, thinking of Mjolnir's storm crowding out the moon, of rain on his skin. Of the sky torn apart by a single bolt of lightning, focused sharp and sweet on a lone figure of red and gold. He can taste the rain on his tongue, even, and he tilts his head back to wet his parched throat —

But Thor is clumsy in his drunkeness, and soon Loki is knocked back into himself. He murmurs a protest — to be spoiled and petted like a creature owned is terrible enough in the privacy of their rooms, but to be swept from his chair like a maiden ready for an undignified tumble?

He is prince, not princess, for all that the various simpletons of Thor's acquaintance may taunt.

That thought tightens the loose curl of his limbs quickly enough. His fingers scrabble at Thor's arms, nails pressing into the swell of muscle beneath. It takes him a moment to fit words to the lash of his tongue, but the annoyance on his face serves well enough to fill the space between. "A pity that it is you, Thor-prince," says Loki, his nails dragging a path up Thor's arms, until he can press his palms flat against the shoulders above, bracing him away. "Had it been any other wine-sodden fool, I might have set their hands aflame for daring to touch me so."

The threat does not deter him. Loki has spoken such dire warnings before, but as he says himself, it is Thor: prince, elder brother, heir to all Asgard. Who but he might expect to be made the exception to all the hostility an offended Loki might offer? He has meant no dishonor. As always, Thor's intentions are crafted along simpler lines, in joyful ways: to seek pleasure, comfort, mutual desire.

"Far from a pity, brother." Loki braces himself away, so Thor does not seek to hold him closer, but rather drapes him across the bed, climbing up atop him; there is affection in his touch, tenderness in the weight of his body sinking down half-across Loki's, that he might pin him securely to the mattress. His elbows brace on either side of his brother's head, and the fingers of both hands tangle gently in the spread of his hair. "What need to spoil a peaceful evening? There was no one left to see me carry you from the hall." He nuzzles softly along the sharp line of his brother's jaw. Loki, who is his. "And you have not the look of one despoiled."

They have kept their indiscretions secret, locked behind the heavy doors of Loki's chambers or Thor's.

Edited 2013-08-15 01:52 (UTC)

Loki might have protested further, but Thor's warmth is a tangible thing, curling sweet against the sprawl of Loki's body. If he breathes deep, he might take a part of Thor and keep him close, always. Like rain, permeating the taste of every breath taken and expelled. He can read the simple thoughts that pass through Thor's mind as easily as his own. Loki, who is Thor's. How can he abide?

So the firewine says. The firewine alone.

His irritation is nettle-sharp and not easily settled; for once he wears his emotions in every variegated shade of his gaze. It does not matter if the entire hall was populated with corpse and bone instead of living flesh; Loki would still take offense to being made to take upon the role of the weaker when all the realm already sees Thor as the greater.

"I would keep it so," he murmurs, sharply but softly. He shifts, enough to bolster the distance between them with a measure of strength. "You stink of meat and excess."

"So do you," Thor says, laughing softly: Loki's daggers, the barbs of his words, no longer have the power to pierce him, not deeply enough to make him bleed, anyway, when his brother will yet yield, night after night, for his pleasure. It is sweet how the days seem now to pass in a honey-warm glow of contentment, now that Loki is his lover and might no longer pretend that his place is not in Thor's arms and in his heart; now that the dark hours of the night are mostly shared. "I can smell the wine on your breath. And you are always so careful that you do not drink more than me." He shakes his head in a pretense of chiding.

He rears upward, straddling Loki, cupping his cheek a moment in one broad and calloused hand; with his thumb he strokes his brother's cool mouth. Then his hands shift, and with studied practice Thor begins the task of unfastening the outer garments Loki wears: determined to provide to him the solicitous care of a manservant, whose only purpose, surely, is to see to his greater comfort. Yet he pays him the tenderness of a lover, caressing him as he goes, bending down to steal a kiss from the annoyed press of Loki's lips. "Don't be angry, brother. You know I don't seek to dishonor you."

Only to possess him, with the most gentle certainty.

Loki huffs, churlish and childish both, but his irritation continues to slide precipitously away. He clasps it now with only the tips of his fingers; it's but a matter of time before Thor casts it away entirely. How terrible it is, to be as a shred of iron to the lodestone. How little Thor understands.

For a moment, he allows the attention. Even with centuries of trite irritations to remember, Loki cannot deny that Thor's hands soothe much of it away. If such a thing could be possessed, Loki would have long since bottled it away in his stores of portent and potion. And then, finally, he might have been free of this. He could again close the cage about his heart and return to his alcoves of seid.

How little Loki understands, too.

The moment, as before, passes quickly. Loki scowls. "If only you didn't seek to perform well in the council chambers, too — perhaps then you wouldn't make such a fool of yourself." There, a barb that may actually draw blood.

It doesn't, however pointed the remark; Thor is too drunk to feel the intended offense, and only kisses the corner of Loki's mouth, and goes on with unfastening green and black leathers. "I will have you to help me, when such things are important," he murmurs, with certainty if not much respect: in truth Thor would far rather be leading armies than listening to speeches, and he can rely on Loki to summarize them neatly enough after the council sessions are done, if he has not paid much attention. "I will have you always beside me when I am king. Father knows that. All of them do."

If they do not know, cannot know, the depths of intimacy that the sons of Odin have shared, all the Aesir can at least acknowledge that Thor and Loki are brothers inseparable: they know, as well as Thor does, that Loki's place is at his side. Thor is joyful with that certain knowledge. The future is a path towards glory, shining, and contentment at the end of it, the fulfillment of all he has dreamed of, and if ever he senses a dissatisfaction in Loki, he is certain his own great and gentle hands can smooth it away.

Thor moves from the bed, now, taking Loki's outer garments with him as he goes, and once he has put them aside kneeling at the foot of the bed to strip away his boots. Now he undresses himself, too, shedding ceremonial garb wrought in embroideries of gold and crimson, in leather and beaten metal, piece by piece until the only garment he wears is a pair of soft breeches. He climbs back onto the bed, reclining as a lion might, in splendor: smiling, his gold hair tumbling down. "Come here, Loki."

Loki goes to him, though his brow furrows and his mouth is pressed into a line. The Norns weave their unchangeable truths, fixed points of reality that no seidr nor show of might can alter; such is the inevitability that Loki will fall no further than his brother's arms. Love, in its most selfish form—for only a fool would look upon Thor-prince and not hunger for all that he had to offer. But Loki, too, is prince and powerful both; he deserves not only the sight and touch and the pleasure of his brother and his lover's company, but much more. Much, much more. One day, he'll take the breath itself from Thor's lungs; for a time, perhaps, he'll hold it in his own mouth, chasing away all bitterness with the taste of it. Lo! The sons of Odin, two sets of royal lungs filling with the same breath shared between them.

"And if I should find purchase elsewhere?" says Loki, even as he closes the distance between them, a minnow caught on the hook. He knows that he will take upon the role of adviser, and he will love it true: for such is the power of the silvertongue, in machinations and politic spun and respun in the shadows. Yet he wants Thor to look at him. To be touched and loved and cossetted is anathema, when he would settle for a slighter boon: to be seen for what he is, rather than simply the spider knitting webs in the darkness, or an inevitability, an accoutrement for Thor to wear.

Still, Loki's descent into his brother's embrace is unimpeded by his dour turn of thoughts; he straddles the strong breadth of Thor's lap as he has countless times before. How easy it is, even whilst inebriated, to read the ebb and flow of Thor's body; to let himself be swept into that gentle current. "I am secondborn, as you well know. Perhaps I might seek my fortune far and away from Asgard." His hands slide slowly up the expanse of Thor's chest, further, further. He lowers his face, holding himself but a hairsbreadth away. "How will you bear my absence, brother?"

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