brodir | (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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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?"