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.

Threaded | Flat

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."