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"Perhaps there is something else that I want, brother."
Thor stops in his tracks. He does not wish to. (This is a lie.)
"You will fight me even now? Come; I feel the burn of your spirit even from here. Why should we not comfort one another? You are the only one whose grief I can accept as equal to mine."
Thor turns. "I do not think that will be wise."
"I make no claims to wisdom. I am merely concerned about setting off on a critical venture while you are in the grip of such turmoil.” Loki gives him a critical look. “Or have you forgotten who often had to play battlefield healer to you in the past?"
"You will forgive me for distrusting your propositions," says Thor dryly. "Of late, it seems only falsehoods fall from your mouth."
Loki's gaze rakes darkly over him, voice dipping low and sultry. "Then fill my mouth with other things."
Thor's breath hitches. "How can you have such thoughts when-"
"Spare me the missish protests," cuts Loki, voice silken as his beloved daggers, "when I have watched you spending your grief upon countless unworthy others for centuries-"
Thor blinks and echoes, "Unworthy?"
He sees his brother at odd moments. A passing reflection on a window-pane; a half-heard voice in a crowded room; a dark head bent in conference amidst a dozen others; green and gold fluttering in a sudden gust, which turn out to be decorations for one of Midgard's winter festivities. Thor is not unaware of the effects of grief. His mother visits him in similar ways: in the wide smile Mrs. Ramirez bestows upon him when he thanks her for his coffee, in the delight of a young woman chasing after a horde of laughing children, in the gleam of the blades which the Black Widow secrets upon her person. But the child grown into manhood is aware that his parents will one day depart the world ahead of him. The older brother, however, grows up expecting to always be an older brother; especially when the younger is one such as Loki.
Between Thor's preference for open battle and his sworn duty to Asgard, it had always seemed like an unspoken inevitability that, of the two of them, he will be the one to die first - and this was before Loki began directing his machinations towards that end. It had never occurred to him to prepare for a world in which he would be the one left behind.
Loki would berate him for poor forethought.
Loki's mouth tastes the same - and at the same time, more potent, as if the bitterness that he had once hidden had since been transformed to wine; the magic of time, in reverse. That famed tongue snakes past Thor's lips, devious as ever, and searches Thor's mouth as if there might be new secrets hidden within. As if Thor might have secrets Loki does not already know. Thor growls and digs his teeth into Loki's bottom lip: a reminder. Loki only moans, tongue curling possessively around Thor's. His hot breath seems to sink into Thor's skin.
It occurs to Thor that Loki might be enchanting him at this very moment. That Thor has allowed himself to be pulled close once again.
But Thor cannot bring himself to move away. Loki might (will) stab him (again) later; Loki is kissing him now.
"Hey, everything all right?" the one they call Hawkeye asks him, sliding smoothly down from his chosen perch atop an overturned vehicle.
"I am well," answers Thor, affecting a smile. "It was a good and worthy battle."
"Yeah, who doesn't love a giant fire-spouting robot in the middle of Central Park?" agrees Hawkeye.
"Has SHIELD apprehended the man responsible?"
"Ten minutes ago - some kind of robotics engineer with megalomaniac aspirations. Stark's having conniptions because some of the parts were scavenged from old Stark tech."
"The Man of Iron is rightly protective of his work," says Thor.
Hawkeye follows his gaze to the still-smoking remains of the robot. "Kinda reminded me of that thing you went up against in New Mexico."
"Yes, it does bear some resemblance to the Destroyer." Thor has heard that Hawkeye possesses keen sight; it does not surprise him that it extends beyond the man's archery. (This one, after all, had been chosen by Loki.)
"Got a lot on your mind?"
Thor peers down at Hawkeye. "Why do you ask?"
"Just seemed... different, today, that's all." Hawkeye rolls his shoulders. "Not bad different. Have you been practicing new fighting styles?"
"Not of late."
"Huh. Well, we haven't been fighting together all that long. I just thought-" Hawkeye's gaze flicks away, "-reminded me of something, that's all."
Thor nods, despite his mild confusion. Hawkeye can, if he wishes, claim to be the one who is most familiar with Thor, out of all the Avengers, by virtue of having encountered him earlier. Furthermore, the man has proven himself skilled at picking up small details others would miss.
"Anyway, debrief in ten minutes." Hawkeye punches him lightly on the arm before walking away.
Smooth and pale as Thor remembers; he seals his lips upon a patch of skin above Loki's collarbone and sucks, hard, drawing blood close to the surface to form a bright mark. Loki's skin is salty and bitter and stale. The taste fits how Thor feels: desperation like a building storm pulling in many directions at once. He is angry and frustrated and impatient; he is anguished and worn and conflicted. He is lost, and his little brother clutching at him; the slender fingers digging into his skin cut into him to keep him close rather than to claw him away. Thor thinks the pain ought to be more distinguishable.
"Thor," rasps Loki, right into his ear. "Brother. Please."
He has borne Loki the rest of the way to the floor. They are surrounded by the remains of Loki's cell. Furniture and amenities, none of which been placed there by the All-Father. Thor's touch gentles.
Loki's hair is an unruly mess. Thor brushes it away from Loki's face, then keeps his fingers tangled in the dark locks and pulls. Loki's breath hitches. That proud head tilts back, baring the vulnerable column of his neck further. Thor knows better than to assume it a sign of trust. Those long, slender legs spread further apart, knees bending and bracketing Thor's hips. Thor has to swallow at the rush of lust from the unspoken consent.
He releases Loki's hair and tugs sharply at the green shirt. "Brother, may I?" But the fabric is already parting, the threads snapping even though Thor is hardly exerting his strength.
"You know, you look a lot like your mom," says Jane, leaning against him on the couch.
They are in one of the common sitting areas of the building that Tony Stark has made available to the Avengers. Thor is continuously amazed at the generosity of his Midgardian friends. Normally, the others would be in the same room - the television being a popular source of entertainment and competition both - but this evening it seems only Thor has no other plans, though he thinks he can hear Doctor Banner in one of the studies.
Thor had intended to watch one of the shows that JARVIS has recorded for him. Yet the television remains dark, the remote held limply in one hand; this is how Jane finds him.
He smiles and gently curls his arm around Jane's shoulders, tucking her against his side. "Thank you." After a slight pause, he adds, "Too often I am told that I take after my father."
Jane tilts her head back and considers his face carefully. "Nope. Well, maybe superficially, but your eyes and your smile are all hers."
Thor smiles wider, though he makes a doubting noise.
"You don't think so?" she asks.
The words leave his mouth before he can consider them fully. "It was Loki who took after mother. I always saw her when I looked upon him."
And now both are lost to him. He swallows against the familiar ache of loss, still raw under his ribs.
To his gratitude, Jane only looks thoughtful. "You know, he probably thought the same thing about you."
He bares Loki's chest impatiently, gazing at the smooth expanse of skin for a heated moment before wreaking havoc upon it; licking and kissing and biting with almost mindless fervour. A few times the paleness deepens, for a moment, into deep blue, and Thor's tongue finds not salt but cold sharpness. He dares not pause, dares not look up at Loki's face.
A small part of him wishes to have known this when they were young boys, wishes he could have explored Loki's true form with all the innocence of youth and adolescent wonder, knowing nothing of Frost Giants but that his brother came from them. It is a fancy not even grief can sustain for long: he does not remember a time in his youth when he had not viewed the Frost Giants as enemies, even as he does not remember a time when he had not loved his brother without condition.
"Stop thinking," hisses Loki, "you are incapable of multi-tasking for any appreciable length of time, so stop trying to do it."
Thor blinks; below him, Loki's chest is a patchwork of darkening marks, one of his nipples bitten tender. He reaches further down and grips Loki through his trousers, causing his brother to hiss and curse under his breath. "You seem to be enjoying it just the same."
Captain America is the next to inquire after his health.
"I am as well as ever, my friend," says Thor. He asks, with genuine confusion, "Is there aught I have said or done to concern you so?"
"It's nothing big," Captain America assures him, "Just - I've noticed that sometimes, in the middle of a fight, you have these... moments, where you get really cautious, careful-like, and then the next second you swing the other way - pardon the pun - verging on reckless."
"I have not observed this trait," admits Thor.
Captain America holds up his hands in what Thor has come to understand to be a placating gesture. "Maybe it's just, you know, the team still being unfamiliar with each other's fighting styles. Growing pains. I mean, you come from a different dimension, some things are bound to feel off to each other at first."
He expects Loki to try to roll them over, to pull at Thor's hair or clothing; instead, Loki's thighs clamp down around Thor's hips and bodily nudge him upwards. Taking the hint, Thor leans over until his face is even with Loki's face. Loki's eyes are lust-dark, as intent and unfathomable as ever.
It hurts to hold his gaze, to feel the unhealed hurts and helpless anger, the distance between them vast enough to drown stars in - so Thor does.
Drops fall from Thor's face onto Loki's, joining the tracks of moisture gleaming patterns on the pale skin.
Eventually Loki raises his head, pushing himself up on his elbows, steadily closing the distance until their brows touch. The kiss then is soft and shaky, desperate; it pulls Thor down, into an embrace that flickers ungainly between heat and frost, yet through it the tightness of their hold on each other never falters.
"I've been thinking about it some more." Hawkeye sits down next to him, unconcerned about the unprotected edge of the Stark Tower roof and the sudden drop beyond. "D'you know that human minds are weird? One wrong touch, pressure on the wrong place - that's all it takes to break us. But, on the flipside, we adapt quickly, too."
Hawkeye has clearly sought him out to tell him something, and it is unlike the man to prevaricate; Thor wishes to tell him to speak plainly. Sometimes you can learn more if you wait, my dear, his mother's voice rebukes him from the past. (Thor's reply had always been, "Let Loki do it," and it is this that holds his tongue now.)
Perhaps their thoughts run in parallel, though more likely they simply have few other subjects in common thus far, because Hawkeye says, "See, when he was pulling stuff out of my head, I sometimes got bits and pieces from his head, too. Like I told Fury - a door swings both ways. It wasn't much. Just enough to figure out how some of his mind-control magic worked."
Hawkeye's hands weave through the air, sketching restless shapes as he speaks. (An archer's hands should not tremble so.) "To get stuff from me - the deep stuff, emotions or memory or whatever - he had to... I guess prompt is the right word. I mean, maybe that's just what humans respond to best, we use that kind of crap on each other often enough. Anyway, the clearest thing I ever got from him was when he was trying to pull some kind of fear response from me. Meant he had to send me a similar sort of feeling, you see, and for that he had to feel it himself, to draw on his own memory.
"He was dying - or thought he was, anyway - and you were there." Hawkeye's eyes meet Thor's, grim and grey as the sky above them. "I guess you guys were pretty young. You were carrying him, and shouting at him not to die."
"I know which incident this might be," says Thor. He stares at his own hands. "We were hunting a famed beast, and underestimated its intelligence; it managed to ambush us. My brother took the venomous bite that had been meant for me. I believe it was the first time I was frightened, truly frightened, for a person other than myself." It had been his fault they were on Vanaheim to begin with. "I realized, then, that I could not bear to lose him. I made him promise to always take care of himself. To protect himself first before all others, because I no longer trusted myself to do it." He smiles, though he feels rather absent of mirth, at the moment. "I had forgotten that, so many years it has been."
Hawkeye clears his throat. "Maybe you have, maybe you haven't. Look, I'm probably speaking way out of line here, but I think that that promise meant a lot. The memory obviously stuck with him. And maybe you're a bit broken up about the fact that he didn't keep his promise."
"He has broken many promises before," says Thor quietly.
"Yeah, but this one goes deep." Hawkeye draws one leg up and rests his chin on his knee. "I've paid closer attention to the way you normally fight. You put your whole strength into it, up front, no holding back; you don't protect your blind spots as well as you should. You're the only one besides Cap to integrate well into this teamwork thing."
"I have trained and fought countless battles alongside the Warriors Three."
"Yeah, you're really used to someone watching your back." Hawkeye pauses. "And how many times have you pushed yourself to exhaustion, because at the end of the day, there was always someone to get you back home?"
Thor looks at Hawkeye, but the man is studiously examining the horizon. The silence settles, such as it is in the middle of a bustling Midgardian city: incessant horns below and faint rumbling trails above and the squawking of nearby birds.
"Well, thanks," says Hawkeye, slapping a hand on Thor's arm. "For not taking my head off, mainly, but - I haven't been able to talk about this with anyone, not even Nat. So." The man's head bobs in a strange mixture of a nod and a bow. Thor nods back, a reflex from a lifetime of shadowing his father; he doesn't remember, teammate, not subject, until Hawkeye has disappeared back into the building.
Thor divests Loki of his trousers with shaking hands. Thor's own cloak has been flung off, somewhere, but Loki makes no move to take care of the rest of Thor's clothing. Loki has never been the type to strut around in only his skin - had often rolled his eyes when Thor did so in the communal baths - so Thor cannot help but wonder, that Loki appears content to be nearly naked while Thor himself is still mostly clothed.
He knows better than to make his thoughts clear, so he hides them in desperate, teasing caresses of his hands, in the deep, wet kisses he claims.
Is this new? his tongue delves into the wet heat of Loki's mouth.
Is this the grief? speak his fingers, wending their way between Loki's legs.
His other hand brushes aside the tattered remains of Loki's shirt to scratch lightly down his sides. Or does it have another source?
He drinks in Loki's gasp when one finger breaches Loki's body. Is this something you have learned?
He has no standing in this arena, he knows, no right to be possessive. But neither of them can pretend to be reasonable when it comes to the other. He pushes a second finger in too soon, too roughly.
"Do I look like your delicate mortal?" growls Loki. The voice is angry but the grip of his thighs around Thor's hips, his hands in Thor's hair, are desperate, beseeching. "Stop your prudish handling and mount me, you lumbering, idiotic fool."
Thor grinds down, hard, and both of them groan in unison at the friction, breathing hotly into each other's mouths.
The world is only half-present, and that half seems to consist mostly of a loud voice, shouting. Thor wonders at it, but he is sure the words are not aimed at him.
"...know you're watching! You're a lying, cheating piece of... can fool him, but I know you... and die? I don't think so... down here and heal him, right fucking now..."
Familiar magic seeps into his being, knitting together muscle and bone and stardust. The touch of it strikes a deeper wound than any weapon can; for there, as always, is an echo of the teacher, a shadow of the first presence Thor has ever known. Thor can sense the pain on the other side of the magic; anger at being reminded, and helplessness in the face of old habits.
He remembers Loki sitting in their mother's lap, dutifully copying the movements of her hands and thoughts. Loki disliked healing; had only ever willingly obliged Thor, who naturally was his first and most frequent patient. This had been fine by Thor, since he'd always found their mother's magic to be a touch more effective than any other’s, despite being reassured that the results should be no different regardless of who'd wielded the spells.
Mother always ended her healing-spell with a light brush of warmth over Thor's brow.
Thor waits. The terrible numbness over his upper body - it must be a fairly substantial wound - fades, burning harshly with pain as nerves grow back and awaken. He thinks he can hear a faint muttering, as if the voice is coming from another room. He wants to smile, because he knows this magic and this magic knows him; there is something distinctly long-suffering and irritated about each regenerative prod.
And then - he's not entirely healed, but definitely out of danger - the magic starts to withdraw. Thor, without opening his eyes, lashes out and grabs at the air in front of his face, catching the hand that had been about to rest on his head.
He opens his eyes. "Thank you, brother."
Loki's breath hitches at Thor's rough, half-fumbling entry, but he is otherwise silent; his lips parting in a noiseless gasp as Thor pushes in, in, slow yet relentless. He feels Loki's body shuddering around his considerable girth, still nearly too tight. Thor has been more careful, in the past; he has also been far rougher. His body feels only partly under his control; he would suspect some devilry on the part of Loki, if not for the lost, glazed look in his brother's eyes, as if Loki is struggling also.
Too much, Thor thinks. There is too much between them, and the sheer weight of it all will be their undoing.
Muscled thighs squeeze his hips pointedly. Thor huffs and essays a slow thrust. The sweet, sweet friction and heated pressure around his length makes him moan. Loki gives him an unimpressed look: go faster.
Thor has a thought to draw it out longer, but his body speeds up of its own accord. He remembers what Loki likes: long, punishing thrusts, Thor slamming into him hard enough to bruise. Loki's body slides over the smooth floor until Loki wraps his legs around Thor's hips; Thor grips his thighs in return, angling him up slightly.
Loki finally makes a sound: a sharp gasp, eyes wide and face slack with pleasure as Thor hits his mark. Thor cannot help but stare. In all their couplings in the past, Loki had always been immaculately groomed, before and after, and preferred to retain at least one shirt. Now Loki is not only naked but filthy, skin stained by fruit and blood and the bruises made by Thor's mouth, while Thor remained fully clothed, had only loosened his trousers enough to free himself.
"You are beautiful, brother," he rasps, because Loki's form remains achingly familiar to him and he has missed this and he feels ready to shake out of his own skin. Because this intimate meeting of their bodies is transmuting the sharp shards of his grief into something more bearable. Because, more than anything, it is true.
"How-" Loki's throat works as he swallows, "how I hate you, brother." Fingers seize Thor by the back of his head and pull him down. Loki snarls into his mouth, teeth catching on Thor's lips; Thor feels the moment Loki's pleasure peaks, his body tightening and pulsing around Thor's, slick fluid trickling down their abdomens and thighs. Thor kisses him back, helpless, ignoring the taste of salt and the wetness of their faces. Thor does not feel his climax approach; he is simply pulled under by it, Loki bodily urging him on, as if greedy for Thor's pleasure, until the roar of heat sweeps through Thor in waves and he empties himself, gasping and shuddering and swearing, into Loki's body.
Dark, jaded eyes gaze back at him. Loki's voice is full of contempt when he says, "Do try not to get yourself killed, Thor, before you see the magnificent revenge I've been working on. You, and all of Asgard, will have a front-row seat." The hand in Thor's grip twitches, and then Loki dissipates into a thousand motes of light.
"Little brothers, huh?" Hawkeye crouches down. He looks visibly pale, but is already steadying himself. Such a heart, Thor thinks, that will not only face a true-fear but will call it down on behalf of a fallen friend. (No wonder Loki had been drawn to him.) "You all right there, big guy? There's kind of a lot of blood."
"I will be well soon," promises Thor. "How goes the battle?"
Hawkeye makes a show of peering over the pile of rubble Thor had been flung onto. "Pretty much over. Stark - I mean, Iron Man's just letting the Hulk slap the creature around a bit, tire them both out before bedtime. So, no rush."
Thor nods. He is age-worn, all of a sudden. "Thank you, my friend."
"Don't mention it."
Thor looks up at the sky. It is approaching dusk - Mother and Loki's favourite time of the day, workers of magic and shadow that they were (are). Mother once described dusk and dawn as the between-time, a realm of transitions and boundaries, when things that are sure no longer remain so. He stares at the clouds until they are no longer blurry, until the grief and relief and unabashed, unflinching love storming under ribs have receded once more into the deep well he has carved for them.
He breathes out, deems himself ready. He holds his arm out, trusting, and lets himself be pulled back to his feet.
~ end ~