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In the spaces between street lamps, the figures could have been mistaken for a hulking beast, although one that wasn’t terribly well put-together, and not much of a threat with its ungainly stride. When caught in the intermittent streams of light, however, two beings were revealed, one struggling under the considerably larger and intoxicated other.
“The only thing that stop this party gonna be Ragnarök, baby!” slurred a man who might, at not so great a distance, be mistaken for a blonde bear.
“The party ended over an hour ago.” wheezed a shadow who could be mistaken at any distance for a man. “I can’t believe you got this drunk on that weak Midgardian swill. You’re our designated goat-driver, or have you forgotten that they just snort fireballs at me when I try to take the reins? The nearest Bifröst station is ages away, and I am not going to carry you there.”
“I am sssooooo HAMMERED! Get it? Hammered? Ahahahah – hic – urp…” The god’s trademark weapon, Mjölnir, sparked in protest of the pun. “C’mon, Loki, you’re the God of Mischief – you used to be fun! Remember that one time Sif wouldn’t stop telling dumb brunette jokes? Even though not a single one was funny? She’s still trying to scrub the ink out of her hair. It’s nearly green now, for all her efforts!”
A blush burned Loki’s face as red as his brother’s beard. “It was the mead,” he insisted. “Alcohol is close friends with the devil, and mead always invites in him. I can’t be responsible for –“
The thunder god cut in with an appropriately booming voice. “They call me a live-wire, but even I couldn’t beat that time you stuffed all of Freyja’s chariot cats in a bag and dropped them down Gymir’s loincloth. You really broke the ice there!”
The wedding between the frost-giant Gymir’s daughter, Gerda, and Fertility-God Frey was ripe with hostility directly proportionate to the amount of blackmail Loki had done to arrange it. Throwing a bag of cats at the situation, however, made the difference between hostility and a minor war fought with cake as the primary ammunition.
“How was I to know one glass of punch would make me – ” Loki protested.
“Then there was the time with the goat – ” Thor mused
“We were never to speak of that ag –“
“Which of course you topped with the horse – how old is Sleipnir now?”
“I don’t –“
“But hey, you did win the bet. That stallion was plenty distracted from his wall-building. You made a rather shapely mare, considering how much of a nag you normally are.”
“I’m too young for this,” Loki groaned.
“No man’s too young for fatherhood. Or in your case, motherhood. Sleipnir is something only a mother could love, alright.” Thor did a quick count on his fingers. “Eight legs need a lot of love .”
“Fetal alcohol syndrome.” The God of Mischief winced.
“And let’s not forget the lovely Angrboda – boy, do your standards drop after a couple. I’m not surprised you had a wolf by her. She was a total dog –“
“I know a spell that can make your beard fall off,” announced Loki loudly.
The ursine Nordic stroked the growth with sudden concern. “Touchy, touchy. I’ve never mentioned her nor your moon-obsessed offspring to your wife.”
“Did you tell your wife?”
“Yup.”
“Then I’m doomed.”
Thor barked a laugh. “Speaking of ugly frost-giants and angry women, remember when Thrymr stole Mjölnir? And he’d only give it back if he could marry Frigga? But when we popped the question to mum she –“
Thor was interrupted by his face turning green – the exact shade of his brother’s eyes, which widened in understanding horror.
In Asgard, there are a great many statues and fountains representing its more well-known citizens, who many agree are more preferable for their lack of sweat glands and frequent cleanings by a diligent janitorial staff. The spouts of water generally came from the tips of swords, the necks of decapitated monsters, and the impressive baby-making parts of the statues as they stated their victory over bronzed foes in an unending stream of immaturity.
Not a single fountain, however, chose to depict the God of Thunder woofing cookies over a fire hydrant, though the scene recommended itself to the medium. Loki stood dripping behind him, having been unable to escape from beneath his brother's vast frame in time.
“I don't know how you enjoy drinking so much when you must know this is how it’s going to come out later,” he hissed miserably as he wrung out his goatee.
“I don't know how you can watch us enjoy drinking while you sulk into your lemonade. C’mon, bro – live a little! You’re the God of -”
Loki cut him off with a snarl, his eyes glowing like two hot coals waiting for the right words to blow them into an inferno. “Mischief? That’s where it starts, Thor, but we’ve all heard the prophecy. I’ll be the God of Evil soon enough.
Evil’s not something you invite to parties, Evil’s not something you’d even like to have a quiet evening at home with! And once I’ve done enough of it, I’ll get chained to a rock and have vile poison dripped on me as punishment. Of course, the situation isn’t so removed from that at the moment.” he noted with a tug to his fouled cloak. “The world ends when I get out, Thor.” The god finished coldly.
Thor scoffed. “The end of the world? Isn't that what I said would have to come first before I got into women's clothing? Mmm, but after all that, I thought I made a lovely Frigga, and you were so spot-on in skirts yourself I nearly called you sister the rest of the week.”
“If only that was the only slight. And only for a week. I was mocked for centuries.”
“So was I!”
“Only because you looked so ridiculous. I was mocked for looking good in it.” It was true that Loki wasn't the zenith of masculinity, something well-noted in the halls of celestial testosterone and braided armpit hair.
"Well, at least you aren't accused of needing a hammer to compensate for something," winked Thor. " And I'd say being comely in two forms would be mocked only by those who are ugly in all."
Loki gave a snort, but appeared mollified enough to tear his eyes from the sidewalk and look at the night sky. Thor was glad to see him appreciating it, as he'd been keeping it clear with some effort. By the time he left and let it take it course, all that pent-up rain would probably have calcified into hail. That, however, was going to be somebody else's insurance claim.
Thor threw out his arms and said “Nice night to be out, hmm?”
After a shrewd glance at his brother's proud grin, Loki redirected his attention to the layers of gum that spotted the sidewalk. “I'd rather have stayed at home and read Proust.”
“There's no need to be sarcastic.”
“I wasn't being sarcastic; I’m only on the fifth volume of In Search of Lost Time. I just got to the part where the narrator is falling in love with the slumbering Albertine, an intelligent and elegant young lady beyond his station…”
The god of thunder looked down at his brother with an expression of stupefied incredulity the 1980’s had helped him perfect. “We're going back to the bar right now and you are going to have a drink.”
“I can get a drink anywhere – look, there's a vending machine. The first button is for water. That sounds nice.”
“A man's drink.”
“Man is over 75% water.”
Thor realized it was time for an intervention. “Bro, this has seriously got to stop. You're a bigger downer than father after a premonition about Ragnarök."
“The world ended for father years ago when he found out he was no longer attractive to the fairer Asgardians.” Loki retorted with a wave of his hand. “It’s up to me to end it for everyone else.”
They reached the bus stop and collapsed onto the bench. A silence sat between them like a welcome stranger who provided a relieving lull in otherwise uncomfortable conversation until Thor cleared his throat and frightened it away.
“Listen, Loki - you don’t have to blame yourself for something you haven’t even done yet.”
“Why bother blaming myself for it when I’ve got the whole of Asgard to do it for me?” snarked the god once famed for his trickery. “Now I just wait until I do what’s ruined my reputation for millennia. At first, I thought I’d live up to it. But I got tired, Thor. I’m so tired.”
A snore interrupted him. Thor was drooling on his shoulder.
His incapacitation emboldened Loki. “Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I’d just stayed in Jotunheim – if I’d eaten my ice floes like my mother told me to and accepted that I wasn’t going to be very giant or very warm. Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if your father hadn’t found me and adopted me for a tax break, or whatever his reasons were.
“ He never told me why, you know. Not even when my real mother literally crashed my 4035th birthday party, or during the following custody dispute. That lasted over the lifespans of several lawyers and a few less-successful Midgardian species, not that you were really paying attention for a day of it. I had to be on my best behaviour for whole thing, too – breakfast in bed for father, every morning! And he’s Odin - that’s a 10 course meal, and most of it has to be butchered, distilled or threatened harshly before it can be served.”
“BRAAAP.” Thor belched. “And that’s the moral of your biography. You made dad breakfast. Meaning you wanted to stay.”
Loki jumped in surprise as Thor yawned, making both of their hair standing on end with a sudden electrical charge.
“Look, I don’t care that you’re a frost-dwarf or that you have a Giantess Mother who’s fond of dresses, despite the
angle most non-giants are presented. I don’t care that you read musty old books about the mutability of human life and consider that an evening worth having, or that you’re a vegan and keep doing that nose thing whenever I enjoy a good couple of swine - “
“- try the whole sty, and the swineherd besides, if his manners are rude.” mumbled Loki under his breath.
“ – or that you secretly crochet in the bathroom on Saturday nights, which is super unhygenic, by the way – “
“How –”
“ – or that in the shower you sing show-tunes - with all the vocal talent of a bag of cats being shoved down a Jotun’s pants - far too early for any decent hangover to call morning -”
“I do not –“
“-You are my brother, and will always be one of the Aesir, no matter what side you end up on. And now I will buy you a drink. Two H’s and an Oh, right?”
The thunder god trundled across the street to the vending machine, where he promptly began having an argument with it. The machine had either eaten Thor’s change, or, more likely, Thor had tried to stuff in a lump of silver or a dried chicken head (the currency of a long-extinct village in Eastern Europe). Thor had never been as quick on his tongue as Loki, but his fluency in profanity seemed to demand it be declared an official language. Loki made a few mental jot-notes as Thor called into question the vending machine’s ancestry, specifically its parentage and direct descendants (which had probably all dropped out of their education to become toasters or dysfunctional sock warmers), before falling into less coherent insults about what the machine had had for breakfast and the sort of politicians it likely took ballroom dancing. He managed a last kick at it before he toppled over backwards. But even a drunken kick from the mighty Thor was a powerful blow, and the machine spat out a bottle in defeat.
The bus stop was still nowhere in sight. Loki was simultaneously irritated and grateful. He did not look forward to listening to the not-so-subtle slurs of Heimdall, the Bifröst “Beamer-Upper” (as Thor called him ever since a never-sufficiently punished someone had introduced him to Star Trek). Loki would respond with something unkind about Heimdall’s outfit (he may be Asgard’s All-Seeing Eye, but he couldn’t tell that leopard print ascots don’t go well with neon pinstripes). Heimdall would likely make some crack at Loki’s tastes in television and threaten to reveal his addiction to South Korean dramas to all of Asgard, as well as the colour and pattern of his underwear. But behind the banter they would study each other, looking for the weakness they would have to exploit in order to kill each other at Ragnarök as prophesied. Loki wondered if Heimdall would have the decency to change before then, granting the future god of evil a somewhat dignified death.
After stumbling and alternatively pirouetting across the street, Thor presented his companion with the dented bottle of fizzy grape juice, which he decapitating with an agonized crunch of plastic. Loki took the mangled bottle and sighed at its stickiness. In a sudden fury, he drained it in a single gulp and threw the bottle down with all his strength. Instead of a satisfying smash, it bounced down the street with a comical ‘ploop’. Despondent, Loki covered his face in his hands.
Thor studied him intently. “You know, you’re not fooling anyone like that. Forget about what’ll happen in millennia; forget about what happened millennia ago! It’s just a stupid prophecy. Who’s to say that the Trickster won’t turn it on its head, eh?”
“I don’t feel like a Trickster anymore, Thor. No cards up my sleeve. No plots tinkering in the back of my mind.” Loki glanced up, frowning as he realized the other god’s scrutiny. “What is it?”
“Just waiting for it to kick in.”
“For what to kick in?”
“The mead I poured into that girly grape juice.” With a mischievous baring of teeth, Thor pulled out his personal flask, which he always kept in case of emergencies (this clearly being a major one) and demonstrated its emptiness.
“You - you tricked me!” gasped Loki.
“Yup. Gee, you must really be slipping up, for me to mischief you.” Thor tried to pat himself on the back but accidentally clubbed himself in the face with his hammer.
“What have you done?! I’ll do something crazy!” Loki leapt to his feet, grasping his head, which already had a warm buzzing feeling seeping through it. “Oh no no no!!” he wept, sinking to his knees on the pavement. He stayed there, perfectly still as Thor checked his handwritten timetable for the next bus. Thor had barely realized that without a watch such an action was more dull amusement than use when the vehicle in question wheezed around the corner. It hissed to a halt in front of the still-huddled Loki. It waited for him to move. Loki did not concern himself.
The door buckled open and a voice warbled “You boys gettin’ on or what?”
At last the frost-giant-in-god’s-clothing seemed to twitch. “Or what… such an open option. Fraught with possibility, one might say,” he muttered. “Yes, so much could happen, couldn’t it? Why, getting on this bus has but one destination, one ending - but what of ‘or what’?” With a flash of movement so quick you would think he was the lightning to his brother’s thunder, Loki moved out of the road. He nodded curtly to the bus before turning on his heel striding back towards the town they’d come from.
“Brother?” Thor called after him, hurrying to keep up.
“I’ve always wondered why they never named a day of the week after me. You have Thursday, Odin’s got ‘hump’ day – very appropriate – but of what of Loki’s Day?” He spun around to meet Thor’s questioning gaze with eyes of verdant flame, his hair abandoning its dark hues to crackle like the fires of Muspelheim. “The night’s young and still a virgin,” he crowed. “Why not take her for all’s she got, and by the time we’re done, there just might be an eighth day of the week!”
Thor tucked away his empty flagon with a grin, shrugging off the pretence of drunkenness. As he wrapped his free arm over his younger brother’s shoulders, he wondered how long it would be until Loki remembered that earlier in the evening the flagon had been passed around until it had been sucked dry. He wasn’t going to remind him. At least, not today. They still had tomorrow. For now.
Loki’s wicked laughter and Thor’s deep booming guffaws rang out in perfect harmony as the Brothers-in-Arms marched towards their ‘Or What’ and all the other ‘Whats’ that would come along between then and the end of the world.