Disclaimer: I do not own Thor.
Pain.
It's the hellish, tingling pain that sears through him and paints the jejune world with a brusque flicker that warns Loki – that warns him to be neutral and smart, to cut all the emotions off, to retort and bite like he must. And, well, he does spit out a few snappy words and the god of thunder only exhales a roar of laugh – one that makes the trickster's stomach churn against its will in a painful yet sweet manner.
He's behind doors now, and has made sure to lock them. A sob escapes – it's a terse sob that slices the air into intricate pieces and eventually finds its way into a pent-up cry. His mouth tastes dry and he wishes he had love on his tongue instead.
Love.
It's his brother.
Thor – who knows his brother but not his sick secret. Loki twists in guilt and evil, clings to the sheets, stutters curses in a hundred other languages, and bucks into the heinous drag of his cold fingers. "Brother," he manages to choke out. Brother, brother, brother, dearest brother. He clamps his tongue down lest the place hear him as he comes in ecstasy – lax, quiescent, and blessed-out the prince is; and at some point he mewls out an apology somewhere in between his breaths, if it wasn't too late, but knows deep down he cannot fool himself.
The quiet shifts in. And, too soon, pain swivels in again and Loki is its prisoner.