In the center of the pub, long after the sensible folk have gone to bed, Thor sits across from a foreigner, their hands locked in an epic arm wrestling match.
The other male is practically Thor's inverted mirror. Odin's son is butter blond with Caribbean blues, whereas the other is a dark brunette with toffee colored hues. But they stand at the same height, boast the same build, and their hair is the same length, reaching well past the collarbone, in haphazard, uncombed waves, clumping into spiraling strands with sweat and humidity.
Meanwhile, Loki watches from a well cushioned ottoman, his fist embedded in his cheek. Honestly, he is having a hard time choosing between them.
He observes their competition with a bemused expression, eyes drawn to the rippling physiques and rolling muscles of the vying warriors – both equally in-eloquent and cumbersome and determined to emerge victorious, as though their livelihood rides on achieving the title of champion. Loki's legs are crossed and his interests piqued. Neither lummox will relent, that much is certain. But their forearms have not moved in ten minutes, erect at a perpendicular angle to the ale stained table. This will come to bellowing soon, if not blows.
The rich olive skinned male is known in his realm as Conan. Fittingly: Conan the Barbarian. And he does come off as quite the savage.
Thor bares his teeth in something akin to a snarl. As Loki predicted, "Submit, outlander. I wield Miljnoir, Hammer of the Gods."
Conan assumes a crooked grin, his eyes gleaming wickedly. "I too wield a hammer, one I wager could dwarf that child's toy." Loki's hand shifts in front of his mouth, just long enough to hide the sliver of a smile coaxed onto his lips.
The euphemism appears to be lost on Thor. Bless his beautiful blond soul. "I can call down lighting from the heavens," he continues.
"I can call up armies from the far reaches of the land," Conan sneers.
"I have ridden the Bifrost to the farthest reaches of the galaxy."
"I have thrice ridden a horse from one side of the continent to the other."
"I defeated the Allfather's Destroyer." And it continues.
"I defeated a necromancing god-king." And it's still not over.
"I have done battle with an alien species," Thor poses, fixing Conan in a glacial leer.
Smoothly, "I have single handedly leveled a score of wretched sand men, conjured by a sorceress."
Thor purses his lips, the muscles of his jaw working overtime. "I burst out of the belly of a giant snow beast."
Conan leans forward, taunting Thor by widening his eyes. "I killed four rogue warriors in the snow when I was eleven … With an unbroken robin's egg in my mouth!"
They drop hands. Thor, seething with anger, surges to his feet. The wrestling match is forgotten. He slams his hand down on the table, clutching the other into a fist that could easily crush a human skull. "I can eat fifteen boxes of poptarts!"
Conan stands as well, upending his stool in his haste. He fists his hands angrily, turning to present a hostile angle with his body. "What the bloody Cimmerian are poptarts? I can feast on naught but pork and ale for a week straight!"
And finally, because it is apparently Thor's best card to play, which does everything to bolster Loki's self-confidence, "… I have had relations with my brother!"
Only… "So have I!"
The two males, floudnering in their rivalry and heaving chests, do not immediately resonate with this epiphany. The realization slowly, but surely rolls across their faces, like the shadows cast by the setting sun. Their rage dissolves. They merely stare at one another before simultaneously turning to stare at Loki.
Loki assumes an indolent smirk, lifting his arms in a languid shrug while he unfurls his fingers. It was only a matter of time before that came to light. Speaking of which, the sun will be rising in a matter of hours and he does not plan to sleep alone or unsatisfied. He finds his feet, approaches the table, and tosses a golden item onto the surface. They recognize it as a key by the time it clatters to a stop.
Loki settles his fingerpads on the table, supporting himself easily as he glances between the two males. Specifically, the golden tool is a key to his quarters. "Trying wrestling over that," he supplies. Loki pushes back from the table and strides towards the pub's exit. They watch him go, gradually tilting their heads in opposite directions to better appreciate the view.
And then, after catching one another gawking, the two brutes resume their match with renewed and vicious determination.
AN: I watched the remake of Conan the Barbarian the other night. Needless to say, I fell madly in love with Jason Momoa. (Come on. No one watches it for the plot.) Conan is to Thor and Pitch is to Loki. I kid you not. Thor and Conan could be twin brothers, albeit the race card. Anyway. Let me know if I should continue with this. The Thunder Buddies song from Ted has been stuck in my head for days, so I thought it was a fitting title. ;]