This is the trashiest thing I've ever written
Outside the window the night spins and pulses with light, tiny glowing orbs and beams that shimmer and spark off each other. Fleeting tricks of the eye, illusions tangible as moonlight. Lanky lopsided buildings reach into the sky, their individual silhouettes fragile, yet boasting a whimsical, disjointed harmony when all put together. Distant engines from the patrol ships coasting high above give off a low hum.
The Grandmaster's lounge is uncharacteristically quiet for this loud planet, and Loki has some trouble adjusting after the dizzying brightness and colour and noise of the hallways they passed through just moments ago, his ears still buzzing from the raucous music that assailed them. He's careful to keep his face neutral though, his expression a mixture of mild boredom and haughty assurance under the Grandmaster's gaze. There's no hostility in the Grandmaster's demeanour—only an easy confidence and the sort of professional curiosity that suggests he's considering the monetary worth of a rare artefact—but Loki feels the familiar tingle of apprehension shiver through him. They stand several feet apart, the Grandmaster circling him at leisure, Loki staring boldly back at him with his arms folded over his chest.
After a while Loki feels obliged to speak. He isn't keen on being the first to yield, but is even less keen on having this intelligent but possibly insane pair of eyes fixed on him till the end of time. By Asgardian standards he has a couple of thousand years before him, but the Grandmaster probably has billions more. He's clearly in no hurry.
"What is it you wanted to see me about?" Loki asks, his tone pleasant, but not overly concerned with being so. He doesn't want to sound like he's trying to grovel.
"Hmm . . . ah, nothing much, not really." The Grandmaster lowers his hand from his chin and stops pacing, turning in a swirl of gold glitter to face him. "But let's see. You show up here from, oh, the-devil-knows-where. You slip right into this place like you've lived here forever. You use that lovely silver tongue to slither your way out of every trap laid in your path, and you seem to have figured out the workings of Sakaar in no time at all. Not bad, hm."
"Well, Grandmaster, I'm flattered." Loki allows the smallest hint of sarcasm to colour his words. His smile is as charming as ever.
The Grandmaster comes closer, peering at him intently. "So here's what I want. I want to know what your deal is. You flit around like some elusive little, mm, butterfly," he wiggles his fingers vaguely in demonstration, "absorbing everything you come across, but all you do is—well you know—put snakes in people's drinks and blast rowdy drunkards out of my parties when they get too uh, rowdy. Now, I don't care what you want out of all this, but I do care," he raises a long finger and holds it close to Loki's face, "about what you want."
"I don't think I follow," Loki says, though he knows perfectly well what the Grandmaster means. The blood dances in his veins, gleeful yet spiced with trepidation.
"People are not usually that interesting to me, you know," the Grandmaster continues. "They like to have fun and I let them. When they make me angry I uh, have no choice but to end their fun. Regrettable, of course. But you. You're interesting. Oh, you're very interesting. And I've decided that not knowing what you want frustrates me." Petulance creeps into his voice, and he sounds like a child refused the last juicy pheasant leg at a feast. "So I've made it my business to know."
"It hardly seems fair for me to reveal my secrets when I know none of yours."
The Grandmaster smiles widely, teasingly. "I hate to break it to you, darling, but nothing is ever fair."
Darling. The word sends a flood of memories through Loki's head. Darling, you have no idea what's possible. It's all he can do not to flinch.
"I'm a little bored tonight," says the Grandmaster. "In fact, I've been bored for, ooh, hundreds of years now. But no pressure."
Loki laughs, eyeing him with the utmost calm he can muster. This man, this immortal being who cloaks his true power in robes of decadence, has singled him out. He hasn't decided what havoc he wants to wreak on this planet, but he may as well play along while he can. Who is he to turn this opportunity down?
"You ask me, the saviour of Asgard,what I want? I was a hero. I died a horrific death so that my people would be safe. My story was immortalised in the theatre, and a statue was erected in my honour." He turns to the window and squints. "Rather better than whatever it is you have there, I must say, but I don't mean to offend your, ah—" he pauses delicately, "—aesthetic sensibilities."
He checks quickly to see if he's crossed any lines, but the Grandmaster is rubbing his hands together in glee. "Oh, no, no. Everyone's so dull around here, so approving. A difference in opinion, that's, ah, refreshing, it really is, as long as it's just a harmless opinion." Encouraged, Loki goes on.
"But I digress. My point is, I had all that," he says, throwing his arms out for dramatic emphasis, "and the Bifrost spat me onto this . . . fascinating planet, and now all of it is gone. Just like that."
A flash of green light, and the room is swallowed by complete darkness. Loki hears the Grandmaster exclaim, "Ohoho!"
With a sweeping motion of his hand, he swiftly removes the illusion and the lights blink on again, the shadowed geometric shapes and patterns of the room reappearing around them. "And you, my dear Grandmaster, ask me what I want?"
He lets the final word ring into silence, rather pleased with himself. He really should have taken on a role in his play instead of lying back and watching a bunch of amateurs bumble through his exquisite prose.
But no matter. The Grandmaster is almost jumping with delight. "Ooh, I've hit the jackpot this time, haven't I? Lucky me! What was that—that cute little trick you did? Can you do another one?"
Loki throws him a superior glance, tempered with a smile. "I truly appreciate you thinking I'm some sort of show animal. Who do you take me for? I can assure you, my bag of tricks is never empty—"
"You know what, Loki?" the Grandmaster says suddenly, as if he hasn't heard. His gaze swivels to the door. "I've just realised I really wanna melt someone."
Loki cocks an eyebrow, hoping his composed veneer is maddening. "Oh? And will just anyone do?"
The Grandmaster's diverted attention snaps back to him. "Oh, please, I'm not that crazy. Am I?"
Underneath the feigned hurt, Loki senses a genuine uncertainty which surprises him, throws him off. He considers for a moment. "Grandmaster, I've attempted to commit fratricide multiple times. I'm not certain I'm the right person to ask."
"You—you have? Really?" The Grandmaster sounds fascinated. "And this brother—brothers?—of yours—"
"Just the one. An absolute fool."
"Oh, well, he's still alive after all that?"
Out of nowhere, fear floods Loki's senses. "I—I don't know," he admits, and something flickers in the Grandmaster's eyes. He needs to stop speaking, stop now, but it's not happening and—"it wasn't me this time, it wasn't my f—"
And then the Grandmaster's hand is fisted in his leather collar and he yanks Loki towards him, their mouths colliding and catching. For a second Loki's mind bleaches white. A bolt of heat sears its way across his chest and explodes like a dying star.
He thought he had everything he wanted when he seized the throne from Odin. Freedom, power, luxury. But the loneliness never went away. It followed him wherever he walked, from the grand palace to the darkest depths of the woods, hung in the air over his head in solitude and lurked nearby, ever-present, in company. After everything he had done, all the illusions and falsehoods, the murders and the destruction, nothing really changed. He hadn't moved a step from where he started—if anything, he was more alone than he had been before his quest to realise his deluded ambitions.
It doesn't matter now, whether he's on Asgard or this chaotic garbage dump of a planet. He loses himself in the revelry just like he did back at home, loses himself in the keen observation of the happenings around him and the idle thoughts of usurping yet another seat of power, and laughs and frolics the days away.
He doesn't know if this is any different, though he so badly wants it to be. It feels different, his every nerve ending fizzling like an ignited wick on an explosive, and he's more awake than he's been in weeks even when he's drowning in the intoxication of it all. A deep-seated yearning for the earnest touch he's been starved of for so long scalds the back of his throat and his body trembles against his will and better judgement, trying to get closer, closer even though there's no space left between himself and this enigmatic man who for some flight of fancy has taken to him. He wants the Grandmaster's embrace to envelop him, all of him, to wrap him in a realm where he can never be hurt again.
But it can't. It's too much all at once and his brain is overwhelmed with wildly sparking signals, and he has to pull back.
"I thought you wanted answers," he tries to say with some semblance of dignity, but it comes out thin and breathless.
"I do," the Grandmaster says softly. "You make me—ah!—so very curious." His brown eyes are very dark as he draws Loki to the chaise longue and gives him a strong, sharp pull that topples both of them over the plump cushions. "But you know what? Right now I don't care."
I feel the same way. The thought flashes unbidden across Loki's mind and he reels from it, dazed with wonder. He's dropped his guard completely, he knows, and it's a disgrace and a danger, but he can't bring himself to think of it as such. For the first time since he arrived on Sakaar, he stops thinking altogether and lets his desperation fuel the burning kisses that pass between them.
It's always the worst when he's alone. Late one evening, he sits in the room the Grandmaster has given him, his legs stretched out on the bed, his back against the wall. A book in his lap. Just like he was wont to do in his prison cell on Asgard. He ought to be mingling with the residents of the tower, squeezing as much information out of them as he can, but he doesn't feel up to it.
Curse his fluctuating moods, changeable as flowing water. Curse his desire to go out and drink the night away one moment, then to sit in his room moping the next. Curse the unpleasant thoughts that assault him from all sides.
It all comes crashing down on him when he can no longer keep it at bay—everything he's been forcing down in a bid to keep his wits about him and get ahead in this unfamiliar realm. Thor. The broken hammer. Odin saying I love you. Asgard. The only home he's ever known.
He barely reacts when the Grandmaster sweeps in through the door in a shower of glitter and jewels, beaming. He only raises his eyes to meet the other man's, the tears shining on his face, defiance radiating off every surface of his being—daring the Grandmaster to laugh, to mock him, to leave and never return. Humiliation is an old companion. They met so long ago, he hardly feels its presence anymore.
He watches the Grandmaster's face change, but what he sees isn't amusement or derision.
Whatever it is, it's gone before he can figure it out.
"Hey, hey," the Grandmaster makes his way to the bed, multicoloured robes fanning out behind him, "what is it? Someone die a gruesome death in that book? Too much sugar in the pudding? I'll need to have a few uh, words with the kitchen staff."
His voice snaps Loki out of his sorry state instantly. Loki blinks, clearing the clouds away. "Please do. I don't think they can tell sugar from powdered skin flakes."
"Ah, particular as ever, aren't you?" the Grandmaster chuckles. "Have you ever been satisfied with anything in your short life?"
"I admit it's a rather rare occurrence."
The Grandmaster leans down and discreetly mops the lingering wetness off Loki's face. "Now, we've got to get a party started! You ready?"
"Of—of course."
That night, Loki clings to the Grandmaster in the dark, unwilling to relent. His greed knows no bounds—once he had a taste of this, this sweet comfort and pleasure that soothed the ragged edges of his concealed wounds like a heavenly balm, his very soul screamed for more. He wants everything the Grandmaster can give him, wants it all for himself, wants it more than he can remember ever wanting anything. But even all of it, no matter how much there is, won't be enough.
What bewilders him is that the Grandmaster doesn't refuse. All his life he's been met with shaking heads, pointing fingers, anger and disappointment and everyone he's known turning their backs on him and walking away. But the Grandmaster gives him yeses, unhesitatingly, one after another, no matter how far he prods. Instead of quelling the desire raging inside him, they only add fuel to the fire, every breath, every caress sending an eruption of fierce longing through every inch of his skin, right down to the marrow of his bones. The beating of his heart sings out in joy and judders from the tips of his fingers to the soles of his feet, and it mirrors the Grandmaster's in such a chorus of rapture that after a while he can't tell which is whose.
The Grandmaster holds him in a way he hasn't been held in years, and Loki sighs, burying his face in the crook of the man's neck and wishing his past ordeals would melt away. The pain of remembrance mixes with the incredible happiness coursing through him, diluting both a little. A curious sensation, but not entirely unwelcome.
"You little minx," the Grandmaster murmurs into his hair.
"What?" says Loki sleepily. "What have I done now?"
He feels the Grandmaster shake his head. "You—you have no idea. No idea."
Loki waits for him to continue, but he doesn't. "Would you care to give me an idea then?" he prompts.
"Loki—" A laugh bubbles from the Grandmaster's chest, spontaneous and genuine in a way that differs from his usual playful but controlled façade. "I told you I was bored. But I wasn't just bored, I was—was out of my mind with boredom. A side effect of living for billions of years, you know. I stopped caring about people, or what happened to them, or just—whatever. You're . . . what? A thousand years old? You wouldn't know."
"So you . . . you care about me?" He's aware of how pathetic it sounds, but he can't help it.
The Grandmaster leans back and runs a lazy hand through Loki's dishevelled black curls. "You're the most—infuriating thing that's ever landed on this planet," he says. "You complain, you hate everyone—"
"As do you," Loki interrupts.
"—but you do it like—like no one else."
Well. "I suppose I can't argue with that."
"Oh, you've brought me back to life, you stupid baby." The Grandmaster takes his face in his hands and kisses him.
"I would rather you rephrased that," says Loki resentfully. "And you're hardly the first person I've brought back to life, so I think I deserve more credit than I've received." The mock affront in his tone conceals amazement, amazement that he, Loki of Asgard, can have such an effect on this unflappable being, who has witnessed the births and deaths of so many realms and galaxies that life has ceased to matter to him. His mind reels at the very idea.
"You mean when you died? Do tell me how you did that."
"Oh, just tricks, as usual," Loki says, knowing full well that evasiveness only makes the Grandmaster want him more.
The Grandmaster doesn't pursue the subject though, not tonight. He just wraps his arms tighter around Loki, who curls up against him and closes his eyes. The universe unfolds before Loki and he sees clusters of stars, spinning galaxies, hazy nebulae that reach out at him with tendrils of coloured dust, but he isn't afraid like he was falling from the Rainbow Bridge and tumbling through space.
The Grandmaster's breath is warm as he whispers in Loki's ear. "What a shame. I feel like a mortal again."
Emotion wells behind Loki's closed eyelids and he presses his trembling lips together.
Deep down, he knows this can't last. Nothing good ever does. But he holds on to this moment before the time comes when it will inevitably slip away, marvelling at its broken perfection, this crystal riddled with shining cracks.
"So troublesome, isn't it?" he whispers back.