Thor stands outside Loki's cell, barely daring (or able) to breathe. The lights were dimmed inside, and he could faintly see the outline of Loki's body within, faced away from Thor and curled on himself.
Loki, he thinks. Loki doesn't stir, though Thor knows he must sense Thor's presence.
You should come in if you want this conversation to continue, Loki answers. Thor obeys, against his better judgement. He has already come here against his better judgement, so he supposes that this is a small compromise.
He presses his hand to the glass of the cell, and strides forward, passing through as if he were an apparition- besides his father, Thor is the only one able to do this. He thinks now that this privilege should not have been granted him.
As soon as he has stepped inside, there is an immediate shift in his surroundings. The air becomes cold and misty, and all light around him is extinguished. He feels the closeness of a stone ceiling above his head, and a space much bigger than that of the cell surrounding him. He knows that his perceptions of reality are being altered- Loki is expertly fooling his senses.
I have nothing left but time, Loki tells him. Endless time to craft any illusion I desire. I've made this one for you and I and no one else. Anyone beyond the glass will see only what you saw before you stepped inside.
Thor takes a deep breath and pushes forward, feeling his way through the darkness, hands occasionally coming in contact with the rough walls of the cave.
The cave. Loki has recreated their hiding place from memory- and it is just as Thor has always thought of it, right down to the smell of the coast and the chill on his skin and the far-off glow of a fire- like the one they had set on that night so long ago. Thor is lulled by the familiarity of it all, and he wanders towards the source of the light, Loki's voice resonating in his mind once again.
You weren't always so imposing. It was easier then- your hands were so much more like mine- not strong and calloused as I'm sure they are now. I suppose I should miss that, but I don't. Rough hands are a weakness of mine.
He finally comes into view of the fire, the flames flickering low and crimson as if they have been burning for hours. There's a fire within Thor as well- a fire that has been burning for lifetimes. The fire inside him no longer flickers; it blazes.
Loki lies on his back, at the edge of the firelight's reach, his back against a blanket of soft fur that looks too real to be part of this mirage, much in the way the heat of the fire (and something else perhaps) is visible on Loki's face, red on the sharpness of his cheeks. Real in the way that he presses a hand against himself over his clothes, a desperate yet self-assured seduction. This is real in the way that the bones of Thor's fingers suddenly ache to reach out and touch.
"They call you the god of thunder," Loki says aloud, the hitches in his voice catching in the crags of the cave walls. "Fitting, but I've always through of you as fire; powerful, all-consuming, reckless and destructive. I would obviously be ice, then; cold, harsh, lethal and unrelenting. It's also true that fire can take ice and melt it down, touch it and shape it- ice cannot be burnt by fire, but it can still be destroyed."
"What is it that you want, Loki?" Thor asks, though he already knows the answer.
"Devastate me."
Thor is quick to act, quicker than he ever has been to follow any order, to answer any call. He sidesteps the fire in the blink of an eye, nearly falling to his knees between Loki's spread legs, an action that only appears practised for how many times he has thought of doing it. He does more, the things he's often thought of doing- he takes Loki's wrists in his hands and pins them to the ground above Loki's head, as if keeping those hands off him will keep Loki's spell at bay.
But you're here already, are you not? Loki's voice.
The spell, Thor knows, was cast long ago.
He kisses Loki deeply, less as a futile attempt to keep him silent and more as an attempt to cure the ache, to quell the thirst he had all but forgotten. Loki is more than eager in his response, harried for all of his strategic manipulation. He parts his lips and cranes his neck to push into the kiss as much as he can. His wrists barely strain against Thor's grip; this is what he wanted, to be at the mercy of another, mercy being something Thor has none left of where Loki is concerned.
Where their kisses had once upon a time been tentative and tender, this kiss is marred and bitter, tastes of blood when Thor bites too hard on Loki's bottom lip- or just hard enough- he's no longer sure. Loki hisses at the pain but welcomes it gladly, his hips canting suddenly up to meet Thor's.
Thor responds in kind, hips jumping forward to chase Loki's heat and hardness. Conscious thought is replaced by instinctual movement, desire augmented by need, the fire fuelled by the rhythm of their bodies, the beat of blood moving untamed beneath feverish skin. It is the sheer finiteness of this moment that drives them now, the knowledge that there will never be another like it. It is the true impossibility of second chances that keeps them here, keeps them crashing together like an angry sea crashes upon the coast.
Thor's grip falters, not for long, but long enough for Loki's hands to slip free, to take a more active role in the mutually assured destruction. He quickly pushes his long and deceitful fingers into Thor's hair, pulls roughly and kisses savagely, coaxing Thor to groan into his open mouth.
This game- is that all it's ever been? - becomes a game of attack without defence, of retaliation after retaliation; Thor breaks away from Loki's lips, pulls Loki's head back by his hair and sinks his teeth into the softest skin he finds, the pale hollow of Loki's throat. Loki starts, his whole body going still for a moment; he lets out a noise, something between an moan and a laugh. Thor can almost hear the self-satisfied smirk on Loki's lips- his hands are still in Thor's hair, still so in control even if he is the one on his back.
This is a kind of war, Thor thinks. Blood has been drawn, borders have been crossed, sacrifices made. He knows now that some wars never have a clear victor. Some wars were never meant to be won, only to be ended.
A strange sentiment for a warrior, Loki answers- even in his mind, he sounds breathless.
Not breathless enough- Thor wants to hear Loki's ruined voice in the closeness of the room, to feel it beneath his mouth as the sound of it escapes from Loki's throat. He tears Loki's hands from his hair and pins them once again, unyielding to the ground beneath him.
Loki bends his knees, cinching his legs around Thor's hips as they begin to move against each other in earnest, rutting like animals, lost to everything but instinct and desire. Soon their movements lose all sense and rhythm, mouths hung open in heavy breaths that leave one's lungs and are caught be the other's as their lips slide together with every shift of their bodies.
Thor can no longer keep himself silent- he groans, the sound borne from his chest rather than his throat, rising up and spilling over in a litany of curses, words he had thought were forgotten to him. He thrusts his hips against Loki's in much the same way the sea will crash against the shore- relentlessly, violently, driven by the tide, for no other reason than because it must- because this is all the sea knows how to do to the shore- to cover it, consume it, to never cease in its pursuit.
Loki goes still beneath him, his body suddenly cold as he moans and shudders through his release. Thor's eyes fall close as he does the same, a figurative burst of light behind his eyelids as he comes, the air knocked from his lungs as his mind and body separate for the briefest but most intense of moments, as fleeting as it is eternally suspended in time.
Thor swears that he sees Loki's skin go blue, eyes flashing, eerie and otherworldly in the dying firelight. Soon, though, it passes- the blood rushes back into Loki's face, and he is the same as he has ever was. Nothing has truly changed.
"Are you devastated?" Thor means it as a taunt but says it as a whisper, pressing his face to the now warmed side of Loki's neck.
Loki lowers his chin slightly, the closest Thor knows he will come to nodding. He laughs again, hollowly, the sound made of air and little else.
"Are you?" He asks in return.
Thor has only ever had one sure way of silencing Loki's forked tongue, even if only for a moment; he resigns himself to it now, as he knows he always will. He sighs and, without another word, raises his head to kiss Loki once again.
Fire and ice, the sea and the shore. Brothers, lovers, enemies, in perfect contrast but perfect balance as well. Never one without the other.
It has always been like this.
