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Loki has transformed into snakes before. He has killed before, too; mice, mostly, and, once, a lizard. He has bitten them, broken their necks, infected them with his venom, green and shiny like molten emerald; and their bones were thin and fragile, they snapped before his fangs could have sunk into them properly.
*
It's a bright summer day, the garden is bathing in the golden rays of the afternoon sun, covered in a soft cloud of blooming flowers and delicate smells and perfect silence, and even that silence is more calming than unsettling. To Thor, at least, it feels so. He himself is exhausted from all that he's been through today; he's had breakfast, lunch and training, and right now, he isn't quite sure whether it's the fighting practice or the crazy amount of food that causes that heavy, lukewarm tiredness in all of his limbs that makes him want to lay down in the soft grass and let the sunshine lull him into a short slumber. Or, if no one wakes him, a long one.
He was going to spend the afternoon with Loki, show him the swordfighting technique he learned today, ask him to talk about the books he loves and Thor never understands; but his brother was nowhere to be found. He even skipped lunch, and at first, Thor got a bit worried that he'd have to starve until dinner, but then their mother laughed and told him that Loki was probably busy stealing desserts, and that was calming enough. Just like that sweet, warm sunshine on Thor's face is now. So he decides to stop thinking about Loki's whereabouts and actually try sleeping instead. He'll have enough time in the evening to make sure Loki's well fed. He doesn’t look like he’s well fed. Most of the time, he looks ill, with his unusually light eyes and pale cheeks and slim waist and thin fingers. He should spend more time outside. Without his beloved books, if possible. Play fighting with Thor, if possible. He's got a tendency to get in trouble on purpose, which means he definitely should learn how to defend himself.
Thor grunts quietly, working on finding a better position on the ground. It's a lot less comfortable than he imagined. Loki would probably laugh at him. Mother would probably tell him not to worry about Loki. Not his opinion about Thor; not his regular disappearances. That’s what she always says. It’s a good thing that you care about him, she murmurs and ruffles his golden hair, he's your brother after all. But it’s my task to be concerned; mine and your father's. You don’t have to protect him. We will. And he himself will also learn to.
Mother wouldn’t be happy if she knew that Thor is worrying again, so he directs his thoughts elsewhere. Back to the lessons; the dull, aching pain in both of his arms; the flowers and the birdsong; back to how wonderful today is. He turns to the side and pulls his knees up to his chest, getting into his favorite sleeping position, and when he opens his eyes to make sure he's not going to roll over anything pretty and destroy it, he almost jumps in surprise. Hiding among the thick straws of grass, there's a snake right next to him; watching him with its greenish eyes wide open, maybe even crawling a bit closer. It looks curious. And it looks beautiful.
Thor kneels up and leans over the snake, reaching out for it with both hands. His fingers are trembling, and so is his voice when he speaks.
“Hello, snake,” he whispers, his fingertips almost touching its golden scales. “Don’t run away, I won’t hurt you.”
The snake doesn’t run away. Thor realizes that snakes don’t normally run. But it doesn’t crawl away either, and that's enough for Thor. He slides a palm under the snake's belly, careful so it won’t get scared and try to bite him. And it doesn’t. It seems almost like it wants to be lifted, be petted on the head and be kissed on the nose; and so Thor does, placing it in his lap and leaning over it, touching its skin with his mouth. It’s supposed to feel cool and wet, yet it's dry and as warm as the rays of the sunlight, and Thor almost begins to wonder whether that’s something he's known incorrectly and whether Loki would laugh at him for that, when the snake transforms.
*
Loki is easy to catch; too easy, even. It’s almost like he’s come to Midgard only to have himself captured and imprisoned. Thor can see that, and he can see that there’s something wrong with it, but he can’t seem to grasp, what.
Then the Hulk is unleashed.
*
It happens fast, too fast for Thor to understand. The slender body of the snake shivers and shudders, and it stretches its curved spine as if it was trying to grow bigger; but then it does, it does grow bigger; suddenly it's longer and thicker and more white than golden; and a mere second later Loki is there, kneeling opposite Thor, grinning widely in surprised awe; and the snake is gone.
“I heard you've been looking for me,” he says quickly, his tone exhausted and excited at the same time. “I'm here.”
“Where's the snake?” is all Thor manages. Loki’s eyes narrow until they’re just two lines above his sharp cheekbones; two icy blue cuts on his forehead, full of mocking amusement and the same excitement from just a moment ago. His lips curl into another smile, tight and hard this time, and he leans forward, his face just a breath away from Thor’s.
“Right in front of you,” he says, and Thor blinks in confused surprise; “be careful so you don’t get bitten.” And with that, his fist is on Thor’s side, and if it wasn't for the ice cold pain he feels, Thor would think he's only joking, that he’s just giving him a friendly punch; but the pain comes like the strikes of electricity he sometimes experiences when he fails to control his powers, it’s bright and quick and his torso is on fire, the soft flesh between his ribs burning with cool, white, sparkling flames.
Loki jumps to his feet and runs, leaving Thor with his throbbing, stabbed wound; and when Thor wraps his fingers around the dagger to pull it out, it feels hard and sharp and fragile under his fingertips. Just like Loki’s receding silhouette. Except maybe that him—him, he can’t touch as easily.
It’s not until later, much, much later, that he realizes who the snake was and whom he kissed. It also takes time to start believing that getting that kiss was exactly Loki’s purpose. It’s not more than a quick flash of thought at first, but then it comes back, it comes back again and again and again, haunting him in his sleep, in his nightmares just as much as in his daydreams; and the next thing he knows is that there’s not enough time in this universe, or any other, for him to forget that idea.
*
Unlike in Thor's case, the mice actually died. Unlike in Thor 's case, Loki never felt the slightest bit of regret for them.
*
It’s a dark, foggy night, the stars are hidden behind the thick clouds of the approaching storm, and the whirring wind outside cools down the walls of the large bedroom. It’s not the first night they spend together, not even the first one they spend making love; but it’s definitely the first and only time Thor wakes up to find Loki missing.
He doesn’t consider climbing out of the bed, not at first. Said bed is king-sized, more than enough for two people, way too big for one—he sometimes feels lost in it, on the rare occasion of Loki’s absence, when he has to sleep alone, and so his first instinct is to reach out without bothering to open his eyes, tap around among the heavy bedsheets, certain that Loki’s still there somewhere.
When he finds nothing, he opens his eyes with an annoyed growl and searches for Loki again, using his eyesight this time. Nothing. Not in the bedroom, at least, but in his quarters there are much more than just one room, so Loki could be anywhere, wandering around in the blunt moonlight.
Thor sits on the edge of the bed, hissing quietly as his toes touch the cold marble of the floor.
“Loki?” he tries. The echo of his own voice is the only answer he gets. He pushes himself up from the bed.
The only door that leads anywhere sensible is right opposite the bed, so that’s where he decides to go first. He walks closer, his footsteps echoing just like his voice did, one husky from sleep, the other heavy from sex. In the doorway, he stops to peer into the next room. It’s more like a salon, really, it’s elegant and spacious, and it’s empty. There’s a mirror on a wall and a carpet on the floor, both shining with golden patterns, normally used for getting dressed. For keeping Thor’s feet warm and eyes busy with staring at himself. Not like that’s necessary, he can remember what he looks like very well.
Loki’s presence doesn’t change the salon's emptiness, mostly because he’s not there. Thor sighs in sleepy frustration, his eyes half-open and his mind half-focused, but he keeps going anyway.
“Loki,” he calls again, louder this time. And there’s a soft chuckle somewhere to his left, so he turns to the side and rushes to the next door. He's almost there when he hears the chuckle again, and this time, he can make out words as well.
“I'm here,” Loki says, not very specifically stating where, but that’s just enough. From the two doors on the wall in front of him, Thor chooses the one that’s somewhat farther, but while walking closer, he notices something.
The other door is open. Only ajar, only enough for a thin, fragile, silver ray of light to sneak into the salon, but even that’s strange because Loki never leaves the doors open. Thor would. But Loki always says that they must be careful, that they must close every door that separates them from those who cannot know what they do when it's only the two of them, that they need to be able to listen to the doors being opened because that’s going to alarm them if anybody's coming. So that they don’t get caught. So that no one learns about their secret. Thor hasn’t found the right way yet to explain that this is exactly why he wishes to open them all.
*
“Father would be proud of you.”
“What for?”
“For almost defeating me this time.”
“Almost.” Loki’s panting under him, wrists pinned to the ground, a laugh on his lips, a dark sparkle in his eyes. “And Mother would be proud of you. Remember when she was worried that you were acting so overly protective of me?” He laughs again, his breath escaping his throat in a harsh, raw hiss. “I bet she'd feel better if she'd seen you beat the living soul out of me.”
“I didn’t beat the living soul out of you. I wrestled you down.”
“Yes, using your weight instead of your skills.” Loki sighs softly, but clearly in something akin to frustration. “If only I could use what I have. A knife. An illusion. Something. I would win so easily.”
“That’s called cheating.”
“That’s called survival instinct.”
*
Loki would have closed that door. If he didn’t, that’s not right. If it’s someone else in there, it’s not much better. Thor lays his palms on the wood, its weight dead and cold against his skin, and pushes it slightly further in, just so he can peer into the room. This one is smaller, and much more friendly with its large windows and velvety curtains, windows now wide open and curtains whirling around in the ice cold breeze that fills up the entire apartment. And in the middle of the room, among the dark waves of the fabric, there’s Loki; he’s kneeling on the floor and staring at his hands, not looking at Thor like he hasn’t noticed him, and very much not chuckling.
He’s holding Mjolnir. Well, not holding. He’s got his fingers wrapped tight around its shaft and his knees on both sides of its head, hugging it close like it's his own, like it's not in his lap because he doesn’t want it to be there, not because he’s unable to lift it.
There’s a teardrop in the corner of his left eye; one single teardrop, shining palely in the moonlight. He doesn’t look up. He doesn’t move his lips. But Thor can hear his voice again, he’s chuckling and calling his name from the next room; and he walks away on his tiptoes, silently, carefully not to wake Loki from his state. Whatever that state is.
*
It’s the first time they kiss. They were fighting just a minute ago and now Loki is under him, his torso pressing against Thor’s, his thighs squeezing his hips, his back arching, reaching up to meet Thor’s mouth with his.
It’s about cheating. It’s about turning Thor’s attention away from the fight. It’s about rolling him over and pining him to the ground; and then, when Loki’s finally straddling him with a smug grin on his lips and glowing triumph in his eyes, then the next one is about the kiss itself.
*
Loki is in the next room, another smaller one with windows and books and a sofa. Of course that’s where Thor would find him. Of course that’s where he should have gone first. Of course he's getting more confused than ever.
“Hi,” Thor says quietly, stepping into the room. Loki is standing at the window, turning his back to Thor, focusing his gaze on the book in his hands.
“Hi,” he repeats. He stays silent for another moment, reading a few more lines, marking the last one with his index finger; and then he turns around to face Thor, his lips in a soft smile, his eyes surrounded by purplish circles. “Sorry for sneaking out, I couldn’t sleep.”
“Now I can’t either.” Thor steps closer, opening his arms to pull him into a hug, but Loki doesn’t move to let him. Thor’s arms fall back to his side. “Come back to bed.”
“I'm coming,” Loki says with a nod. He places the book on the window sill and walks to the door, not touching Thor, not letting him touch him.
This happens sometimes. This is fine. This is just Loki’s need to be left alone now and then. When they pass the door of the room where Thor left Mjolnir hours earlier, he glances at it too see if the other version of Loki is still there, but the door is closed and the ray of light gone, the freezing cold air is the only thing to prove that he has seen something.
Loki’s skin is like satin, white and cool and slippery, and it never really heats up under Thor’s touch. When he takes off his night robe and lays down, his silhouette melts into the sheets perfectly; it’s almost like he’s only visible thanks to his hair. Thanks to those black strands, black like the feathers of a raven, spread out on the pillow, covering his face; and when Loki’s finally asleep and Thor reaches out to touch them, his fingers sink into nothing but cold air and the illusion's outlines ripple around his hand.
Thor’s first thought is about hearts and how easily they can be broken. By words, by acts, by looking at a teardrop in somebody’s left eye and knowing that it being there is your fault. The realization that comes too late is, in this case, that Loki always notices when someone’s coming. Except when he wants that someone to believe that he hasn’t. Except when his intention is to show off his own struggle. And, maybe, break a heart.
*
Thor doesn’t know about the mice. He doesn’t know about Loki’s pain, either. It’s a different kind of pain from what he feels between his ribs and in his confused mind; it’s deep and dark and so close to blinding rage that even Loki has a hard time distinguish ing the two, but it’s pain nonetheless.
*
It’s probably sometime in the evening, but that’s not exactly easy to tell. Not that it matters the least bit. Their spaceship is floating in the middle of nothing, and the only thing visible is the swirling, grey dollop of their surroundings, its blunt color only broken by the ruby sparkle of a star or the sapphire shine of a comet from time to time. It will get prettier as they get closer to Earth. It should get safer as well.
Thor’s fiddling around with the lid of a crystal bottle, pouring a drink, the liquid thick and radiant like molten gold. It better taste just as good, too. He’s had a day he wishes to forget for as long as he only can, even if it’s just a few minutes. That's a long time when it comes to silencing his swirling thoughts; it should be enough for him to fall asleep.
Something twitches in the corner of the mirror in front of him. Someone moves. And when he gets close enough for Thor to properly make out his features, he looks calm and organized and very much alive.
Thor knows he shouldn’t be surprised. It’s not Loki’s style to die just like that. But watching his home burn and knowing his brother's part in it somehow wasn’t relaxing at all.
He turns around, mouth opening to form words, ears deaf to what he manages to say. Deaf to Loki’s answer, even.
*
“Together,” he says, his palm still warm from the touch of Loki’s skin, from the way it squeezed his throat, ready to snap his neck if necessary. Loki’s smile is sad; not sad but desperate, his eyelashes wet with tears as he runs his gaze over the burning remains of people and cars and skyscrapers. It takes him only a second to begin to despise all that he'd achieved; and it takes him only a second to pull the dagger from its sheathe and force it to find its way between Thor’s ribs.
*
He throws the lid and Loki catches it, his fingers wrapping around the cold crystal safely, not letting it fall through the trembling outlines of a failed illusion.
“I'm here,” he says, almost gently, and Thor puts the glass back down before the first drop could even touch his lips.
*
Back between Thor’s ribs. It’s the three of them now, him and Jane and Loki, one dying and two blind with burning rage; and this isn’t supposed to hurt because there’s no wound this time, but it’s the same exact place on his side; the one the child snake bit and the child warlord cut; and he can’t help but feel, not physically but deep inside his flesh, a bright flash of fiery pain.
*
This time, it doesn’t take long before a conclusion rises to the surface of his agitated mind. Now it’s easy to find one, easier than ever before, and Thor huffs out a smile, tired and peaceful all the same.
He's not going to trust Loki because he can’t. Not supposed to. Incapable of. But wrapping his arms around his slender torso and pressing his lips against his ice cold skin and staying aware of his mischievous heart—that might be a good place to start.
*
It’s the pain of being lesser. It’s the pain of being unable to destroy perfection. It’s the pain of needing to try.