Archive of Our Own

“To the thrower of the most excellent feasts!” Volstagg bellows, lifting a mug the size of his head and tipping it toward Thor. “May your well of plenty never run out!”

“May your hand never falter and your hammer always find its mark,” Hogun joins in. His face looks slightly less grim in the dancing lights of the festive hall.

“And may your journeys lead you to the most beautiful maidens, to whom you may then introduce your loyal friend,” Fandral adds with a cheeky wink.

“And may some common sense finally find its way into your head.” Sif closes the round of toasts, her mouth curling in a sly smirk.

Thor laughs. “Thank you for your kind wishes, dearest friends.” He raises his own mug and downs it in one long gulp, the mead dropping straight to the bottom of his stomach.

It is, indeed, an excellent feast. All the Asgardian court is gathered around a table that barely fits into the largest hall in the palace. A few hundred more people are milling about, leaning against the columns, intercepting cup bearers in the hallways, gossiping on the balconies. The King oversees the festivities from the dignified distance of his throne, his faithful wife at his side. The Warriors Three sit opposite Thor, separated from him by the widest selection of all the delicacies the Nine Realms have to offer. Sif’s elbow is threatening to dig into his side on his right, and then there is an empty space on his left.

He shakes his head and throws his mug over his shoulder with the customary “Another!” This is a time for celebration, not reminiscence and regret.

The new mug, brimming with mead, is set before him in an instant. His friends treat him to another round of toasts, as heartfelt as the previous ones, and he laughs and drinks and smiles at them as honestly as he can.

It’s good to have them here, at his side. One empty spot to four filled so generously, the math is simple. Not that Thor ever liked math. No, that line of study was a favorite of someone else.

He drinks more mead, draining mug after mug, letting his mind float away from useless thoughts. The wailing horns and thunderous drums filling the hall with their rousing tunes are just loud enough to drown out the vexing voices in the back of his mind. Should be enough. Must be.

Apparently, they aren’t, because Sif’s elbow finds his ribs with a sharp nudge, and he startles. “Is the celebration not to your taste?” she asks, leaning closer and speaking in a whisper.

Thor attempts a hearty smile. “It is a great feast,” he says, and he knows he’s a terrible liar. He can hear another voice telling him just that, and then chuckling softly, an unspoken but that’s alright; you have me.

Sif regards him skeptically for a moment, then returns to her plate of Vanaheim roast boar without saying anything else. She does cast a brief look at something past Thor before turning away, but it’s more likely she is seeking a moment of female solidarity with the Queen than acknowledging the glaring absence right next to Thor.

With a sigh, Thor clasps his hands around his mug, watching the golden liquid slosh within. Across from him, Fandral is telling a salacious joke or giving an account of his recent escapades. Most of the time, it’s hard to tell the difference. Judging by Volstagg’s guffaws, the story is truly entertaining, but then again, Volstagg would laugh at anything provided his stomach is full and the drinks keep coming.

Thor glances sideways, to where his parents are seated, when he notices a movement out of the corner of his eye. A strip of gold and green slithers over the dark wood of the table, weaving its way carefully between plates and cutlery. Intrigued, Thor looks closer.

It’s a tiny snake, thinner than his little finger and barely longer than his hand. It moves toward him in intricate zigzags, its patterned skin glistening in the torchlight.

“Hello beautiful,” Thor whispers to it, hoping no one notices.

No one does.

The snake stops right in front of him and draws itself up, balancing the length of its slim body on its tail. He surveys it, noting the dark marking on the top of its head, shaped like a little crown. Sléttrsnókr, the smooth snake, bitey but harmless. The reddish brown ones are common on Asgard, but Thor had only seen a gold and green one once, centuries ago, when sneaking around in the sacred gardens of Iðunn under the cover of his partner-in-crime’s magic mist. He had picked the snake up, fascinated by the pretty creature. As it weaved around his fingers, its soft belly cool and soothing against his skin, he knew, instantly and without a doubt, that their fates were sealed together forever. The mere thought of parting ways with this wondrous thing was simply ridiculous, so Thor had smuggled the snake home, risking his father’s wrath for trespassing and poaching. He settled it in his room, recruiting the assistance he needed to make sure that his new pet stayed out of Heimdall’s sight. I will name it Tiny Brother, Thor told his sole confidante in this misdemeanor. As opposed to what, Regular Brother? — No, Thor grinned. As opposed to Little Brother.

A few days later, the snake disappeared, and Thor never saw it or any other like it again, no matter how hard he looked.

He watches, mesmerized, as the surprise guest from his distant childhood folds itself into a loose pyramid of coils on the table before him. The snake sticks its forked tongue out at him with a long, low hiss that could be a threat or a greeting or, perhaps, a plea masked as either. Its eyes keep shifting between pure blue and wicked green, never settling on a single color, always changing, quick and keen and familiar. They are fixed on Thor’s, and it could be a trick of the light, but for a second, he thinks they look sad.

“I mean you no harm,” Thor promises as he stretches his hand forward, fingers curving gently to stroke the snake’s beautiful skin.

As soon as he touches the snake, it dissolves into a green shimmer and then into nothing.

Thor’s fingers close on empty air.

He glances quickly at his mother, but she is absorbed in an argument with her husband, and magic of that kind requires a certain degree of concentration. Thor remembers being told as much on numerous occasions while being pushed out of the door in the direction of his own room.

There’s only one other person who could perform that spell. There’s only one person who would know to do it, really, and there’s an empty space on Thor’s left.

His chair scrapes against the floor with a creaking groan as he rises from the table.

“Is it time for some glorious axe throwing?” Volstagg perks up immediately, waving a leg of something that might have had feathers or fur or both. Hogun looks up from his tower of grapes, ever ready for entertainment that involves sharp objects and a certain risk of injury, while Fandral, uninterested in either, grimaces at Sif. Sif shrugs, leaning over the table to pile several kinds of exotic bread onto her plate.

“No,” Thor hastens to say, then stops short, unsure how to explain or even what exactly he is trying to explain. “I have… a private matter to attend to.” He rushes out of the hall, followed by confused noises that quickly subside, giving way to studious chewing.

The way to the dungeons is long and winding, and Thor takes a few wrong turns, getting lost in the enormous palace. It’s quite fitting, he thinks bitterly, how he stumbles over his own legs when attending to this particular private matter.

He finds the right hallway at last and glares the guards away. His chest is tight with red, boiling anger when he puts his hands on the tall, heavy doors. What were you thinking, he wants to shout. What if anyone noticed, he wants to scream. You know you are forbidden from using magic, his lips tremble, as he pushes the doors inward, you know father is looking for a reason to have you dead, and please, oh dear Norns, please, please don’t die. Not again. Not, maybe, ever.

The doors open with a weary screech. Thor’s footsteps echo grimly off the dank walls as he makes his way to the first cell on his left. His fists clench and his throat throbs, seething with curses and questions and accusations that threaten to tear it apart. He comes to a stop before the steps that lead to the front entrance to the cell. If not for the charged gold patterns glinting in the air, he might have thought he’d got confused after all and had arrived at the chambers of some royal guest instead of the dungeons. The room before him is furnished with graciously curved tables, elegant chair-sofa hybrids, and other fanciful things that Thor doesn’t know the names for but is quite confident do not belong in a prison. The prisoner himself is perched on a white ledge across from Thor, his features schooled and expressionless, his appearance habitually immaculate. His attention seems to be captivated wholly by a thick, ancient-looking tome in his lap. He licks his finger before turning the page, keeps reading, his eyes tracing the words without slipping away.

Thor knows how his brother’s gaze feels on him. He knows the sting of its sharpness, which misses nothing, whether it wants to or not; he knows — understands, now — the weight of its hurt, which is enough to crush the Nine Realms and the worlds beyond them. And above all, he knows the light of its love, which is brighter than all the stars in all the universes combined.

He feels it, all of it, in this moment.

His voice betrays him, gets stuck somewhere between his ribs, and it’s probably for the best. Nothing has ever been solved with talk, not in their family.

Not like anything has ever been solved, in their family.

But maybe, it’s not too late.

Slowly, Thor raises his hands and takes off his ceremonial winged helmet, dropping it to the floor. It clatters against the hard stone. The prisoner turns another page.

With one sharp yank, Thor tears off his magnificent cape and tosses it away in a whirl of scarlet. One by one, he rips the enchanted disks from his breastplate, then gets rid of the breastplate itself. He slides off his vambraces and shakes off all the other armored bits covering his clothing, down to the last piece of metal. Finally, he removes his boots.

He stands before the cell, barefoot, clad in only plain pants and a loose grey tunic. Stripped of all his roles and duties. Not a prince, not a warrior, not a god. A thousand years younger. The boy he used to be; the boy he desperately wants to be again.

The boy who had, once, an entire world in the shape of one person. The boy who was, once, an entire world.

He realizes, with a tentative thrill, that the man on the ledge hasn’t turned a page in a long time.

A green shimmer sparkles through the cell. Half of the exquisite furniture disappears, making the cruel starkness of the white walls even more blinding. The figure, however, remains sitting on the ledge, except there’s no book — only pale hands folded together, long fingers lax, thumbs circling nervously around each other. Gone is the threatening bulk of leather, gone are the slick lines, gone are the cutting edges.

“Loki,” the name slips from Thor’s lips, and there he is, Thor’s brother, barefoot, in plain pants and a loose green tunic, and his hair is a mess, and his eyes are tired and blue-green and everything, and his face is almost too much to bear but also not nearly enough.

No more illusions — on either side of the gap that stretches for too many years to think about. Just Thor. Just Loki. Just two boys, together against the entire world like they used to. Like, Norns willing, they still can be.

They look at each other, and they see each other, maybe for the first time in centuries.

Maybe for the first time in their lives.

Thor smashes his palm into the panel that disables the protective barriers. The translucent screens blink out of existence while the panel sparks and crackles, possibly broken beyond repair, and Thor really couldn’t care less.

He rushes toward Loki, crossing the distance between them in three sweeping strides. Loki tenses, reflexively, at the sudden proximity, and Thor freezes a step away from him, cursing himself for failing his brother way too many times, in way too many ways. He needs to say something, an apology, a consolation, a reassurance, but he’s never been good at any of those, having relied all his life on blunt force, leaving the intricacies of diplomacy to someone else.

Loki watches him for a long, anxious beat, then his shoulders loosen and he tilts his head toward Thor, tipping his chin up, challenging and trusting at the same time. His chest is rising and falling a bit too fast, and there’s a terrible mixture of fear and hope shadowing his face. It’s covered so masterfully by a well-honed blankness that Thor could have easily missed it, like he has evidently missed so much so often. But he’s looking, this time, and it rends his heart. His brother is right there. Has probably always been.

The thin line of Loki’s lips falters, curving uncertainly at one corner, and the skin around his eyes almost crinkles. “Will you ever learn to press things gently?” he asks, feigning exasperation, and for once, Thor sees right through it.

He sinks to his knees before Loki and winds his arms around Loki’s waist and buries his face in Loki’s lap, feeling Loki’s body relax against his. “No,” he says into Loki’s legs, grateful and rapturous and relieved, “that’s your thing.” He pauses for just long enough to swallow the thousand-year lump in his throat. “Brother.”

Time stills around them, illuminated by a single word, turned inside out by a simple sentiment, one that Loki has renounced so vehemently, one that Thor has given up on so hastily. One that neither of them has ever stopped feeling. It shines, bright and huge and wonderful, until the space between them shrinks, and Thor is clutching at Loki like he’s the only thing that exists in the whole universe; definitely the only thing that matters.

Loki hums, a soft easy sound, the fear gone, the hope multiplied, transmuted into a calm steady truth that settles over them like the blanket they used to share on the nights too scary to brave alone. Gently, he places his hands on Thor’s head and strokes his hair, picking at the tight braids, smoothing down the stray strands, playing with the long locks. His voice is quiet and full of fondness when he leans down to whisper in Thor’s ear:

“Happy birthday, brother.”