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Historians will call them anything but.
Hogun watched from the sidelines, his skin pale and the alcoholic stench of the environment headachingly, feeling the grumbles of the ale in his stomach swirl with pain and his heart clench at the sight. Fandral seemed unbothered, focus paid tightly on the women in front of him, combing through their hair as he spoke to each of them with attention Hogun only wished of. Each interaction between the several people the Asgardian spoke with turned flirtatious, and the man paid no attention than to impress them – sword unsheathed, hair tucked neatly, smile on to charm. Thor approached him before, pure obliviousness as he pressed on to inquire what he seemed tipsy of – whether it was alcohol or feelings – and Hogun ignored with a quick pretence of stomach-ache.
He wanted him to know, the man in front of him – straight there and perfectly centred in his view – yet he knew that it was better if he did not. A tear was building behind his eye, and he bit his pride as he stormed off from the crowd, Sif catching on and helping him leave without much of a fuss to the others. Hogun noticed that Fandral paid no attention other than a quick gaze as he passed by, and he let the air hit him over as he slouched by the grass. Bright lights were flashing from inside the pub, fresh blasts of singing and loud clacking of dancing banging his senses as he managed to shuffle across and out of view.
Each star in the sky was bright, flashing at him with twinkles and a smile of assurance, the moon full and captivating. The Vanir counted in his head, every instance where he could have left and hid himself – tucked away with his feelings – and he felt regret singe over and disgust paint his regret. He thought of the life he had managed in Asgard, the friends he has met, the people that he can call family, and his name reoccurs again. The person he loves.
“Hey,” called a voice from his right, and he watched Fandral squat next to him, a mug in his hand. His expression was soft, almost tired, and his eyes were full. “Are you okay?” The brooding warrior licks his lip as an answer, and grabs the mug for a sip of the drink, swishing the liquid in his mouth as he returns it. “Not good then, I suppose.”
He catches the sarcasm, heavily laced within the words, but the mock was evident in a friendly way, almost as if to coax him into sharing. Honesty was building in within Hogun’s chest, the pressure pushing him down and weighing at him. “It’s you.”
“Me?” Fandral’s expression stiffened, his eyes softening, eyebrows knitting at the comment, and Hogun could feel his heart wince at the look.
“I mean-”
“Sorry, then, for bothering you,” said Fandral, and his legs were tucked up, ready to stand. Hogun could feel the reeling of his mind, all of the thoughts and voices crashing as he felt the adrenaline push through, and his hand had caught Fandral’s before he thought of anything else. The pause in his actions caught on, and Hogun pulled Fandral down enough that he crashed into him, their lips pressed together messily, teeth hitting and their eyes still opened. The slow, awkward moment of silence fell, and Hogun was ready to run in any case, until Fandral had closed his eyes, his hand sliding on to Hogun’s jaw, fingers gripping tightly. The latter gasped, his lips overlapped perfectly as Fandral tilted his head, and he relaxed as his eyes closed as well.
Talking could be later.
But history hates lovers.