Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The sun has just touched the snow-laden peaks on the horizon when their small party decides to stop and make camp for the night.

Experience enables them to make quick work of it, each individual dismounting his or her horse in near-perfect sync before corralling the necessary supplies to erect the shelters that will protect them from the winter’s biting cold.

Not long into the preparations, Loki announces that he will venture into the neighboring woods to collect wood for a fire.

“I shall accompany you,” Fandral says, standing from where he’s just used the butt of one of Volstagg’s axes to hammer a stake into the earth. He tests the tension of the rope it’s attached to, pleased to find the shelter will have no trouble holding ground should the night bring strong winds.

“You may find you need to fell a sapling,” Fandral continues, raising the axe; a show for the others, though Sif, Hogun, and Volstagg are too preoccupied with their work to pay him any mind. Only Thor glances up, though his thoughts seem far away, perhaps on the quest that has drawn them to this remote stretch of land to begin with.

Loki, face impassive, says nothing. He simply turns and begins his trek north.

With great effort, Fandral schools his expression, reining in the bright grin that threatens to pull at the corners of his lips. He salutes Thor with two fingers and then marches in pursuit of the second prince.

Within seconds, they pass the tree line of the great, towering evergreens that stand as giants in these quiet woods, and then, it’s as if they’ve slipped into a moment frozen in time. There is no sound save the soft crunch of their footfalls in the snow and the whisper of Loki’s green cloak as the hem softly drags across the unblemished white of the earth.

The sun doesn’t reach the path they take, and Fandral pulls his fur-lined coat closer around his body, feeling the chill deep in his bones. A sudden gust of wind charges toward them, as striking as a battering ram, and Loki’s cloak takes flight behind him, billowing in the air as if suddenly made animate, like a standard-bearer’s pennant flapping in the wind. Loki, however, presses onward, neither ducking his head against the cold nor guarding his body against it, as if he hardly notices the chill, as if it’s no bother to him.

When they have walked for what Fandral has determined is a sufficient amount of time, the camp long out-of-sight with no danger of discovery, Fandral pitches forward in a determined march, his strides long and powerful as he closes the distance between them, grabs Loki’s arm, and presses the prince back against the bark of the nearest evergreen, the impact enough for the snow on the lowest-hanging branches of the spruce to gently fall to the ground like powdered sugar.

“I can bear it no longer, my darling,” Fandral says, moving closer until there exists no space between their bodies.

With one hand, he cradles the back of Loki’s neck, and with the other he traces a delicate thumb across Loki’s jawline as he drinks in the prince’s breathtaking beauty—beauty that he could spend hours beholding without tiring. Something he has, in fact, regularly achieved with the utmost ease back in Asgard whenever the two are tangled in the sheets of Loki’s bed at night.

To think such unparalleled beauty could be bestowed upon a single individual…and that Fandral is the sole living gods-blessed man permitted to gaze upon it in the secret, quiet sanctity of Loki’s private chambers for as long as he pleases. No, not chambers. A temple, really. With Fandral as the pilgrim come to worship and praise a most deserving god.

“My most trying quests are the ones I must spend apart from you,” Fandral says then. “Not a single moment has passed today when I haven’t yearned to touch you…” His thumb smooths across one pale cheekbone. Then his eyes drop to Loki’s sweet mouth. “...When I haven’t yearned to taste you.”

The air between their lips becomes charged, as it might before the breaking of a storm. In spite of the fierce cold gripping them from all around, Loki is as warm as a hearth against him, the lines of his body pliant, as if he’s melting against Fandral, supple as candle wax.

“Then taste,” Loki whispers against his lips.

In the next instant, Fandral covers Loki’s mouth with his own.

The kiss is hungry, full of yearning. Fandral’s pulse thunders in his veins as he claims what Loki so freely gives him, the warm, velvety smoothness of the prince’s mouth lighting a bonfire in him. Loki wraps his arms around Fandral’s neck, drawing him closer still, and Fandral deepens the kiss, stroking Loki’s tongue with his own, subduing it with his own, licking into the delicious wetness of the prince’s mouth with wild abandon as if he means to completely devour Loki.

At one point, a soft, long, desirous moan escapes Loki’s mouth, as if he’s all but aching for Fandral, expressing some great, palpable need for him, and it’s all Fandral can do to stay himself, to not hurl Loki to the snow-covered ground, climb over him in the next instant, and take him then and there.

Fandral only pulls away when his lungs begin to burn, and air bursts from Loki’s lips the moment he does. Quiet pants sawing in and out of him, cheeks flushed, and pupils blown wide, the prince looks positively debauched from a single kiss. If it weren’t for the heat pooling in Fandral’s lower stomach, he might have the presence of mind to take pride in that fact.

“Fandral,” Loki breathes, eyelids at half-mast, as he pulls Fandral in for another kiss.

They remain like that for a time, feverish kisses eventually softening into sweeter exchanges as their heartbeats steady, as they sate themselves in the comfort of the other’s heat, and the other’s presence, Loki’s long, graceful fingers mindlessly playing with the ends of Fandral’s hair the way they’re apt to do when he and Fandral are wrapped in each other’s arms as so.

Loki shifts slightly and then buries his face just under Fandral’s jawline, nuzzling the skin there, the way a wolf might do with its mate when showing affection. It’s an incredibly tender gesture that never ceases to fill Fandral with utter fondness. It’s also a side of Loki, a soft and vulnerable side, that the prince reveals to no other soul, and for that, Fandral feels richer than all the kings in the Nine Realms combined. The feeling is immediately amplified when the prince suddenly makes a small sound of total and complete contentment, as if there’s nowhere in the world he’d rather be in that moment than in Fandral’s arms.

By the Norns. Fandral’s certain his heart may very well burst with all that he feels at present. He nudges Loki’s head up and then turns to trailing feather-light kisses down the smooth, long column of Loki’s neck, the prince tilting his head to the side to properly bare every trace of skin. He noses at Loki’s collarbone, plants a litany of kisses there, and then comes back up to press his lips against the shell of the prince’s ear.

“What a wondrous, wondrous thing you are, my darling. How have I ever lived a single day without you?”

He moves back only enough to gaze at the other, and warmth gathers in his chest when he sees the unadulterated affection in Loki’s eyes. Before their time together began, Fandral would’ve never thought it possible for Loki to look upon another person in such a way, with such sweetness, with such happiness. He knows better now. He knows better because he’s the recipient of such looks on a near-daily basis now, during stolen moments just like this when it feels like they could truly be the only living souls in the entire universe.

He brings Loki’s hand to his lips and places a gentle kiss to the prince’s knuckles, eyes never leaving Loki’s.

“For as long as I shall live,” Fandral says, “I am yours, my love. For all eternity.”

Loki’s smile is tender, adoring. “And I yours.”

Chapter Text

Certain mornings always came with the threat of death.

Though Fandral supposes that wouldn’t be the case if he didn’t insist on staying in Loki’s bed for as long as he dared. He wasn’t trying to court danger. Not really. It was only that he was finding it increasingly difficult as of late to wrench himself away from the prince’s side whenever they spent a glorious night together.

Already, the bedchambers are lightening in the soft glow of the approaching dawn, birdsong from the royal courtyards emerging in soft, staccato notes. It wouldn’t be long before the palace at large stirred to life with the day’s responsibilities and activities. Indeed, Fandral can just make out the light clank of armor as the guards stationed outside Loki's door change shifts for the day, and beyond that, the soft footsteps and murmurs of servants as they begin going about their morning duties. Soon, a maid would arrive with fresh water for washing.

Fandral knows his window of time is fast closing, that the threat of discovery significantly increases the longer he stays in Loki’s bed. But Norns damn him, he’s loath to part from his lover just yet.

It isn’t simply foolish want. He needs to stay, if only for a few moments longer. Needs to trace the soft lines of Loki’s still body with spellbound eyes, admire the manner in which the prince resembles a recumbent figure carved from unblemished marble, like those in the palace’s many breathtaking galleries.

Truly, Loki is a wonder to behold.

Though slight in build, with an impossibly slender waist and lithe, long limbs the likes of Alfheim’s elven race, the prince’s body is taut as a bow. He possesses the lean type of musculature one would expect from a young man who’s diligently trained in a wide assortment of combat arts for years. Swordsmanship, archery, and of course, Loki’s favorite: dagger combat.

Just days ago, Fandral had happened upon Loki in the middle of a training session, the prince taking on five palace guards at once, some of whom were built as largely as Thor. In but seven heartbeats, Loki had dispatched every single one, nimble movements as swift as an arrow and as graceful as the notes of a lute on the wind. Quick, efficient, lethal. They’re words that describe Loki’s fighting style to perfection.

It’s for this reason Thor repeatedly requests Loki’s presence on quests throughout the Nine Realms. While Loki’s greatest talent will always be his awe-inspiring facility with magic, when it comes to weapon combat, he’s unquestionably among the deadliest of foes.

Fandral counts it an honor to fight at his side.

Loki makes a soft sound in his sleep just then, and Fandral can’t help but chuckle softly.

The prince is a far cry from ‘warrior’ at present, his brow smooth of any of the pensive furrows that beset him during the day, his soft, pink mouth relaxed instead of pressed into the hard, straight lines he maintains when standing straight-backed and chin high in the All-Father’s court, every bit the refined royal.

In these quiet, secret moments, he looks young and innocent and more at peace than Fandral has ever seen him. The man thanks the Norns every day that he’s allowed this, this intimate look behind closed doors where Loki can divest himself of his mantle as prince, lower his guard, and simply be.

Loki makes another sound, this one a soft whine that tugs at Fandral’s stomach.

The prince proceeds to stretch like a cat, extending his arms and legs as far as they’ll go and then holding the muscles at tension for a beat before he relaxes his limbs in a slow release. Only then does he allow his eyes to flutter open, and the first thing they land upon is Fandral.

Loki smiles at him sleepily, the expression as sweet as the sugar on candied fruits.

Fandral will never tire of that smile, of the way Loki presents it like a tenderly wrapped gift each time. He will never tire either of the soft fondness that swims in Loki’s eyes all the while.

“Good morning, my love,” Fandral says, voice tender.

“Mm.” Loki’s smile warms further. He positions a pale forearm across his eyes to block out the morning light. “Forgive me. I didn’t realize the hour. You should’ve woken me.”

“I couldn’t bear to disturb you, angelic as you looked. And so clearly sated by what I can only imagine were the sweetest of dreams.”

“Or sated by he who appeared in those dreams.” The corner of Loki’s mouth curls slyly, and his eyes peek out from under his arm, glinting with mischief, as if to gauge how jealous he’s made Fandral with such words.

Their gazes hold for a long moment, and then Fandral moves to pounce upon him in the next instant. Loki crows with delight as he quickly rolls out of reach and then completely vanishes in a flash of green magic.

He immediately reappears at the far corner of the bed, behind Fandral, one beautiful eyebrow arched. “Looking for someone?”

For the next few moments, Fandral lunges for Loki at least half a dozen times, the wily prince always whipping away at the very last instant before Fandral’s fingers can successfully close around an ankle or wrist. Amidst all the chaos, pillows start sailing through the air, seemingly of their own volition, pummeling Fandral’s back and sides. One pillow catches him upside his head, which is enough to make him fall just short of catching Loki by the crook of his elbow. Loki’s dazzling eyes gleam with victory before he flashes out of sight again with a grin.

Like a masterfully cut emerald, there are many facets to Loki, and it’s a scant number of souls who, in time, come to know all of them. This is, without a doubt, one of Fandral’s favorite aspects of the prince: the mischievous, playful, fun-loving Loki who delights in making merry for the sheer joy of it, for the laughter it brings both to him and to whomever he chooses to share that stolen moment with.

At one point, Fandral feigns a movement toward the right, so that when Loki predictably appears on his left, Fandral need only swing about and clamp his hands onto Loki’s arms to hold the prince in place.

Loki squawks at being captured and struggles against Fandral’s hold, but Fandral strengthens his grip, his own grin lengthening. Then, for good measure, he quickly spins Loki around and yanks him back against his bare chest, restraining the other in a tight hold to effectively pin Loki’s arms to his sides.

Loki continues to squirm in Fandral’s arms even so, never one to easily yield, but it only takes a few moments before his struggles slow and then altogether cease. He’s slightly panting from their earlier game, the flush of color along his alabaster, swan-like neck such a striking sight.

“Have I bested you, my love?” Fandral teases against his ear, knowing Loki will hear the grin in his words.

Loki answers by sending another pillow zipping through the air by way of his magic, which Fandral only barely manages to dodge with a hearty laugh.

Like Fandral, Loki presently wears only his trousers, and Fandral relishes the warmth of his lover’s smooth skin against his chest. He holds Loki so closely, in fact, he can feel every notch in the column of the prince’s spine against him. It’s a territory he’s well mapped with his mouth many a night; indeed, he knows every birthmark and scar that graces Loki’s body, has kissed every last one a bounteous number of times.

“Come now,” he says, “I’m a benevolent captor. My punishments are just. What penalty, pray tell, would you deem fitting for your transgressions, hm? You’ve taken another lover in your dreams, it seems. You know I simply cannot let that stand.” He touches his lips to Loki’s neck in a barely-there kiss, and a delightful shiver ripples down Loki’s body.

“I don’t have a great many faults, it’s true,” Fandral goes on. “I am, inarguably, the most handsome man to ever grace the Nine Realms. My striking looks have been woven into ballads that are sung as far and as wide as Yggdrasill’s very roots reach. They speak my name with awe even in Hel itself. Many a demon, in fact, has gone so far as to thank me for sending them to such a place, so moved were they by the stunning glory of my form.”

Loki throws his head back as laughter soars from his throat at that, and Fandral’s answering grin is wide enough to reach his eyes.

“I’m known as a master swordsman and a consummate battlefield warrior, having slain dragons, battled giants, and defeated the forces of Surtur time and again. I am noble, brave, true—”

“And so terribly humble,” Loki adds helpfully.

“Oh, ever so humble. But in spite of those many, many virtues, I’m afraid I do have at least one flaw: I’m an unforgivably jealous lover. And so, you see, I won’t share you with another. I simply can’t.”

Loki hums in thought as he rests his head back against Fandral’s shoulder. One of his silken, raven locks tickles Fandral’s jaw. “I see. You do raise excellent points, I must admit. What then? Shall I not dream?” He releases a long sigh. “Such a pity. The things you and I do when I dream have always been so…inspiring, my most recent dreams of this morning certainly being no exception.”

It takes a beat for Fandral to catch his meaning, and then he gently pinches Loki’s side in retaliation. Loki yelps and attempts to jerk away, but Fandral tackles him down onto the bed, laughter flying out of Loki’s mouth the entire way down. Were it not for the fact that Loki has warded his rooms extensively, Fandral might worry over the guards hearing them.

When they hit the mattress, Loki makes to flee, but Fandral won’t let him succeed this time. They end up wrestling against each other, tangling themselves up in the sheets until finally Fandral is straddling Loki’s hips and has his delicate wrists pinned above his head.

“You enjoyed that ruse a bit too much, I think,” Fandral says.

The high points of Loki’s cheeks are beautifully flushed red from exertion. “It’s hardly my fault you assumed I had dreamt of another,” he counters. “Do you think such a thing even possible, when you fill my heart so completely?”

Fandral is brought up short by the declaration. He shouldn’t be, he knows. It’s nothing so different than words Loki has spoken many times before. But the way such sweet nothings leave Loki’s lips so effortlessly, with such earnestness and feeling, never ceases to amaze Fandral. Loki is so generous with his love, unsparing in the way he freely lavishes it upon Fandral, so that Fandral often wonders what great feats he could’ve possibly accomplished in a past life for him to deserve such a love as this.

Fandral kisses him hard. Loki immediately arches up against him, a delicious moan leaving his mouth and slipping into Fandral’s, until it’s as if Fandral’s thoughts are humming with the sound. Loki protests when Fandral pulls away to instead press his lips to Loki’s cheekbone and jawline and neck and shoulder and chest, suddenly wanting to taste all of him at once.

“I could feast upon you from dawn to dusk and still find my appetite wanting.”

“A truth I well know,” Loki replies, breathless. “You’ve had me thrice already. Have me again, and I’m certain I won’t be able to ride for a week.”

Fandral is unable to contain his laughter at that. He gentles his touch, releasing Loki’s wrists before he settles onto his back on the bed and gathers Loki against his side.

Loki presses into him eagerly, pillowing his head onto Fandral’s shoulder as one long, elegant hand attaches to Fandral’s chest, just over where his heart resides. Loki, for whatever reasons, has always enjoyed the feel of Fandral’s heartbeat against his palm. At times, he even presses his ear to it and will remain there with his arms wrapped around Fandral, allowing himself to be lulled to sleep by the steady drum of Fandral’s heart.

Fandral pulls the prince closer still, savoring his warmth, and he prays that Loki knows that every beat of Fandral’s heart is filled with the utmost love for and devotion toward him.

He turns his head and presses a kiss to Loki’s hair.

Soon, he’ll need to leave the prince’s chambers. But for now, he continues to hold him in his arms, feeling as if his entire world is right there within his embrace.

Chapter Text

The tavern overflowed with red-faced, loose–limbed men who merrilly sang as one in a deafening cacophony.

Fandral, from his roost on the platform typically reserved for bards and performance troupes, raised his tankard into the air as he belted out the final lines of the drinking song.

"When she sings, she sings come home!
When she sings, she sings come home!"

The musicians on the stringed instruments drew out the last lingering notes, and then the tavern broke out into thunderous applause and cheering.

Fandral swept an arm across his chest and bowed to the rapt audience before jumping down from the stage with a laugh and cutting a course to the table where the others awaited him, more than one tavern patron clapping a hand onto his back or shoulder as he passed or offering him coin for another song.

“Perhaps later, my friends,” he cheerfully answered with a grin. “The night is yet young!”

At the head of his table, Thor, already on his fourth tankard of mead, chuckled with bright eyes that shone in the tavern’s low lighting. “I fear you may have missed your calling as a traveling minstrel, Fandral.”

Fandral laughed as he dropped himself onto the bench seat at Loki’s side, his manners easy and carefree, though precise all the same. Nearly every line of his side pressed into Loki’s, from ankle to knee, along the warmed leathers of their thighs to the point of their hips. Even their shoulders brushed as a result of the proximity.

Fandral needn’t have sat so close, of course, but his doing so evaded their companions’ notice nonetheless. In their view, Fandral was clearly ale-cheered, spirits heartened from the energy of his attentive crowd. Sinking so heavily upon the bench seat with no regard to another’s personal space would hardly be cause for scrutiny. Besides, the table was small in size to begin with but alas had been the only one available when they’d entered the tavern some time ago.

Loki, as always, maintained an impassive face as he plucked a swollen red grape from the fruit platter before him and brought it to his mouth.

Fandral forced his eyes away from those delicious, tempting lips.

“Perhaps when I am old and gray and must at long last put down my sword,” said Fandral in response to Thor’s comment, “I shall entertain the royal courts with ballads of Asgard’s mightiest heroes. Myself included among them, of course.”

Thor and the others laughed.

Fandral fixed his attention then on partaking of the vast array of foods before him, helping himself to a generous portion of wild game, the smell of thyme and rosemary upon the tender, moist meat nearly making him salivate. He grabbed a meat pie as well, the pastry thick and crumbling in his hold, and added more than one honey cake to his plate.

Today’s adventures had certainly stirred his appetite, and he looked forward to sating himself with food and drink until it felt the seams of his stomach might burst. The others appeared to entertain the same line of thought. Thor tore into the roasted leg of a wild boar as did Volstagg, while Hogun quietly enjoyed a stew, wisps of vapor rising from the broth like the tails of the paper lanterns Asgardians sent into the night sky during the Festival of Ascendance.

The tavern had settled into a less riotous din. The musicians now played their own lively instrumentals, keeping the mood buoyant and the ale flowing. Laughter occasionally exploded from neighboring tables, good-natured ribbing between companions filling the air. Barmaids rushed to and fro, sweat-slickened chests heaving within their corsets as they hurried to fulfill orders, dropping steaming plates of meat and overflowing pitchers of drink onto waiting tables, occasionally slapping away the wandering hands of daring patrons hoping for more than just food service.

It was then that Fandral realized that Sif’s eyes were trained on him. She sat directly across from him, Hogun at her side. She had already pushed away her meal, and the sly line of her mouth made his stomach tighten just the slightest bit.

“I believe your repertoire of ballads could very well extend past tales of adventure,” she said. “Surely you could entertain the courts with your never-ending exploits around matters of the heart.”

She produced a folded piece of parchment from somewhere on her person and opened the missive to begin reading.

“My darling,” she recited, voice pitched high enough for the others around the table to hear. “Words could never adequately express how my heart longs for you.”

Beside him, Loki’s body tensed like the crack of a whip, a subtle, imperceptible change that only Fandral would’ve noticed.

Fandral bolted to his feet in an uncharacteristic swell of embarrassment and vexation.

“Sif! Where did you get that?”

She had to have gone through his saddlebags or his satchel to have retrieved the letter. Why she would so invade his privacy was beyond him. He lunged forward to snatch the parchment from her, but she only swiveled away with a laugh.

Thor, delighted by Fandral’s reaction, was intrigued now. “What’s this? Has Fandral taken a new lover?” Thor nodded in approval, raising his tankard as if in toast. “At last. I was beginning to worry over you, my friend. It has been some time since you have bedded the barmaids at establishments such as this. I worried you perhaps nursed a malady of the heart.”

“More likely a malady of the body,” Sif quipped dryly, “given his vast…relations.”

Thor and Volstagg roared with laughter.

Fandral’s face flushed with heat at the implication.

“But it seems Fandral is once more swept up in the throes of love,” Sif continued, oblivious to his distress. “I saw you writing by the light of the fire two eves past, when the rest of us had long retired to bed. I couldn’t imagine to whom you could possibly be composing a letter. My curiosity begged to be sated.”

She looked down at the letter, grinning. “The days stretch endlessly when we are forced to be apart. I find that I ache for you in a way I have never ached for another.”

“Sif!” Fandral barked sharply, pitching forward once more to seize the letter.

Sif closed the letter and flung it in Volstagg’s direction. The large man, who sat at the other end of the table opposite Thor, caught it in the air and eagerly opened it, reading aloud the first line of text his eyes fell upon.

“On the loneliest of nights when the cold is fiercest, I think of…” Volstagg paused, arching a bushy red brow as amusement pulled at the lines of his mouth. “Well, now.” He chuckles. “...I think of the warmth of your bed, of the hours we spend taking pleasure in each other. When I close my eyes, I can almost hear the echoes of your broken moans as you beg me to take you, the way a warrior might take a kingdom he means to conquer.”

Even stoic Hogun reacted to that, coughing once on his spoonful of stew.

Fandral caught Loki’s expression only because turning toward Volstagg put the prince in his line of sight. Loki’s spine was ramrod straight, the rigid lines of his body as tight as the strings on a vielle. Fandral didn’t think he’d ever seen the prince’s face so impossibly red.

“Volstagg!” Fandral shifted his weight to march in the man’s direction, but before he could even take the first step, Thor was already striding toward Volstagg, snatching the letter from him with a broad grin.

“In all the Nine Realms, you stand without equal, my love,” Thor read, chuckling. ”Not even Valhalla itself could compare to your beauty. The smoothness of your petal-soft skin under my lips fills my dreams without fail every night, and my fingers crave with constancy the well-familiar feel of your silk-spun hair, strands so dark the ravens of the sky must surely envy you.”

Laughter.

Fandral made to relieve Thor of the letter, but the larger man fended Fandral off with his free arm, holding him back so that Thor might continue reading.

“How could I have ever lived without these treasures before now? Without the sweetness of your mouth when I taste it? Without the warmth of your breath when you whisper sweet nothings into my ear? Without the glittering affection in those dancing eyes of yours, their stunning color like—”

Like the serene, green seas of northern Alfheim, Fandral thought. Where you and I once watched the sun set and first pledged ourselves to each other.

His stomach dropped to his knees in a sickening sensation.

But before Thor could reach that particular phrasing, the letter suddenly exploded in a flash of emerald magic, mere dust raining down from Thor’s hands like shimmering cannon powder.

“Loki!” Thor chided, like a boy bemoaning the loss of a favored plaything.

Fandral’s jellied limbs nearly collapsed from under his weight, heart thudding so hard it was any wonder the others couldn’t hear. He staggered back slightly, throwing out a hand against the table to steady himself.

“Is this how the future king of Asgard would conduct himself before all the realms?” Loki said, plucking another grape from the cluster before him. The tension in his body having fully bled away, he resumed his poised demeanor, regal and proper, his silken voice low and leveled. “Such honor you bring to the House of Odin, brother.”

Sif gave him a sour look, displeased that their fun had been cut short, but Thor, mellowed enough by drink that Loki’s barb did not wound his pride, only chuckled, coming around the table to return to his seat.

“Loki speaks wisely,” he said. “Let us not dishonor Fandral’s maiden by making public their private affairs.”

“Maiden?” Sif asked with a quirked brow, apparently objecting to the designation in light of all the letter had revealed. Volstagg snorted, amused.

“Come now, Fandral,” Thor said, clapping a hand to Fandral’s shoulder once Fandral had found the presence of mind to reseat himself. He could barely hear Thor’s words over the drum of his pulse still pounding in his ear.

This time, he didn’t encroach on Loki’s space, feeling like a subject under Heimdall’s all-knowing watch. He couldn’t even bring himself to look at the second prince. Which is perhaps why he was so surprised when he felt the press of Loki’s profile against him, the other having slid closer ever so surreptitiously to close the distance between them.

“Tell us more about this mysterious maiden who has so enchanted you,” Thor encouraged with a warm smile, cheeks red from his mead. “Does she make her home in Asgard? Is she a member of the court perhaps? I wonder if I have chanced upon her at some point.”

Oh, you have chanced upon the one in question quite often, actually…

Fandral opened his mouth, throat parched. He grabbed his tankard and downed a few hard gulps of his drink, stalling.

The others didn’t appear to notice his hesitation, conversation flowing freely as Volstagg spoke next. “She must indeed be a beauty beyond compare to have spoiled you for all others.”

“Please,” Sif commented, rolling her eyes. “The words in Fandral’s letter are hardly all that different from the words he’s no doubt whispered to hundreds of other women whose skirts he sought to climb under. He claims to be in love, but truly, when is he ever not?”

A muscle in Fandral’s jaw tightened, as did his grip on the tankard before him. “No,” he said, voice low but firm.

“No?” Sif laughed.

Fandral knew better than to take the bait, but a flicker of anger sparked between his ribs like a struck match. He had endured the others’ lighthearted ribbing for ages where it concerned his being an unrepentant charmer and romantic, and in truth, it had never needled him before. On the contrary, he would often laugh along, unbothered. He loved love and the physical expression of that love—what harm was there in that?

But Sif’s words, and the way the others had read the letter for sport, a letter composed of words that had come from the very depths of Fandral’s soul…the actions made a mockery of what it was Fandral felt for the one who held his heart. And that was something he could not stand for.

He maintained his composure but straightened where he sat, and then he spoke with solemn sincerity.

“No,” he repeated. “This is different, my friends. Different in ways I cannot begin to measure. What I feel now…” Fandral heaved a long breath and shook his head. “Norns, I am a man remade. I don’t know that I’ve ever even truly lived until now. The love I’ve been entrusted with…it’s the truest thing I’ve ever known, the greatest treasure I’ve ever possessed. I beg you: do not hold the wiles of my youth against me, nor compare the one I love with every fiber of my being to those who’ve come before. Please, do not cheapen our love in that way. Not when it means more to me than life itself.”

The table was stricken silent. Even Loki had finally lifted his cool gaze and rested it upon Fandral, seemingly taken aback by the admission. Or rather, not the admission itself—Fandral was not coy with declaring his love to the other at any opportunity after all, and the letter was certainly not the first of its kind—but more so the fact that Fandral would issue the admission so freely in the company of the others.

At long last, it was Thor who broke the silence, sobering at Fandral’s heartfelt plea. “Forgive us, Fandral. We only spoke in jest. We are, of course, pleased for you and wish you nothing but the brightest of futures with your maiden.” He gestured to the others as he lifted his tankard. “Let us drink to Fandral’s happiness, yes?”

Thor offered the well-wishes because he didn’t know for whom they were intended, of course. Not entirely. But Fandral knew that was a truth to be revealed for another day. A day in the far, far future, Norns-willing.

After that, conversation moved to other topics with ease, and though Fandral forced an easy smile upon his face, his body felt as rigid as the wooden practice swords he used to train with as a child. He ate, though his stomach felt sour, and he drank, though it did little to loosen the tense muscles of his back. Only the warmth of Loki pressed against his side grounded him.

But eventually, Loki stood and took his leave for the night. It was not uncommon for him to retire long before the others, so their party thought nothing of it. As Fandral took a long swig of his mead, his eyes lifted above the tankard’s rim and followed Loki’s figure as it threaded its way through the bustling crowd of the tavern and then ascended the stairs to the rooms on the second level.

Fandral waited as long as he could bear it. In the end, however, it was as he had described in his letter: he ached for the other.

After what couldn’t have been more than half an hour’s passage, he too rose to his feet, claiming the day’s adventures and the night’s food and drink had left him feeling weary to the marrow. Thor unsurprisingly protested, insisting Fandral stay a little while longer yet, but Fandral held strong and Thor eventually let the matter drop, claiming he and Volstagg would simply have to make do with each other in seeing who could outdrink the other over the course of the night.

The tavern’s second level was a world apart from the common area downstairs, though as with any establishment of this nature, one could not fully escape the din of the revelry below. Even so, the rooms they had secured at the beginning of the night were far enough removed to afford at least some respite.

Fandral knocked at Loki’s door, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, the wood of the floorboards creaking underneath his weight. He felt flushed with heat, and he knew it wasn’t entirely due to the mead in his veins.

The door cracked open mere moments later, Loki filling the gap. He was already out of his leathers and dressed in his casual wear, a simple green tunic paired with black trousers. It was the very type of clothing he might outfit himself in when planning to spend a peaceful day reading in his chambers. Fandral found the sight disarming as he always did, the simple clothing softening Loki’s features in a way that made Fandral yearn to touch.

Loki’s bright green eyes flicked past Fandral.

“I am alone,” Fandral assured him, voice just above a whisper.

Loki’s eyes returned to him. Then, in a move quicker than the strike of a clever snake, his hand shot out and grabbed a fistful of Fandral’s shirt, yanking him into the room. In one movement, he slammed the door shut and then shoved Fandral against it before surging forward to crush their lips together.

Fandral groaned, hands immediately bracketing onto Loki’s sharp hip bones.

The taste of red wine on Loki’s tongue was intoxicating, as was the fervency with which Loki kissed him: wildly, hotly, as if ravenous, as if Loki’s lungs had been robbed of their air and Fandral was his only means of breathing again. His slender hands cupped Fandral’s neck, holding him close as Loki explored his mouth so thoroughly, as if reacquainting himself with a land he’d been away from for far too long.

The dread that had sat like a cold stone in Fandral’s stomach since Sif had first begun reading his letter unspooled at once, evaporating like dew in the sunlight. The tension in his back eased, the mantle of his shoulders relaxed. The more he melded his body with Loki’s, the greater the peace he felt, like the calm that falls upon a weary warrior when, after countless ages, he has at long last returned home.

Home.

Indeed, Fandral could not think of a more fitting word to describe what Loki was to him.

They kissed for what could’ve been an eternity, and Fandral lost himself in it, in the heat and the pleasure and the closeness and the comfort of it all.

In time, Fandral brought his lips to Loki’s shoulder and collarbone and neck, pressing sweet kisses along the marble-like skin, but he could tell by the palpable tension in the other’s body that Loki was not interested in ‘sweet’ at present.

Chuckling, Fandral brought his lips to the shell of Loki’s ear. “Shall I conquer you once more, my darling?” he asked through a grin.

Loki pulled back only slightly, eyes dark as the beginnings of a smirk pulled at his pretty mouth. Moonlight spilled into the room, and in its alabaster glow, he looked stunningly ephemeral, so much so it nearly took Fandral’s breath away.

“By all means, my love,” he whispered against Fandral’s lips, “lay siege to what is already yours for the taking.”

Fandral’s grin broadened until it spread across the entire width of his face, and he covered Loki’s lips with his own.