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The afternoon light filters in through the drapes, bringing with it a pervasive, humid sort of heat. Loki tosses in his bed, skin damp with perspiration, hair clinging to the back of his neck and his forehead. He's just woken from a fitful sleep, the last dregs of his sleepy mind conjuring up the notion that there'd been someone in bed with him, if not by his bedside while he'd been trying to get his rest. A sudden crash of thunder stems his thoughts, and he drags himself out of bed, lured to the window by a noise that can only mean one thing, as the weather is not as fickle as it is on Midgard. Pulling the drapes aside, he sees dark clouds gathering just above the courtyard. Directly below the rapidly swirling vortex is the god of thunder and lighting, arm raised to the cosmos above and commanding nature itself with a weapon forged in the heart of a dying star, and laughter. Jubilant laughter. Honest laughter which bounces around the courtyard and the confines of Loki's heart. Loki laughs, too, to watch his brother bring down the rain, and along with it, a cool, soothing breeze. Amidst peals of thunder and flashes so brilliant that they cause Loki to squint and shield his eyes against them, Thor calls out to him. Go back to sleep, brother, he's saying. Go back to sleep. And Loki lets the drapes obscure the courtyard once more, since the sounds of thunder and of wind and rain will be the perfect lullaby, as they have always been.