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Loki wakes with the dawn, his consciousness slowly and steadily rising like the sun. He opens his eyes to the empty opulence of his bedroom and lets out a humorless laugh that echoes through the silence. It could be worse. At least he’s not waking up in Odin and Frigga’s chambers anymore. He’d moved rooms months ago, on the pretense of being so heartbroken over Frigga’s death that he could no longer live there amidst such painful memories. The fact that this was partially true only helped make it more convincing. The pitying glances from the court still grate on him, but he lets it continue on; their sympathy is useful, an opportunity for emotional manipulation he can’t afford turn down.
During the day, he has to maintain the illusion that this is a place where Odin would sleep. To any who enter, the room is all red, silver, and gold, all stately, dark wood furniture and bearskin rugs. Any trace of himself has been purged; he cannot exist here, and so he doesn’t.
Loki has always trafficked in illusions, but they’ve become his life now in ways he never imagined. He remembers his mother’s words when he was imprisoned beneath the palace, that if he continued on as he was he would risk forgetting what is real. He ignored her words then, and he does his best to ignore them now. Perhaps things would have been different if he’d heeded her, but there’s no way to know and no sense in fixating on things he cannot change.
Loki burrows deeper into the covers, grateful that there’s still time before breakfast and holding court. But even in these stolen moments when he has the opportunity to let his guard down, he merely seeks out more illusions. His mind wanders, cycling through the possibilities.
He could imagine a scenario with Thor locked away in Loki’s old cell, while Loki stands before him and gloats. He’s quite fond of that one. Or he could be Thor at the feast they’d held when he proved himself worthy of Mjolnir. And there’s always his old favorite of being Thor at his coronation. Even now he can almost feel the weight of Mjolnir, the warmth of the cape with soft fur against the nape of his neck, and the even greater warmth he felt at the sound of cheers and the sight of bright smiles. Loki once tried to imagine himself at his own fantasy coronation, but he stopped because it rang so false. Some things are simply too implausible, even with his vast imagination.
He is rarely himself in his fantasies. It’s an uncomfortable truth he prefers not to dwell on.
Loki’s mind continues on at breakneck speed, cycling through more fantasies and watching the room shimmer around him as it changes. The sun rises higher in the sky and Loki sighs. He already knows what he’s going to choose, he knew even before he started. There’s no sense in dragging this out. Duty will be calling soon enough and he cannot spare time lying to himself.
Loki climbs to his feet and the room shifts around him, becoming an exact replica of his chambers in his younger days.
The moon and stars shine bright in the sky through massive, gold-rimmed windows, enchanted to allow him to see out without others seeing in. His four-poster bed is in its place, as are the dark green textiles and tapestries upon the walls that Frigga made for him. His books are all there, and his magical ingredients are neatly ordered on the shelf above his desk. A fire roars in the fireplace and a bottle of mead and two goblets rest upon his bedside table. But as lovely as these details are, they pale in comparison to the most important piece of this fantasy, the man who is now standing before him.
“Thor.”
Shame rushes over Loki and his own cold voice echoes in his head, telling him how pathetic this is. Because his deepest, darkest fantasy is not some grand spectacle. It’s just this: a quiet evening alone with Thor, during better times.
His shame washes away and is momentarily forgotten when Thor looks at him and smiles.
“A drink, brother?” Thor asks. Loki nods and sinks down onto the plush couch, waiting for Thor to pour their drinks and join him in front of the fire. Loki watches Thor the entire time, the way the light catches his eyes and his hair falls just so, the casual confidence in his movements even as he performs this mundane task. He is so beautiful it almost hurts to look at him.
This illusion is more vivd each time Loki tries it and beneath his shame over conjuring it at all, he feels pride in how his skills have developed.
Thor’s body radiates warmth when he finally sits down beside Loki and hands him a goblet. They each take a sip of their drinks and then Thor reaches for Loki’s free hand and laces their fingers together.
“Really, Thor? This is terribly sappy, even for you,” Loki says, eyebrow lifted in mock disdain.
Thor only grins. “Come now, Loki, there is no shame in admitting that you like it.”
Loki smirks. “Maybe just a little bit, but don’t let it go to your head.” When they lean in and kiss, Loki can taste the mead on Thor’s tongue, can feel the warmth of his breath with each exhale.
This illusion stems from a time Loki thinks of as Before. There was never a night exactly like this, but there are a wealth of memories he’s been able to cobble together over time. What started out as a patchwork has been torn apart and remade over and over again until its edges are nearly seamless.
He remembers what Thor’s human friend said to him when Loki was trapped inside his first glass prison. She’d told him that love is for children and though the words had rung true then, now he is not so sure.
Love is foolish and blind, it doesn’t care who you are or what you’ve done. Love is inconvenient and inescapable. Loki knows this very well, as he’s tried to run from it more times than he can count.
No, love can happen to anyone. It’s happy endings that are the true childish fantasy.
His current illusion rings true because it has some basis in reality, an extrapolation of remembered happiness. Loki doesn’t fantasize about the future of his relationship with Thor. He cannot picture any way it could end well, and so he doesn’t try. When he looks to the future, it’s to remind himself that this holding pattern of pretending to be Odin will not last. It’s to fine tune the plans that he has already set in motion for Asgard, and for himself. Anything more would be foolish.
They sit close and stare at the fire, sipping their wine, talking and laughing about nothing. For Loki, the substance of their conversation doesn’t matter. What matters is the two of them together, the sound of their voices mingled like music.
“Shall we retire?” Thor asks.
“Yes, But I’m afraid I’m far too lightheaded to walk all the way over to bed.”
“After one goblet of mead, Loki?”
“Yes,” Loki says, smirking as he falls back on the couch, his body now dead weight. “It seems you shall have to carry me, Thor.” It’s not that it’s a hardship for Thor to carry Loki, as he easily possesses the strength. Loki just always delights in teasing Thor and see what he can persuade him to do.
“Forgive me if I find you less than convincing, brother. Perhaps I should test your reflexes and see if you’re truly as tired as you claim,” Thor says, a mischievous grin on his face as he reaches out and tickles Loki mercilessly. Loki swats at Thor, all the while squirming and laughing so hard that tears eventually spring to his eyes.
“Stop it, you great fool! You’ve proven your point,” Loki says as he struggles to catch his breath.
Thor laughs and stops his attack, instead resting on top of Loki so they are pressed chest to chest. “If only the world could see you now. Proud Prince Loki, reduced to such a fit of laughter.”
“I laugh all the time,” Loki says indignantly.
“You smirk. You snicker in the shadows as you watch your pranks play out. That is not true laughter, not like this.”
Thor leans closer and kisses him, soft and slow. “No, this is only for me. Perhaps I am being possessive, but I almost prefer it that way. I enjoy seeing a side of you that you show to no one else.”
Loki swallows hard and forces himself to meet Thor’s eyes. “I only ever truly feel like myself when I’m with you,” Loki says, and he hates how hoarse his voice sounds. He would never say this to the real Thor, even upon pain of torture.
That doesn’t mean it isn’t true.
In quiet moments, Loki sometimes wonders what it says about him that he can only be honest in the midst of lies, that every real emotion is obscured and mediated by illusion.
Thor reaches out and strokes Loki’s cheek. “I feel very much the same. There is no world for me without you in it, surely you must know this by now, Loki.”
When Loki is here, the answer is yes. It’s when he’s faced with reality that those old doubts rise up and fester, but the press of Thor’s lips against his again chases them away for now.
Laughing, they stand up and steal kisses as they make their way toward Loki’s bed, falling upon it together in a tangle of limbs. Loki’s heart races and his breath comes out in harsh bursts as they grind up against each other. He feels so wonderfully alive.
So often, Loki is like smoke as he moves through the world. He is ephemeral and adaptable, impossible to pin down. But with Thor, Loki is solid, he is substance in a way he can’t truly explain. There’s something about the steadiness, the sheer certainty of Thor that calls to him. If he lets it, it has the power to anchor him when his mind races and he feels untethered. For better or worse, it is a power Loki has rarely allowed.
Thor’s eyes are adoring and his hands and lips are everywhere, stripping Loki down and baring him for Thor’s attentions.
Loki touches Thor anywhere he can reach, tracing fingers through silken hair and across firm muscles. In that moment, the line between fantasy and reality ceases to matter and Loki is falling, he is lost and doesn’t care if he’s ever found.
“Thor, I—” Loki starts, but he’s interrupted by a knock on the door. The illusion washes away as if it was never there.
“Your Majesty, would you like breakfast?” Loki hears his manservant say through the door. He doesn’t want breakfast. He knows what he wants and he knows that he cannot have it.
“Yes, thank you,” Loki calls out as he climbs out of bed. He takes a few deep breaths until he no longer sees Thor’s smiling face in his mind’s eye, casting off one illusion for another. He’s left with nothing but the cold comfort of knowing this fantasy will be waiting for him when he returns.