Chapter - 13

He took a room in the motel, had a shower, tried to have a nap. He laid on his back in his t-shirt and boxers, tracing the cracks in the ceiling with his eyes. He prayed. To Loki. Baby, come back. Please, come back. We'll sort it out. We'll find a way. This can't be the end. It was never meant to end at all.

His mind just spun and churned and found no rest. This thing with Loki, was it the root of all their present evils? Would everything had been different if... if it had not happened? Perhaps Loki would never have gone to hospital then, and mum would have been able to tell him about his origins in a way that he could handle, and he would be home today, carrying on with his life.

But had it ever really been a choice, a decision they made? At the time it had felt inevitable, the final, unavoidable flare that followed years of a slow-burn simmering permanently under both their skins. And Thor could not tell when it had started. It had been a part of them since he could remember. In the stares that got longer and longer as they grew up. In the blush on Loki's cheeks when Thor hugged him and kissed him. In the nights they would sneak into the other's bed, rub their feet together for warmth, spoon before they had ever heard of spooning, and giggle under the covers until they fell asleep. In the times Loki was scared or sad or happy or excited and always ran to Thor first.

And when they grew older, it was there walking to school together, not talking, earbuds on, Loki mouthing the words to whatever pretentious indie rock group with artsy fartsy lyrics he was favouring that month, and Thor stealing glimpses of his mouth and thinking how soft it looked. It was there whenever he spotted Loki in the schoolyard by himself, picking at his food with delicate, pale hands, and reading. And everytime Loki noticed him staring, and gave him the flip, and Thor smiled, and Loki rolled his eyes but smiled too. It was there watching a movie together, the light of the screen dancing on Loki's face, and Thor realising with absolute certainty that he would never tire of looking at him.

And when the mood swings of puberty had began, and they couldn't stop bickering and jabbing at each other, it was still there, worse than ever, under every "fuck you" and every "I hate you" and every "leave me alone." It was there when they couldn't say three words to each other without starting a fight, during every silent treatment, and in every short truce, and it was there all the times that Thor was aching to hug his brother and shouted and barked at him instead, out of sheer frustration and confusion. And it was there all the times Thor listened to Loki jerking off in the shower and his body reacted to it, and it was those sounds that Thor would wank to, and come with his brother's name on his lips.

Thor understood even then that this was weird, and knew by instinct not to talk about it with anyone. But it didn't feel weird, and it didn't feel wrong. It just was. Thor and Loki, Loki and Thor. Some things you just don't question. Some things you just know, here, in your gut.

_________________

(The past)

Thor is not yet sixteen, Loki has just turned fourteen. It's been a decent Saturday, civilised. Mum and dad are doing a play, and they don't bother coming back home for lunch. Loki has spent all day shut up in his room, so there has been no interaction and so, no fighting. Thor brought him a sandwich at lunchtime and Loki even said thanks.

In the evening they order take-away.

"I'm not going to get it."

"I'm not going either."

In the end, they both go. Changing from scruffs into street clothes, Thor finds himself picking the new jeans that are kind of snug, and the old, fitted red t-shirt that shows off his muscles. He ruffles his hair, and takes a look in the hall mirror. He looks pretty damned good. What the fuck are you doing man, it's just Loki.

Loki turns up in one of his ballet sweatshirts, which shows off his neck and collarbones (and a slice of his belly when he raises his arms, and if that isn't the beginnings of a happy trail under his navel...), and that pair of black, skin-tight jeans that make his dancer's arse and legs look fucking incredible. Thor just can't help the once-over.

"Can you even breathe in those?" he teases.

"Why do you think the world needs to see what brand your pants are?" counters Loki.

Thor flusters, laughs it off.

"Are you checking me out?" He tells himself he is just kidding.

Loki stares straight into his eyes.

"Are you?"