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Trapped In Yearning

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Loki’s fingers drape across Fandral’s arm and Thor can feel his throat swell shut.

It isn’t as if Fandral knows. So it isn’t sensical for Thor to feel this way, for him to feel anger and rage and jealousy all in equal measure. He’s barely swallowing down all his emotions. He wants to walk across the room and snatch Loki’s hand away from Fandral — and even as he thinks it, Fandral is looking down at Loki, smiling at him with too much teeth. Loki slyly delivers the end to whatever story he had been telling, and the ring of people around them laughs.

It is odd (and not at all) to see Loki effortlessly entertaining a group of people. Of course he’s good at it. But he’s flitted around the edges of the court for so long; it’s taken him time to gain notoriety, but there’s no denying that he’s the best at what he does. Each word is delivered precisely, intended to make them all forget their worries momentarily.

And it doesn’t help that his beauty is absolutely unparalleled. There’s a silver ring wrapped around one of his fingers, a piece of jewelry that Thor doesn’t recognize. It seems to be the only piece Loki’s wearing tonight, but he’s swathed in green silk that seems to accent the paleness of his skin. His dark hair gleams in the candlelight of the hall they’re standing in and it curls just so behind his ear. Thor imagines his lips finding that spot, the one in the dip behind the flesh of his earlobe that just makes him melt (and Thor knows that has to be real and that secret place can be only for him.)

“Thor?”

He turns back toward Sif, and he hasn’t the slightest clue what she had been saying to him. He tries in vain to speak.

She rolls her eyes.

“Go talk to Fandral,” she says, nodding toward their friend. She turns and walks away from him before he can even try to apologize — or wonder if she said what she actually meant.

He knows he should try and follow after her. He could apologize. Instead, his gaze is almost implicitly drawn back toward where Loki is standing. His little crowd has begun to dissipate, heading in search of more drink. It’s just Fandral and Loki for the moment.

Fandral’s hand dips lower, his fingers sliding over the contour of Loki’s waist. The fabric moves against his skin, the trace amounts of gold sewn into the fabric catching the light. Loki leans his head in toward Fandral as Fandral whispers something in his ear. Loki hold his head so that his throat looks particularly vulnerable, as if Fandral could sink his teeth into the column of flesh at any instant.

The moment is fleeting, but to Thor it lasts forever. Fandral pulls away, and Loki remains where he’s standing, solitary. He’s holding a glass of something in the hand that wasn’t touching Fandral and he drinks it slowly, wrist gracefully arched.

And now Thor can wait no longer. He is spurred to action. He crosses the room.

Loki has told him he knows better. When he whispers to him in the quiet red light of dawn, Loki says that he must know that this can’t move past what it is, and they should both be content with that. He tells Thor that he really only wants things to be as they are now. To step forward would be to ruin everything.

But Thor has never believed that, and he has never been one to think on anything. He is a man of action. So it’s easy enough for him to get his hand around Loki’s upper arm and tug him into the shadows of the hallway.

He has Loki pressed up against the wall before he can react. One of his hands holds Loki’s head in place, twining in his dark hair as he presses his mouth against Loki’s. He can taste the traces of whatever Loki had been drinking and it’s so sweet and heady that all Thor can do is chase after it. His tongue runs messily over Loki’s lower lip. His other hand is fisted in the silk above Loki’s hip. The fabric seems to slide through his fingers too easily, making him want to grasp it all the more tightly.

Loki smells faintly of a thousand different things, all mixed together. He can make out vanilla and spice.

He goes to press forward, to slide his hips languidly against Loki’s, but before he can do anything further, a hand comes up to rest against his collar bone. Those long fingers curl up against his throat. The touch isn’t threatening, merely firm. Loki looks up at him, his eyes so dark that Thor can just barely make out the green of them.

“I’m not yours tonight, Prince,” Loki says neatly, and his mouth is still too close. He gathers himself and slips out from between the wall and Thor, so that Thor is left staring at the wall in front of him, wondering how he’s supposed to gather himself.