Chapter Text
“Tis a good day for an adventure, brother.”
Loki does not need to glance up from his book to hear the smile in Thor’s voice.
It is a nice day, the subtle cool breeze of Midgardian springtime blowing softly through the open window and running invisible fingers down Loki’s bared arms. He’s in a light green shirt and dark gray trousers, black hair bound in a loose tail at the nape of his neck and an open book in front of him. Thor plops down in the opposite seat dressed in a ridiculously loud yellow hoodie that clashes horribly with his golden blond hair and beard. His left shoulder is splattered with bright red paint, with some random flecks of red reaching his flushed cheek. Loki spies a fading cut concealed underneath the paint, a few healing scrapes and bruises blooming like ink flowers on his exposed flesh. Thor's right hand is heavily bandaged at the palm. He keeps it carefully hidden beneath the sleeve as he grins at Loki, blue eyes shining with humor.
Curious.
"Anthony Starkson is as dishonorable as he is cunning," Thor laughs, gesturing to the paint on the side of his face. Loki calmly flips a page of his book, ignoring the God of Thunder as he chatters like an excited child. Thor doesn't seem bothered by the mess he's covered in, but then he has always been like that, careless of his own perfection. Loki despises him for his ignorance.
"Alas, that is not what I came here to say, Loki," Thor lowers his voice to a secretive whisper, leaning in to shoot Loki a mysterious wink as he pulls out a familiar golden apple from his pocket with an exaggerated flourish. He looks like a child proudly presenting his spoils of war to his favorite maiden.
Ah, so that explains the cuts and bruises, Loki thinks, gut tightening a little at the thought. The stupid fool probably tripped every alarm and trap on his way to pluck that single apple from Iðunn's garden. When they were children, it had always been Loki who would disable the magical wards; Loki who would fret over Thor's bruised body and wounded pride every time they were tossed out.
He knows those apples well. The sweetest in the Nine Realms, and a taste that's become a distant memory in the back of his mind.
Could these so-called Gods die without them?
He has not had one of Iðunn's apples for many moons. Not since his fall from Odin's grace.
“Do you remember our childhood adventures, Loki?” Thor barges on. So typical of him. The Golden Prince of Asgard who had everything he’s ever desired, while he, the Second Son, who stalked the shadows of shame, only had...
He’d only ever had two people that mattered. Frigga and-
“Truth be told, I was always jealous of Mother’s relationship with you, brother.” Thor says suddenly, straying off topic like the careless idiot he often was, “She could so easily touch a side of you I could never hope to reach.”
Thor places the apple gently on the table, inches from the edge of Loki’s book. His blue eyes are sincere when he says, "For you, Loki."
Loki's eyes stop wandering mindlessly over the strange runes on the page. He hadn't processed a single word since Thor had sat his giant arse down opposite him.
Maybe things turned out differently in another lifetime. In a world where they were doomed to battle each other to the death, consumed with hatred. But this time around...
Perhaps not...
Loki does not speak, and strangely Thor falls silent after a while. It is not an uncomfortable or tense silence. Just simply silence.
For the first time in as long as Loki can remember, there is no burning inferno of anger lodged in his chest waiting to explode in a lashing fury at the mere sight of the blond idiot seated within stabbing distance. He feels oddly empty.
At peace.
Yes.
How strange.
To think that he would, could, ever feel at peace in Thor's presence again.
Down below, laughter floats up from the open field, and Loki suddenly recalls a memory from long ago of two boys, one with hair as golden as the rising sun and the other with cheeks pale as the waxing moon, seated up high, barefoot and flushed from laughter, skin bruised from the rough bark of ancient trees and lips shining from the juice of stolen apples. As long as Loki could remember, they’d shared everything as children, even these apples.
He had been happy back then, ignorantly so, but happy nonetheless.
He lays his book down without a word, and rises to his feet under Thor’s hopeful gaze. His brother remains silent as Loki ghosts his long finger over the golden apple. There’s a brief flash of green and he lifts the fruit to his lip, taking a bite and feeling power surge deep within his chest as he swallows.
Loki teleports out into the open air, startling the people scattered in the field and conveniently tripping Lester over in the process. The unfortunate Bullseye quickly gets buried under at least a dozen opportunistic red and purple paintballs. Loki steals his blue paintball gun and nails Tony Stark in the crotch with a particularly well-aimed shot, made even more humiliating by the fact that he'd done it with one hand. The various members of Team Red all let out a collective groan of dismay as their captain doubles over with a sharp cry of agony. Team Blue (led by Steve Rogers) are practically howling with glee. Half hidden behind the tool shed, Peter Parker, the sole surviving member of Team Yellow (once led by Thor), glances over at the last remaining member of Team Green (Scott Lang) and considers the possibility of a non-violent surrender.
“Prepare to kneel before me, pathetic Midgardians.” the God of Lies snarls, flashing a vicious grin.
Up on the second floor, the spring breeze gently ruffles the loose pages of Loki’s abandoned book.
Thor picks up the other half of the golden apple and smiles.
-THE END-