In his delightfully un-humble opinion, everything on the forsaken realm of Sakaar was a bit much, bordering on being exhaustingly extra. The festivals celebrating the brutality in the gladiator ring never sat well with the trickster and not because he couldn’t stomach the sight of two individuals being pitted against each other in a fight to the death (in spite of the odds being unfairly balanced in the favor of one large, green, and pissed off contender).
Rather Loki found it unsettling because he was not unfamiliar with facing opponents alone with what seemed like the world as an audience.
And perhaps it had only ever been Odin, or their mother, or Thor…but that felt like the world to him. For a time, that is.
Now, standing opposite Thor as he pulled the chains apart as if they were made of paper mâché, Loki didn’t view him as an observer but rather a participant. Whether they liked it or not, they were in this together…for better or for worse.
As the fractals of metal pitter-pattered to the floor, Loki broadened his stance and stood a little taller, his own onyx wings expanding defensively; an attempt to make himself appear larger.
“I always was,” Was it possible to be sincere and scathing at once? Rainbows rippled in the oily black of his feathers, a stark contrast to shine of gold in Thor’s own plumage. The reassurance of truth was an easy target at which to aim when he’d known, all along, their relationship was founded on lies. “Yet here we are regardless.”
It used to be easy, believing Loki’s words. The title his brother has gained isn’t what created the seed of mistrust that bloomed impossibly fast; he’s always been silvertongued, but rarely was it used against him. Even as boys, when he would delight in the way Loki sewed words together to get them out of all manner of trouble, he never once thought one day he would question the truth behind their exchanges.
Loki rises to his feet among the broken chains, wings rippling in the bright light of the room. Sakaar is not a shy world, shining light on every nook and cranny, and it treats Loki’s wings with singular beauty, much as Asgard does: though his feathers were darker than any he’d ever seen, when they caught the light, every color could be seen glinting in the depths. He’d envied their beauty as a boy, but that’s changed to admiration.
Thor’s own golden feathers, mangled and flightless but still bright, flatten at his brother’s words, his arms following suit and crossing over his chest. “Once, maybe,” he says, and his voice is rougher than he expects. “Now, I never seem to know what you’re thinking.” It’s a concession, not an accusation.
“Come back to Asgard with me, once this is over.”
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