When the guard has left and only then does Thor reach down a hand to grasp Loki’s forearm. He pulls him up, his brother breathing in short gasps, holding his middle. Blood drips from fingers that are bruised and broken, but his face is untouched, yet still drawn, twisted.
“You must stop antagonizing them,” Thor says, quietly.
“I know,” Loki says, teeth gritted. He pulls free of Thor’s grip and limps over to the far wall of the mine.
“We will need your strength if we are to escape,” Thor continues, staring at Loki’s turned back. “I cannot carry you out.”
Loki makes a sound of derision, almost a laugh. “I’ll be fine.”
“You can hardly walk. Your injuries cannot heal because you won’t allow enough time for them to; you get new ones every morning, Loki!”
Now Loki turns back, and smiles in truth. “Ah, they deserved it.”
“Of course they do. But you do not.”
“It is hardly my fault if they lose control,” Loki hisses, dangerously. He has that wild glint in his eye.
“Oh, of course not,” Thor replies. “It has nothing to do with what you say to them.”
“Words are nothing,” Loki says, all innocence, and looks up at Thor under his lashes. His whole face is smooth, and looks unbearably young. It is nothing more than a trick, and that piques Thor’s anger even more. He grabs Loki by the shoulder and slams him roughly against the wall, heedless to the anguished gasp that leaves his body. “Stop playing games,” he growls, face close enough to touch, almost. And Loki stares at him, at his expression, frantic, worried, and oh so very angry, and laughs.
Thor lets go of a sudden. “You have an unequalled talent for making others lose control,” he says, tiredly.
“What else am I to amuse myself with?” Loki counters. “Carrying rocks?” he picks one up, carefully, and tosses it into the nearest cart. “Hah! I have it. I’m supposed to cozy up to my captors, like you do. ‘Yes, sir’, ‘of course, whatever you say’—it makes me sick!” he turns on Thor, furious, and strides closer, becoming more angry as Thor stands still and unmoved in the face of it. He reaches out and before Thor can react, scratches his nails deep into Thor’s face, pulling down to mar that still, stone expression with angry red blood, and Thor catches his wrist. “They have no clue how much you are above them. We are gods.”
“We are powerless until we get out of this mine,” Thor says, again. He has said this so many times he has wondered if it would be worth it to keep count. “You know these rocks stifle our magic. But if we plan carefully, we can make our way from this place—and then rain down as much of our wrath as we like. We could kill them all.”
“The same old story,” Loki says, and his mouth twists. “Be patient. Wait until we can escape. How long are you going to wait? Perhaps your plan is to stay until the mortals die—and walk out!”
“I have not been idle,” Thor growls. “If not for you, perhaps I could already be gone!”
Loki stares at him, shock covering his face for one moment. Then his expression closes. “Oh, of course. Because I’m so useless. Who was it that found our escape route?”
“You did, of course,” Thor says. “And it was I that made friends among the other prisoners so that we have any chance of making it. The right moment could come at any time—and how do you think you will make it across that ledge in your condition—look at yourself! You can’t even walk straight.”
Loki lets go of the wall and stands up, crossing his arms, and laughs in Thor’s face. It is meant to be derisive but instead becomes too ragged, too desperate. He stops laughing. “Thor,” he says, quietly, and stops.
Thor reaches for him and Loki stumbles forward into his embrace, tears flowing suddenly. He cries, while Thor strokes a hand through his hair and murmurs silly things—“it will be all right.”
Loki pulls back. “I know,” he says at last. “I know I must stop. I try to, but—I can’t help myself. I just, I get so angry.”
Thor looks at him soberly. “I know.”
“How do you do it?”
Thor shrugs. “I think of our escape. I think of you. I could hardly protect you if I myself were injured.”
“That doesn’t help me,” Loki replies, bitterly.
The next night Thor comes back from one of his excursions, Loki keeping watch so no one notices his absence, and startles as Thor puts a hand upon his arm in the dark.
“Shhh,” he says. “I have something.”
“More food?” Loki asks, under his breath.
Thor chuckles. “That, too.”
They eat in silence.
“So what is it you found?” Loki asks. Thor holds up a dark spool and a long and shining needle, silver. It seems cold in the darkness.
“Mending clothes?” Loki asks, stupidly. Thor looks at him, and something in his expression aches. “Come here,” he says.
Loki shivers. “What are you doing—Thor?”
“Come here,” he repeats, softly, and Loki meets his eyes, frightened. A thought has come to him, but not yet taken shape. He moves away.
“Loki… do as I say.”
“I can’t,” Loki whispers.
“You said you couldn't help yourself. That the words just come out. Is it true?”
“Yes.”
“I can help you,” Thor says. Loki turns back, and the sight of Thor’s face—sad and kind—stands shadowed behind the gleam of the needle. Thor crawls over along the wall, and takes Loki’s face in his hand. The brush of his fingers along his jawline is unbearable and slow. Loki closes his eyes, and feels a sudden blinding brightness sear itself through the side of his lip. A whimper leaves his throat against his will.
“It’s okay Loki,” Thor says, and pulls the thread through. Loki’s hands fist themselves into Thor’s shirt and he bites his tongue as the rough thread pulls its way through. For a moment, the pain lessens enough that he can blink back the tears that have come to his eyes, and then—unbearably—the needle comes through again.
Thor works slow and careful, pausing to dab Loki’s lips with a cloth that becomes more and more bloodstained. Loki himself sits wound tightly, exhaustion behind the pain, crying freely. It seems to last forever, and Loki wonders if the night will ever end. But at last Thor leans back, and meeting Loki’s eyes, he nods. “It is done,” he says, tiredly, and looks away. Loki’s face is too vulnerable, and the darkness of the blood and the thread over his lips make Thor feel sick. His hands, that had been so still as he worked, begin to shake.
He draws back against the wall, a few feet from Loki, as far as he can go in the small corner of the cave that is their own, and apart, but Loki reaches for him. The threads twist around his mouth as a sound forces its way past, unfinished. Loki gasps, chokes, and leans against his brother.
“I’m sorry,” Thor says, whispers. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He can’t stop talking, till Loki reaches up a hand and places it, gently, over his lips. He meets Thor’s eyes, and Thor lets out a long and shuddering breath. Loki comes close and presses his bloodied lips to Thor’s, and Thor tastes the blood on them and shudders again.
Loki takes his hand and grasps it tightly, pulls away. And they wait for morning.