Loki races through the halls of the opulent palace, turning corners and winding into labyrinthine passageways, hoping to give his brother the slip, maybe Thor would run into an alcove or a dead end while on his trail, for the younger Odinson had pulled quite the trick on the elder, and although Thor was not usually quick to temper, he was slow to forgive, especially when it came to one too many successful pranks coming to fruit by yours truly.
His pale, bloodless limbs are a blur as he frenzies through the passageways, bumping into his mother who gives him a knowing smile, Loki barely has time to return the grin he found so comforting, so needed in his childhood, before his dreams were plagued by usurping of thrones and waking up in places he did not belong, for he is too busy trying to find a corner of solitude, a place of respite from his very boisterous, very brawny and very irritated brother.
Thor’s threat had not been particularly malevolent, Thor was very rarely odious of any sort with his brother, Loki was the proud beholder of matters regarding the bitter and the bold, however earlier that morning, as the younger prince had bitten into the rich dark meat of pigeon, his impertinent, impudent elder brother’s meaty fingers had accidentally brushed against his side, earning an undignified gasp from Loki, to which Thor’s eyes had flared to a size much too great for Loki’s comfort. He’d wisely chosen not to pursue the matter in the presence of the Allfather, however Loki’s pride had gotten in the way of his regrettable admission that maybe he still retained some… weaknesses from his childhood, and he had had to turn Thor’s armour bright green all over that afternoon, while he had been regaling some maidens in the courtyards, just because.
Oh, how they had laughed and simpered at Thor’s aghast expression! Loki preened with pleasure as he recalled one of the fair milkmaids shooting a dazzling smile at him, vivacious eyes and gentle curves, surely he would have to seek her out later that evening, another day perhaps, sooner if he could tire Thor out from all this maddening running and shrieking…
Loki could not dispense his seiðr then, unfortunately, he was conserving the magic that flowed through his veins, hot and thrumming, to attempt a new spell with his mother later that week, he’d used a very minimal amount for his… show earlier, besides, he’d very much enjoyed their lessons as a child and Frigga was one of the few people he’d allowed to correct him, school him, even at this age, turn his sometimes capricious ways into something more, but only sometimes, and only when his mother was watching.
In his haste and daydreaming, incongruous as they were in existence, Loki runs into a bust, reaching the floor with an unceremonious thud. Had he been forgoing too many training sessions on the sparring grounds?
Before he can compose himself and resume his escape, one he should arguably better now that the brute Thor has been coming up to stead, Loki finds himself spinning outwards and held in place by large hands that could never hurt, staring into gleaming eyes that held not a tinge of abhorrence in them.
Steadying his breathing, he spits out, with moderate venom, “Yes, Thor? I see that your head has finally caught up to your limbs, I wonder, how did you manage to keep up with all those slips I tried to give you? Fear not-”
The hubris from his tone is drained when his brother throws him over his shoulder with a grin, his earlier blistering annoyance gone, replaced with an emotion Loki rarely saw unbidden in his brother’s profile - mischief, and his heart sinks, masking his apprehension, he shouts out with an indignant yelp -
“Put me down, you hulking buffoon! Make no mistake brother, if I had my magic I’d-”
His words are cut off by a shriek when Thor prods knowing fingers into the divots of his ribs, and Loki screams louder, partly out of fear, an excitement he resents, and a tenderness that did not take residence in his heart often.
Knowing he has no way out, Loki shrieks expletives and threats he’s sure he will act upon, oh yes, as Thor makes his way to his chambers, footsteps thundering with purpose, lips playing at a smile, ready to exploit what he’d discovered in the morning and confirmed with glee just recently.
As Thor steps over the threshold, Loki attempts to give his brother the slip one last time, but centuries of growing up with the younger Odinson had attuned Thor to his brother, being on the receiving end of his tricks so often had sharpened his intuition and challenged his speed, and as Loki tries to fling himself off of his lout of a sibling, Thor easily grabs his ankle and runs an experimental finger down the pale arches, reveling in Loki’s girlish squeal.
“My, my, brother, who knew you had it in you to scream as such, as though a maiden? What will everyone do when they find out? The great sorcerer Loki, bested and reduced to screams by a tickling finger!” Thor remarks with boisterous alacrity, and Loki turns to snipe, to snarl, before he finds himself thrown onto the sheets, pinned in place, and suddenly he very much wishes he’d attended those godforsaken sparring sessions instead of beguiling his time with a book.
He barely has time to concoct plots of revenge before Thor’s fingers, surprising in their dexterity and unrelenting in their pursuit, poke and prod at him everywhere, eliciting sounds that Loki himself did not know he was capable of producing and would have been perfectly fine not knowing.
Loki releases an ungainly shriek, thankful that no one can hear him but the blustering idiot responsible for his current predicament, fighting the giggles bubbling in his throat as Thor seeks out more spots, brushing a finger over his hip bones with maddening precision, wheedling a bark of laughter from the younger.
He all but throws his dark head back and screams, “THOR! This - ha - is puerile!” and despite the exertion with which he laughed, the way he drew dregs of his brother’s scent into his lungs till they burned, with the beginnings of tears pricking his eyes and gathering at his lash line, true to his nature, he does not beg, does not yield.
He still refuses to relent as a slew of giggles fall endlessly from his lips, bright, sonorous and musical, the joyous sound reaching Frigga’s ears, the corners of her eyes crinkling with a smile much akin to her youngest’s, and Loki’s rare grins linger on his pale visage for the better part of the evening, terse lips curled upwards helplessly, a rare quality unbidden, much unlike his brother’s.
As the evening swells, the palace darkening with night and the servants turning to bed, when his laughter is hoarse and the scythe of the moon begins cutting through the clouds, Thor finally, finally releases him, both of them looking centuries younger, limbs slick with sweat and grinning uncontrollably, until Loki schools his features, for although he has been bested by his oafish brother in his rare miscalculation, an unforgivable lapse of judgment that was to never occur again, he is still the God of Mischief, but he is Thor’s brother before everything else, and so he spits without much venom,
“You ox, do not think I will forgive what you did today, you heathen. I would seek my respite now but you will regret that buffoonery soon.”
Thor only laughs in his open, credent way, and Loki, mildly incendious yet still reeling from the shocks of uncontrollable laughter, shoots another barb, but never enough to sting.
“You are worse than Fenrir and only boast his insistence, which I could have done without today, though you don’t smell half as bad as the wolf. Now desist.”
His parting shot is met with Thor’s usual benignness, to his utter lack of surprise, and the lout mentions something about imparting newer electives into their upcoming sparring sessions instead, and flings a muscled arm around his brother, lying him flush on the disarray of cushions, and Loki makes to tell himself that he does not recoil from the touch due to his present state of exhaustion, although he has regained full control of his seiðr long since Thor’s fingers ceased, and is conspicuously aware of the ease at which he could escape the chambers.
And as much as he wishes to turn his brother’s infernal hammer into a rock, or make it sing like a bird every time it is swung, Loki supposes that maybe a revised fencing session, brutish as it sounded and uninspiring as it would be, could prove to be useful after all.