Endzeit
thirdsonofasgard:
Surprised as he was with the thrill of Loki’s arms encircling his neck, a collar made of flesh and blood and bone that he would proudly wear until New Ragnarok, nothing could have possibly prepared Balder for the deep kiss his brother bestowed on him. Lips chafed by Norn wind and scarred by his own hand seared a path straight to his gut where the New Love that had boiled patiently for weeks now began to overflow. Tongues tentatively touched tips together as Balder opened his mouth for exploration, following his brother’s lead as those wiry arms tightened their hold ‘round his neck, tightening like a noose and Balder leaned in, crushing his brother to him, caring not for the time nor the place but only that it was Loki and there was a kiss and it was perfect. For the first time since he could remember, Loki felt warm in his grasp and against his mouth, wet and sweet-tasting, more peppermint hidden amongst the grooves of his teeth than in his hair or on his skin and Balder greedily welcomed the taste of him to have to hold in his own mouth forever, to roll his tongue against the roof of his mouth and know that Loki had been there like some welcome invader.
Balder lifted Loki off the ground and leaned back, tearing his mouth away with a short wail. Why did it have to hurt? Why did everything about his brother cause him pain? His stomach flowed and ebbed like the tide until he thought he would be sick from the constant motion, and the New Love could not be contained even by his godly body; it tore free from where it had once safely anchored itself against his ribs and tore a hole through his heart as it climbed and fought its way up his throat. Everything was aching and burning inside, like a disease, like flame and ruin, like plague and pestilence and death and birth, worse than any shafted spear could hope to damage, worse than any blade could ever cut. The pain overtook him and forced out the last of his tears for there was no room in his body for anything other than the consummate love, greedy and lusty as it was, and he kissed Loki again in the hopes that some of it would see fit to attach itself to his brother so that he would feel the burden of it alone.
He withdrew with the thinnest thread of saliva wedding their mouths and he whispered aloud, in a tone that was both broken and joyful, “I wanted to tell you—before—but Loki, I know what the New Love is and I know what it makes me feel and I need to tell you now, that I love you, with all that I am and all I ever will be…I love you…”
Once, that phrase could have meant something else. It could have meant that in times of need, Balder would seek out Loki as his brother and friend, bestow that love with an embrace and a clap of hand against wrist in camaraderie, and many times before, it had been just that. It had been this certain and final thing that meant that they could always have one another as the closest of confidants, to share their secrets under cover of darkness and starlight — but now, those three words were enormous and monstrous and towering and fearsome and beautiful. Like some horrid and macabre painting of pure happiness rendered in greens and blacks, set aflame under the light of the autumn sunlight, to give passage to a winter without snow or rain — but to skip right to spring.
The only thing that Loki had ever wanted, despite those nights when he had laid awake against the icy surface of his lonely bed, in Balder’s death, and his exile, when he had told himself that fear was all that he wanted. Yes, it was love. Acceptance. Unconditional and eternal love that demanded nothing from him but what he had to give — what sweet and precious little that was. Love that allowed him to take and take and never force a smile or a kind gesture, and one that begged for him to smile for his own happiness. Balder asked for nothing. He wanted no great prince, no honorable man of noble heart — but, rather, he wanted the Trickster. Something small and dark and terrible to hold and to love because he did just that. Loved him.
Falling in and out of the state of a passionate kiss, tongues touching shyly at first, and encouraging one another as only Loki and Balder could do, the Liesmith ebbed and flowed with the motions of their kiss and allowed himself freedom in this — no thought or rhyme or reason, simply adoration. Yet, his brother pulled away, finally, and with those words that brought such an explosion of thought and emotion and air — gods, he could breathe again — Loki swallowed hard and loosed a semblance of a sob.
“A-And…” he choked with every sin he had committed and every act of beauty that he promised to yet commit, “And if I am to continue on in these realms of life, then let it be with you at my side. As my brother, and as my beloved. If there has been anything that Loki has ever loved… anything that he has ever adored and cherished and coveted… it is you, Balder. I love you, and… and I beg of you… please… forgive me.”
