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”Tell me a story,” Thor says, voice heavy like he’s holding smoke in his mouth.
He rolls over on the bedding, half-drunk still.
Loki is sitting on the window sill, bathed in moonlight, sharp echoes of light cutting across his body.
Thor’s breath catches. This is the first time. They are in their thirteenth summer. They are getting to know each other in other ways, ways that are not always innocent.
Ways that are sometimes ugly.
“I don’t know any stories,” Loki says.
Loki turns from the window to watch him, annoyed.
Annoyed because Thor is drunk. Annoyed because Thor drank with the Warriors Three and not him. Annoyed because he’s worried Thor will get caught. Perhaps none of these things. Perhaps all of them.
Thor stretches a hand out and beckons to him, limbs loose.
And Loki comes.
When he gets within arm’s reach, Thor grabs his wrist and tugs him closer, trying to pull Loki onto the bed with him.
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