I know, I know, I'm supposed to be updating War, but this little plot bunny danced in my head for like, four days straight, and that's really something for someone who thinks of an idea and forgets it the next five minutes. Plus these few days have been packed with activities! Swimming, bowling, reading, theme parks, you name it. That's why the first thing I wrote when I got home was not the new chapter of War but instead this.

Hope you like it.

PS: Min Daee, if you happen to see this, I actually imbued some of your writing style into it. Hope you don't mind. Your writing is really inspiring to me.

Hands

He remembers chubby hands reaching out for warmth, a finger or a bottle, just anything to remind them that safety, warmth, love, were just in their grasp.

He was the one that always offered that to his little brother.

He was curious at first about this tiny, squalling little bundle that demanded so much of his mother's attention. He was even jealous at first, but when those (soft soft soft) hands brushed against his, and immediately wrapped around his finger, he couldn't help but fall in love with his little brother that demanded so little and needed so much.

He'd offered rattles, toy swords, even his own precious toy hammer to his little brother. But those hands would just push them away insistently, and flailed around until he finally relented and put his finger in those tiny hands.

Sometimes he wondered if his little brother craved contact so desperately because he feared abandonment.

He made a silent promise one night to never leave his little brother, as those hands (soft determined delicate) closed around a strand of his hair.

He remembers long fingers that haven't quite lost their baby fat yet, but were already starting to look bony and spindly, always holding a book or moving fluidly through the air, never once pausing, creating surprises just for him.

He laughs, delighted, and claps as his little brother breaks into a huge grin, hands dancing about enthusiastically, crafting yet another spell. Fireworks burst to life, and he remembers marveling at how these hands could make something so wonderful.

He thinks of those hands, (talented marvelous delicate) and he wonders whether his little brother knows how good he is at these things.

His little brother's sleeping habits never change.

Those hands would clutch at the sheets, scrambling for him, and he would watch as his little brother settles down when his hand is firmly clutched within those (white beautiful innocent) hands.

He made another promise to his little brother then.

As long as it is within my power, I will make sure that you will never feel the pain of abandonment.

He remembers cool and smooth palms (the hands of a scholar, oh, how he detested them) which would always be on his forehead whenever he had a fever. He rarely gets sick, but when he does, he would always wake up from a groggy sleep to find his little brother beside him, either awake or asleep, but his hands would always be there, on his forehead, cheek or hand, trying everything to cool him down.

He remembers hands weaving spells that makes it snow in their private chambers, the same hands that is held high in wonder and astonishment, catching snowflakes, silvery laughter ringing. He remembers the same hands yanking him back from many a dangerous conquest, or being placed over his mouth when he almost gets them all into trouble.

You have very clever hands, brother. He had said one day. You never miss your mark in dagger throwing.

A laugh. You are too kind, brother.

A snort. A wistful tone. I still wish that you were better in close combat fighting though.

Those hands had shook so hard then, but he never noticed. Not until now.

He remembers hands (ever so delicate and nimble) braiding his hair for him before he went on a hunt. The same hands soothing his wounds when he returned.

He never truly appreciated his little brother then, as his pride grew and his love got buried.

Forgive me, brother…

He remembers those hands fighting him, gripping a staff tightly, the jewel at the top of it glowing eerily. It pains him to pin those hands beneath Mjolnir, those (fragile delicate precious) hands which tried to murder him.

This is his little brother.

This is his little brother!

This is his little brother…

Is he?

He can hardly recognize him anymore. These hands don't belong to him, these hands that committed such terrible crimes.

There's so much those hands had done, too many bad things.

These hands, once symbolized home and warmth, the fear of being abandoned and little boys that just wanted nothing more than love.

And with a sinking heart, he realizes that he had already broken those promises.

(Liesmyth Silvertongue God of Mischief)

Reputations earned by his little brother's own hands.

All because he broke his promises.

He had abandoned his little brother.

Monster abomination nightmares.

His little brother's hands are covered in blood. Shockingly red blood.

His little brother's blood.

Another streak of red traces the corner of his mouth. Blood bubbles up and the hands (pale white weak) claw at his chest desperately. He reaches down and takes his hand. He does nothing as his little brother chokes on his own blood. The hands grab his tightly, cutting off any blood circulation. He feels numb inside. Those hands (magic weaving delicate scholar) have sharp nails that cut into his skin, but he does not flinch. His little brother twitches on the ground.

Second prince unfavored son odd one out.

The hands (spidery bony thin) grow limp. His little brother cannot move. Only his eyes are alive, emerald green, burning with intensity, searching, pleading. The hands twitch for one last time.

He feels powerless. He wishes he can do something, but he is not the healer. His little brother is.

Sorcerer seidr meddler in womanly arts.

He would do anything to make those hands come alive again, even if those hands would be wrapped around his throat the second his little brother could muster enough strength and hate.

Even now, his hand dwarfs those of his brother.

Delicate protected protector.

His hands look big and clumsy right next to his little brother's. He wishes that his fingers was as nimble as his little brother's, so that he can pull that fatal arrow out of the wound without causing further damage, and work the poison out of his little brother's veins.

"Loki." He whispers. He cannot feel. If the Norns are going to take the last person he has away from him, he might as well just lose the ability to love. Jane, dear, kind, loving Jane, will not last forever. Loki has stated that a thousand times.

Loki looks into his eyes. The corner of his mouth twitches, as if he is doing his best to pull it into a dying smile.

"You didn't abandon me." He says, smiling. Blood bubbles from his mouth and he closes his eyes. His voice is barely a whisper. His hands don't move. "You big oaf. I can't ever seem to stop…to stop loving you."

Loki's mouth splits into a grin, bloody and wide, and his hands move again, clutching his brother with a new ferocity as a new wave of pain attacks.

(Pure stained beautiful)

He hugs his little brother close, wrapping his little brother's small hands in his own. They shake so hard that he fears that Loki might be wasting his energy.

"Your hands are marvelous, little brother. I can never do half the things you can with your hands." Thor admits, placing a kiss on Loki's forehead. Loki is a strong fighter, but he cannot last long. There is no antidote to this.

Loki laughs. Not a spiteful or mocking one, a genuine laugh filled with happiness, tinged with a hint of sorrow and regret. "I thought I would never live to see this day. Not that I'm close to living now."

"I love you." There is so much that needs to be said, and so little time. Thor wants Loki to understand that he would be loved, no matter what. He will not be abandoned again.

But he fears that this time it would be Loki doing the abandoning.

"And I you." Loki chokes out, breathless. His body seems to relax, and his hands fall limp onto the soil. It seems that Loki had just been hanging on, waiting for Thor to tell him what he needs to hear before passing on.

Thor stares at Loki's body. He picks it up, even though it is not Loki, with the usual gentleness he only has around his little brother. He folds those hands on top of Loki's chest neatly, as he would usually have put them.

He stands, and begins the long trek home.

Little brother.

Loki is so obsessed with the fact that he isn't Odin's favorite that he fails to notice that he is Thor's favorite.

~Quote from Tumblr