a/n: I'm half-certain that this doesn't make any sense. ;_;
This is unedited and also my first time in this fandom, so I apologize in advance for any mistakes on my part. ; w ;

Set post-Avengers movie.

edit: moved from the Thor archive to the Avengers

Sentiment

He supposes that it's better this way.

The cold muzzle around his mouth is almost a comfort. In the hundreds and thousands of years he's lived, lying - deceiving, manipulating - becomes an instinct, a way for him to make sure that he escapes every situation unscathed, both physically and emotionally. No one ever notices the paranoia behind his actions, his tricks - how he has to always be three steps ahead and then another, because he isn't Thor. He isn't the golden child of the family, he isn't liked more than he's disliked. He never was and he never is and that's why Loki chooses to deceive. He knows that there are more than a handful people out there who would love nothing more than to bring him down.

He's always - always - had to speak for himself.

So when his not-brother asks him, "Why?" Loki is glad for the muzzle preventing him to speak. The decision is final and there's a sort of finality in his mind that tells him there's nothing he can do about it. For once in his life, he doesn't have to(want to) say a word.

Thor looks at him, cerulean blue eyes questioning, wondering, pleading, and it's hard not to look back. They are alone in the court, the elders having left moments ago. The thunderer raises a hand in his direction and Loki, assuming that he will pull off the muzzle, turns his head away.

Let me stay in silence.

The trickster is tired of lying.

. . .

He remembers a time when they sat together in Thor's bedroom, arms full of confections and desserts that they were forbidden to have that late at night. Thor, then young and bright-eyed, remarked through a mouthful of sweet pastries: "This is worth it, is it not?"

And Loki, rolling his eyes at the blond, replied demurely, "Father is bound to catch us."

"It wouldn't be the first time."

"Yes, it wouldn't be the first time that I save your life from Father's reprimands."

"Is my faith in you not flattering?"

"You speak as if it is something I should value," Loki said dryly, and Thor merely laughed and nudged him in the side.

(Years later, the thunderer's faith would be the last string that keeps him anchored to sanity.)

. . .

"I suppose this is where I will be staying," Loki says dully, emerald eyes critically scanning his not-brother's bedroom. "How disgustingly nostalgic." Lie after lie pours out of his mouth. He wishes Thor didn't remove the muzzle. "Why, I can remember the times when I would come in here by night, plagued by nightmares, and slip into your bed-"

"Loki." Thor sounds tired now, but his tone is firm. "Please, brother."

"We are not brothers," Loki hisses, and bitter truth rings in his words - not because he never was truly a son of Odin, but because brothers do not hurt each other, brothers do not resent each other, and brothers do not lie to each other. Blame hangs heavy in the air but by now Loki isn't sure to whom it is pointing.

Thor grasps his hand and Loki tries to jerk away but the grip is almost as secure as the shackles that bound his wrists. "Loki," the older begins, and Loki tires of listening; he closes the gap between them and presses his (cold) lips against Thor's. And when the other man is the one to jerk away this time, expression one of surprise, Loki tosses his head back and laughs.

He utters, words sharp and shrill and desperate, dripping with the most venom he can muster: "No words now, brother?"

And he thinks that Thor is about to say something, but instead he only clenches his hand, exhales, inhales - once, twice - then turns and leaves the room.

A book smashes into the door after him.

You promised.

. . .

"You give up the Tesseract, and you come home."

Home?

I don't have one, Thor.

(Not anymore.)

. . .

The thunderer's hand doesn't tremble. His fingers don't waver. His expression does not change as he poises the needle next to soft lips.

"Are you so eager to silence me from my lies-" Loki begins, and never finishes.

It is several painstaking minutes later, when the thread that criss-crosses obscenely across his mouth is finally tied and finished, that he looks up into his brother's cerulean blue eyes and continues silently, -that you would not care to wait for my truths?

. . .

"No," he thinks he hears his not-brother whisper.

But then again, he's overestimated him before.

. . .

He wanders the grounds of the palace mute and powerless.

On his way out to the gardens, he passes by Thor. The god doesn't bother to spare him a fleeting glance and walks past with a brush of their shoulders. It brings an aching to Loki's chest, a feeling so unfamiliar that he puts a hand over his own beating heart for a moment.

For a second, he feels regret.

Loki turns and continues his way. The brightness of the outdoors makes him wince, and he has to avert his gaze on the ground, as if to hide his blood-crusted lips from the very sky.

. . .

"Can't I come with you?" Loki pleaded, shooting his older brother a hopeful glance. "I've been practicing in the past few weeks."

Thor clasped a hand over his bony shoulder. "Magic isn't enough to protect you in battle, Loki," he said patiently, although his eyes relayed another hidden emotion - smugness?

"You don't think me capable of handling myself?" the raven-haired boy accused, eyes flashing. "And besides, you've promised that you'll always protect me."

"I suppose," Thor relented, but nonetheless walked on ahead to join the others, who were already setting up for combat.

Leaning on a pillar, Loki watched as his brother mounted his horse and set off.

. . .

He wonders if Thor remembers the same way he does.

He stops him once, as Thor is heading for his chambers - Loki grips his arm and moves to speak. Forgetting his sealed lips, he does not realize that he cannot speak until pain flares in his jaw and he feels warm blood trickle down his chin.

It's not the pain the drives him to do so, but the sudden concern in Thor's eyes, the way he sees a brief flicker of the younger, brash, arrogant (loyal, caring, protective) Thor that he grew up with.

And for the first time since resentment and hate began to fester his thoughts, Loki feels regret. He thinks of what could have been. He thinks, What if?

The tears come without a warning and he finds that his shoulders shaking as he tries to control himself, trying not to disturb the stitches. Then slowly, he feels Thor's arms come around him, pressing his trembling form into a broad chest and soaking cotton with blood.

Thor holds him and Loki cries.

. . .

Thor disappears.

. . .

Days pass. Or perhaps it's been weeks - Loki isn't sure any more. He sits down in front of his not-brother's bedroom door and refuses to move despite the pleas from his mother and the cajoling from guards.

He doesn't eat, doesn't drink, knees drawn up to his chest and arms locked securely around his ankles in a position that conveys vulnerability. Eventually they let him be. He thinks(wishes) he could die.

It happens on the eighth day.

The halls are dark when he feels a hand on his shoulder, and then another one underneath his chin. Limp and weary, Loki doesn't struggle, nor does he open his eyes. He refuses to make any movement until the cool tip of a blade is pressed against the side of his lips.

And when he does open his eyes, he can see, through the darkness, the faint outlines of gold and blue.

When the thread has been snipped - freeing him from his inability to speak, but re-opening wounds all the same - he croaks, "Thor?"

He hears the scissors clutter to the floor, and then there is a hand on his cheek, a thumb pressing softly, tenderly, lovingly against the corner of his blood-stained lips. Thor whispers, as if it is some great secret to anyone and everyone but them, "I promised."

Loki doesn't protest when the thunderer slides his arms behind his back and under his knees, carefully lifting him from the cold floor. "Why?" he rasps despite the pain.

But his mind has become too worn out, too weary from days without sleep and he drifts off without hearing an answer. Before he completely blacks out, he feels himself being set onto a bed and fingers, although with an air of furtiveness, smoothing his hair back - and then a kiss to his forehead.

The uncertainty in the action does not completely get past him, and Loki knows that there is to be talk of several things in the morning.

But now sleep is calling and he gladly acquiesces, succumbing to the haze and drifting into slumber with arms wrapped around him.