[Fic] Half Past Twelve (and the Glass is Gone), Fandral/Loki, PG-13

[locketofyourhair]

Half Past Twelve (and the Glass is Gone)
Loki/Fandral | PG-13 | 3.2k

The Royal Family does not abuse their position with demands, but that does not mean Fandral can't imagine it.

Notes: Movie!verse, set prior to the events of the film. Written for kink_bingo, prompt authority figures. Thanks to saystheheart for the cheerleading and wholedamntree for the beta. ♥ Rating is for suggestive language. Title mangled from a The Flash Girls song.

Disclaimer: No profit is being made; characters are the property of Marvel Comics among others.

---

Fandral is twenty-five years younger than Sif, who is in turn sixty-three years younger than Loki. For some reason being younger than Loki makes them babes indeed, but Fandral tries not to focus on it. Rather, he declares it is that youth and that vigor that makes them the best of the bunch. Fandral loves the way Thor’s eyes go bright at the idea that he may not be the best, and they fight for the honor, brawling, and usually he is the winner, unless Fandral can pick blades before the battle even begins.

He is youngest, and he uses that to his advantage. His smile is the brightest, and he becomes Fandral the Dashing before they are old enough to truly join a hunt. He makes maidens giggle when he comes and smiles and tweaks their braids. They offer kisses and posies, and he takes the posies. He tucks them into his scabbard belt, until he is too old for such things.

“You look ridiculous,” Loki says when he sees it, because Loki is always about. He is always there with his pranks and tricks, and no one much likes him but Thor, but because Thor likes him, they must endure him. Sometimes Sif gloats that they are as much a hardship for Loki, because he must endure them in turn and there are four of them.

Hogun points out that actually, no. Loki may be a good son of Odin and may be beloved of his brother, but he need not suffer them. Rather they are much like dolls for his great pranks, a captive audience who wish to someday ride at the very front of the armies, to be the great commanders under Thor’s reign. For that glory, they must suffer Loki.

Which means Volstagg’s beard is singed off by ill-marked spells more times than Fandral can remember, and Sif’s hair is nearly completely shorn. (Truth, this is the only spell Loki attempts to look sorrowful for, as he cannot make her hair gleam like the sun now. She is as dark-haired as Loki himself now.) They scream and rave against Loki’s tricks, and it is all good fun to the prince.

Fandral tries to follow Hogun’s example. Hogun is the victim of pranks as often as any, but if the rest of their lot do not see it, it has not happened. It is hard (for Fandral?) to pretend that he does not see a beast in his mirrors, but he does it. Just as he does not mention the night when he wakes and is sure the prince has been there. Loki seems to appreciate these reactions, and after a century, they have earned a wide berth. He no longer toys with them, except when boredom takes him.

The years pass, and they grow up. Volstagg, Thor, and Hogun discover maidens, and Sif makes the first warrior interested in tumbling her cry. Thor leads a hunt, and then Volstagg. Hogun takes them out after the largest boar Fandral has ever seen. They feast and drink, and Fandral cannot wait until he leads his own hunt, when he might be able to drink true ale rather than the watered down drink children have.

Then it is Loki’s turn to lead them on a hunt. Loki has not gone on a hunt since Thor’s own, because the others would not take him. Volstagg does not value Loki at all, and Hogun was afraid to get Thor’s younger brother killed. And for those reasons, they are not permitted to join Loki’s first hunt, when he leads them and tells them what needs done. Thor comes, of course, and then Fandral and Sif.

“I wish to hunt a great wolf, a beast with a magnificent pelt, and we all know Fandral has an eye for them,” he says, when Thor asks Fandral?, as Fandral is yet a child compared to the rest of them.

Fandral grins at the comment. “You remembered, then?” he says to Loki, and he does not expect a shadow to cross Loki’s face, his eyes shuttered and cold.

“Sif and Fandral,” he says again. “And my brother. We shall meet at the bifrost before dawn.” And then he is gone, off to practice magic or throwing blades.

*

The hunt is thrilling. It is perhaps the best hunt that Fandral has gone on, and it makes his blood burn hot to think about it. Loki takes them to the coldest regions of Midgard, far away from mortal eyes. It is cold here, so cold that Fandral must part with one of his furs for Sif’s sake. Her own cloak is not quite thick enough. Even Thor seems disturbed by the cutting cold, but Loki is strong and leads them along the drifts. He seems to float over the snow.

The wolves are huge, vicious beasts. Loki throws the first blade, as if custom, and he takes out a beta wolf, dropping it instantly, but the snow is blinding, and they cannot see when they are surrounded by the wolves themselves. Sif is nearly felled by large white mass of an animal, but she kicks it away laughing.

“What mischief is this, brother?” Thor calls, and he is laughing because the danger has a giddy effect on them all. Their quarry are huge beasts, and they cannot see, but they are sure of their victory. If Loki could take one, then so should they all.

“Just a bit of fun,” Loki says, and he is smiling, his voice almost dangerous.

“I do not like your fun,” Sif calls, but the fight is on and none of them would dare back down from a battle such as this. It is far too exciting.

Fandral does manage to fell one, his rapier sinking deep into the creature’s belly. “Watch your back,” he hears Loki call as he pulls his sword from it. He wipes his blade on the snow and laughs, turning to tell Sif and Thor of his kill. He will not return from this brawl empty-handed.

But when his back is turned, he cannot see. It is a child’s mistake, ignorant and foolish, and the wolves take him from two sides and he falls into the snow. They snap at his arms and try to get the back of his neck in their jaws. He reaches up with a blade, and one of the beasts screams, but then it bites his wrist, and the snow is too fierce to see anything.

The howling is worse, and he thinks that he is going to die here, lost in all the snow. It is an honorable death, not as good as dying on a battlefield, but he supposes it too late to whine about such things. He does not think that Sif and Thor have noticed that he has fallen. He doesn’t expect Loki to care.

Except the snow seems to stop, and there are cool fingers at his throat. “I told you to watch your back,” Loki says, in his low, hissing way. There is a smattering of snow on his cloak, but aside from that he seems tall, commanding in a way that Fandral cannot yet understand. Loki looks down at him with flashing eyes. There is blood on his sleeve, on his face, and he looks fierce, skin almost bluish with the cold. He looks like a son of Odin, a future king, and Fandral feels fear for the first time, looks at Loki and thinks that he could easily fell him here.

Loki helps Fandral stand, one arm around his waist. The snow is still blinding, but Loki has him and they stumble together, where Sif and Thor have collected two wolves apiece. “A successful hunt, brother,” Thor declares.

“Felled by wolves, Fandral?” Sif asks, and her smile is teasing.

“I have him,” Loki says, in that same commanding voice. His grip is firm.

Fandral leans against him. It is as if Loki is the only warm thing in the storm. He can feel himself beginning to bleed on his cloak. “How bad is it?”

“Worse than it should be,” Loki says. “But you will heal.” He exhales slowly and begins to call for Heimdall.

*

Fandral is beside Loki at the ceremony where he presents his kill to Odin. He is healed, and he kneels at Loki’s left, Sif at the right. They kneel because they are not yet warriors. They are not yet able to join in true battle, and Fandral has never been more aware of his place in the great armies of Odin. He feels small as Odin proclaims Loki as a man.

Loki bows to his father, and Sif and Fandral rise and then bow to Loki.

He stops them before they reach the banquet. “I am giving you a pelt to split,” Loki says in a low voice. His face is impassive, and Fandral stares at the line of his shoulders, the set to his mouth. Desire burns below his stomach.

“Thank you, my prince,” he says, and he vows far lower than he needs to.

Sif snorts into her hand and dips her head. “Yes, thank you, Son of Odin. We are most honored.” Her tone is mocking, and for once, that is directed at Fandral rather than Loki.

“Yes, of course,” Loki says, his eyes finally uncertain. Thor is lingering, waiting, and he brushes past them to join his brother. Fandral eases up again.

“My prince,” Sif sing-songs. She grips at his cloak, to hold herself up as she laughs. “Since when do you call Loki anything but his name?”

Fandral shrugs her away. “I do not have to explain myself to you.” His face feels hot.

“You watch him, you flatter him,” Sif crows. Her smile is too large for words. “Were you a maid, I would say that you are sweet on the dark son of Odin.”

Fandral feels all the air leave his lungs. “But I am not a maid,” he says. He brushes her away. He will hear no more of her teasing.

At the banquet, he is seated beside Loki, because Sif demands her seat be beside Hogun. He is aware of Loki’s hands so close to his, and he is even more so when Loki looks at him and says, “Give me the venison.” There is real command, real weight to his voice.

Fandral is not a handservant, but he bows his head and leans along the table to get the venison and sets it closer to Loki.

There is a calculating look to Loki’s face as he helps hmself. “On the hunt, you would not listen to my orders, but now you will. What has changed, Fandral the Dashing?”

He cannot look at him. “I know not what you mean,” he whispers in response.

***

That night he sits before his mirror and waits, to see if there will be the slight darkening of the glass. Sometimes he thinks this is when he sees Loki, but it is never for him to tell. He will never have the gift of magic like Loki. He can barely sense it when it is worked. Instead he unties his tunic and his trousers, running two fingers over the mirror.

“Are you there?” he whispers, and of course there is no answer. He rubs a hand against his neck, where the collar of his shirt falls open.

“You were splendid in the hunt, my prince,” he says, and he bows his head again. “I have not seen you look such a way before.”

There is still no response, and he turns the lamp beside the mirror up, so his reflection is clear, almost as if he is sitting in sunlight. The idea of doing such a thing makes him shiver. “I have long wondered why we do not let you and your brother command us outside of a hunt,” he says, his voice light but for a waver. This is madness, and the desire to give in to that madness is burning in him.

He undoes his tunic enough that Loki would be able to see his chest, and he leans close to the mirror, whispering to it. “I imagine you commanding me. I think of the mortal realm, how those kings and princes are able to take their pleasure how they seek, how they command their warriors to do as they like in private.”

Fandral licks his lips then. The mirror seems to quiver, and he thinks it is magic. It is not the firelight. It is not his imagination. “I think at times you would order me to undress, so you may see the breadth and strength of my back. You cannot expect me to be an adequate blade at your back if I am but a boy.”

Now Fandral lets the tunic fall away completely. Loki does not come to the public baths like Volstragg, Hogun, and Thor. He does not often see Fandral bare to the waist. “You would touch me, across the shoulders and then the arms.” His hands drift over his own body.

“I think then you would demand to watch me spar, perhaps with Hogun or maybe another warrior, one battle-tested.” Fandral lifts his sword and shows it to the mirror. He cannot do a battle dance here, not in this limited space, but he does not think that matters.

“My prince, would you then need to inspect my stance?” He dares not touch himself. He shifts in his seat and he can hear the whisper of cloth. “A warrior is only as good as his foundation.”

Fandral stands, and he skims his fingers over his hips. He is well-muscled, with only touches of softness on his sides. Those will fade with a little more practice, a few more centuries. Soon he will be as battle-hardened as all the men. He slowly drops his trousers to the floor, and he is nude before the mirror and does not know if Loki is even there.

He tries not to let shame and want burn his cheeks. He is hard, and he wants so badly to finish this. But it is his thighs he touches, fingers skimming over the sparse hair. “I run as far as any warrior. I can lift Hogun on my legs a thousand times, and someday I hope to be able to lift Volstagg.

Carefully, he puts his foot on the chair, to show his lower leg, and he knows he is exposed to the mirror, the gold curls between his legs as he flexes his leg. “I do not know what you would ask of me once you had seen everything,” he says, and his voice sounds strange, rougher. “If you commanded me to take myself in hand, to show my virility, I would be most welcome to such a display.”

He curls his hand loosely at his thigh. “You would only need to command me,” he says, and he bows as low as he can without disappearing from view. He does not allow himself to breathe, thinking perhaps now the prince will reveal himself, will command him to do all that he has asked for.

There is no sound but the crackle of the fire. Loki is not in the mirror. Loki is not watching.

He feels foolish then, to show himself off in such a manor. He puts out the torches and hides in the pelts on his bed, willing the desire he still feels to cease.

It does not, and he breathes into the bedding when he takes himself in hand.

*

Loki is not about in the morning. Fandral is sure to sit between Hogun and Volstagg when he breaks his fast, and he stays with them when they begin to practice. Volstagg taunts him a bit, laughing that Fandral could be felled by something as minor as wolves and a bit of snow, and Fandral challenges him. He loses that battle, and then another loss against Hogun.

“Has a son of Odin stolen your power?” Sif calls from where she and Thor are practicing, blocking blows from Thor’s borrowed sword. “It is his greatest trick yet.” And this makes all four of them roar with laughter.

He challenges Volstagg again on his honor, and he manages to eke out a victory that time. It is hard-fought, one arm nearly lame from an axe-strike. But in the end he has won, and he can leave them to their mock battles.

Fandral is not surprised that when he enters the healing room, the shadows begin to move, and Loki is suddenly by the door, closing it behind him. They are alone. It is early to need healing; usually they are all more careful. Bloodying strikes that could cripple are best left for after they’ve had some ale.

“Volstagg is getting better,” Loki says. He gives Fandral a wide berth, walking to where the healing ointments are kept. “I did not think he would best you in such a way.”

“It was foolishness,” Fandral says. He sits in one of the chairs and watches Loki carefully. Loki does not seem to be anything more than Loki now, face blank but mostly pleasant as he sits down besides Fandral. He wordlessly removed Fandral’s gauntlet and pulls up his sleeve to expose the wound. It is deeper than Fandral realized.

The ointment stings but a moment when Loki applies it. “It was sloppy. You are many things, Fandral the Dashing, but sloppy is not one of them.”

Fandral smirks. “You act as if you know me, and I do not think we have ever been for long conversations.”

Loki smiles and then he leans close to Fandral, his eyes gone cold. That sense is back, that knowledge that Loki is somehow more than Fandral could ever be. “I didn’t think we needed them,” he says, and his voice is low.

Fandral begins to say something, but Loki is there, his face close enough now that Fandral is sure what is to happen and he cannot lean away from it. “Loki,” he says, and his skin is burning, from the ointment, from the steadying hand that Loki has placed on his shoulder.

“Is that how you wish to address me now?” Loki asks. and there is a sly hint to his voice, the hint that usually precedes a grant trick. “Not as your prince, but merely Loki?”

“You saw,” Fandral says, and he cannot breathe because the air around him is filled with Loki’s power, the sharp, strangely clean smell of his skin, the leather of his clothing.

Loki’s smile widens just enough. “Of course I did. Ask me for this?” His hand is now on Fandral’s jaw, because he knows that Fandral will ask, that Fandral will want.

And Fandral cannot refuse him. “I would ask for a kiss--” and he cannot finish because Loki’s mouth is over is, not gentle or tentative, but demanding and harsh. It’s a tad clumsy, and Fandral is not much better. It hurts to kiss Loki, their teeth far too involved, and Fandral should pull away but he cannot. He can be no closer because they are both dressed in armor, so he will be no farther.

It is only the slow groan of the door that breaks the kiss, drawing Fandral’s eye for only a moment. However, that is all a magician needs to slip away, and Loki is gone without a word.