[Fic] We are the Ones who Fall Apart (Fandral/Loki, PG-13)

[locketofyourhair]

We are the Ones who Fall Apart
Fandral/Loki | PG-13 | ~2k

He doesn't want to believe the worst.

Notes: movie!verse, set during the events of the movie. Written for kink_bingo, prompt humiliation (situational). Thanks to saystheheart and wholedamntree for their help. Title from Rachel Stamp.
Disclaimer: No profit is being made; characters are the property of Marvel Comics among others.

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Sif dents three goblets and nearly puts her spear through Hogun for suggesting she sit and think about this calmly. Volstagg is starting in on some new plate of food, and Fandral is trying very hard not to look at any of them. They are in Sif’s rooms because it would be indecent for Loki to barge in here, and Heimdall may be watching, but even he is a touch circumspect of his baby sister.

“I cannot believe he dismissed us, as if we have not fought at his side and his brother’s.” Sif throws something else, and it nearly shatters the mirror.

Fandral stands then, for it was foolishness not to think of this before. He takes Sif’s heaviest cloak and covers her mirror. She is not nearly as vain as he, and there is only one mirror to worry about. It is a small blessing. “He is our king now,” Fandral says simply.

“Until Odin awakens,” Hogun says. Fandral nods; this is true.

“If Odin awakens.” Volstagg slurps loudly at his ale. He has his axe across his lap, like at any moment they may need to burst into battle. “And if the new king does not have half a mind to slay the old.”

“Loki would not,” Fandral says, and he is so tired now. He keeps seeing Loki on Odin’s throne, Loki’s face when they approached him like mice wary of a snake, Loki’s voice. He knew; he must have known that Sif had talked them into appealing for Thor’s return.

Loki had made it clear that Thor would be no great king, not like their father was. And if Thor could not be king, that meant it would fall to Loki.

“Do you not think it strange that Thor is gone but a night and a day and suddenly Odin has fallen into a dangerous sleep?” Sif pounds his chest with her closed fist. “Now that Loki is the only one of them left.” She does it again. “After Laufey said there were traitors.”

“Laufey is not our ally and has never been our friend,” Fandral murmurs. He does not like that her words make sense. He doesn’t like that he has his doubts now, after centuries of ignoring how Loki’s pranks could cut.

“I would not believe him, but for the fact that we began this week with an heir apparent and a wise, healthy king who has always loved his people, and we end it with only a dark pretender ready to take that throne. It is all too wrapped up, and it smells of tricks.” Sif turns away from him. “Even if you do not wish to see it.”

Fandral can’t say anything to that, and he slumps against her bed. They do not talk about what Fandral and Loki are to each other, but Sif’s words are circling it now. He hides his face because he does not wish to answer the look in their eyes.

But the silence can’t last, and Hogun breaks it. “You could see him privately. He would see you.”

“Moreso than he would see the rest of us,” Volstagg adds. “He at least likes you.”

“He doesn’t hate you,” Fandral murmurs.

“Nor does he like us.” Sif takes his hand between hers and kneels beside him. “Fandral, if one of us would able to see him and speak our piece now, it would be you. The rest of us, he has never cared for.”

She looks so hopeful, and Fandral feels nauseous suddenly. “You realize that if I am to do this, he will see it as a betrayal.”

“Only if you can’t make him see our point,” Hogun says. He is at Fandral’s other side. “Only if he’s angry.”

Fandral drops his head back and presses his lips together. “The fact that you say ‘only’ shows that you do not know him as I do, friend.” He leaves then, because he cannot handle their plaintive stares.

*

In the end, he can’t stay away from Loki’s chambers. He can’t see him on Odin’s throne again, with his voice so low and harsh. There are guards before Loki’s bedchamber now, armed and stoic, and Fandral feels foolish for knocking.

“It’s me,” he says, and he lets out a long breath when the door swings open.

Loki just stares at him for a moment, face impassive. He isn’t wearing his helmet now, and he’s removed his cloak, so his breastplate is exposed. “You ask an audience?” he asks, and there is a hint of something dangerous to his voice, his mouth turned down.

Fandral blinks. “I wanted to see you.” The guards shift.

“Then you request an audience.” Loki’s voice comes in a slow drawl. “And you should do so formally.”

He stares at Loki, before holding one fist to his chest and sinking onto one knee. Loki watches as he slowly sinks to the floor, and he appears entirely unconcerned, as if Fandral is nothing to him now. There are the first hot stirring of anger in his stomach as he drops his eyes. “My king, may I speak with you privately?”

“Of course, my friend,” Loki says, and he steps back from the door so Fandral can enter, but he comes no closer, walking large around the room before coming to his bed.

Fandral has been in Loki’s bedchamber many times, but he has never felt so out of place before. “I don’t want to talk about Thor,” he says.

“Do you think a pelt over a mirror can keep me from listening?” Loki asks. He glares at Fandral then. “I did not say you could stand.”

He blinks at Loki, and there is nothing to say. Loki’s eyes are dark with anger, furious, and the look to them makes him ill. He does not know what he can do to send that anger away; he does not want Loki looking at him like that.

Fandral drops to his knee again, head bowed. “I am sorry, my king.” He is sorry, for all of it, and he is sorry that a moment on the throne has turned Loki into this.

Loki walks closer, close enough that his shadow falls over Fandral. “I would have thought that you would be the only one to believe me when I say that this was not planned.”

Fandral does not look up. He wants to. The floor is hard, and Odin had never been one for such formality. “I do believe that everything that happened was not your plan.”

“But you believe some of it is.” Loki is closer still, one hand petting over Fandral’s hair.

He says nothing because even he cannot believe in such a coincidence. Loki stops touching him.

“I see,” he says. He steps away from Fandral.

Time passes, and the position grows more uncomfortable. “May I stand?”

“No,” Loki says, and his response is immediate. “You have yet to tell me why you seek this audience, and until you do, I will not bid you stand.”

Loki’s voice reverberates through the room, and Fandral knows it is magic. It still makes him shiver, and he breathes out slowly. He feels like a criminal like this, as if he has not been a friend to the royal family for centuries. As if he has never shared Loki’s bed and seen him come undone.

He should be angry. But he’s not. He feels brought low and almost debased, and with Loki’s magic and anger directed at him, shame burns in him. He wants Loki’s smile directed at him again, he wants Loki to touch him again, and that need makes the shame worse.

“My feelings for you have not changed,” he says, because it is the only truth he can think of. “And I did not come here for their sake.”

“Oh?” Loki laughs. “And yet they asked you to come and beg for Thor’s return, and here you are.”

“I never agreed to do it for them. You heard that, Loki. I know that you did.” Fandral’s throat feels dry. He licks his lips. “I just wanted to see you.”

He hears Loki approach in slow measured steps, and when his head is pulled back, it isn’t surprising. Loki’s eyes are narrowed, skin too pale. “Do you think I am capable of killing my own father?” Loki asks.

The power leaking from Loki, the magic, is overwhelming. It makes Loki seem larger and Fandral smaller. His throat is tight, and he doesn’t answer quickly enough.

“Fandral the Dashing likes to be debased.” It should be a question, but Loki doesn’t need to ask it. He knows Fandral enough to see it, to know that his body is reponding to Loki’s anger and power in a way that it should not. He knows his face is beginning to burn; he has not blushed since he was a boy. He is doing it now.

“No, my king. I do not think you could slay your father.” Loki’s hand tightens, pulling Fandral’s head back so much that it aches, that he’s vulnerable. Fandral’s swordhand is tight against his body. Loki could slit Fandral’s throat and Fandral probably couldn’t defend himself. He shouldn’t have to defend himself against the king of Asgard.

“Do you think I will make a good king?” Loki’s voice is hissing. His face is close to Fandral’s, the words ghosting on his skin. Fandral’s back is bent uncomfortably. His knee is screaming.

“Yes,” he says, because he does. He does not know if Loki could be a better king than the All-Father or Thor, but he would not be a bad king. Fandral does not think this treatment would have happened if Fandral had not come here; he tells himself that Loki would not push this if he did not know that Fandral enjoyed it.

Loki is quiet, and then the question comes. “Do you think I should allow Thor to return from his exile?”

Fandral licks his lips. Loki’s other hand is on his throat, thumb against the hollow of Fandral’s throat. It would be so easy for him to stab Fandral. There are knives at Loki’s wrists.

“I will know if you lie to me,” Loki says in that soft, hissing voice. “Tell me.” His hand tightens in Fandral’s hair, pushing into too painful, and the thumb on his throat makes it hard to breathe.

“Thor is one of our greatest warriors, and we are at war with the Jotun,” he whispers, and it is the wrong answer. Loki releases him all too swiftly, and Fandral slumps to his side, panting. He is hard, and he turns to reach for Loki.

Loki isn’t there, at the corner of his room and putting on his cloak again. “I am going to the library. When I return, I will not see you here.” He looks at Fandral, and his face is colder than Fandral has ever seen. “If you wish another audience, you may speak to me in the throne room. Not here, never again.”

“Loki,” Fandral calls, but Loki is gone by the time Fandral stands, the chamber door left open. He rushed into the hall, but Loki is gone already, slipped into shadows where Fandral cannot follow.

His hair aches from Loki’s hand, but it is the pressure of Loki’s thumb against his throat that he still feels as he begins to walk back to his own chamber, growing until he can scarcely breathe around it.

Comments

[fenellaevangela]

The emotions and tension in this piece are expressed really well.

[locketofyourhair]

Thank you!