Thor and Loki’s relationship probably started with a series of threesomes, a result of their unconscious desire to have the other in the bedroom justified by the presence of another man or woman. But eventually, their partners begin to realize that the brothers’ eyes are fixated on each other, fingertips working against the wrong set of hips, the wrong name whispered in the heat of the moment.
They insist on the room being completely dark for reasons unspoken. Accidents happen in the dark.
And then one day, the third person catches on and quietly leaves the bedroom. Thor and Loki fail to notice until the next morning.
The morning is either young or the night, old. Storm clouds hang low on the horizon, the same fatigued blue as Thor’s eyes. The taste of the approaching storm wets the air, and goosebumps rise up on their skin in spite of the summer heat.
Every window in the car is open except for Loki’s. He’s slumped in his seat, running his fingers back through his unruly hair to keep it from blowing in his face. His eyes aren’t on the storm, but when Thor catches him staring, Loki only gives him that sly, cryptic smile that makes Thor think Loki caught him doing something instead.
After so many hours on the road, Thor is almost tired enough to ask Loki to take a turn behind the wheel, but not even he’s that reckless.
When the storm hits, they stop at an old gas station to wait out the downpour, taking shelter beneath the covered pumps. They lean against the car and against each other’s hips, mouths and hands flirting, exchanging open-mouthed kisses and laughter as the gusting wind blows rain their way. The station owner waves at them from the window, beckoning them to come inside to take shelter, but Thor and Loki never notice the man.
Time has slowed until there is nothing but this moment. Reality focuses in until all that exists is the place where Thor’s fingers trail down Loki’s rain-speckled cheek.
By the time the storm blows over, the sun has risen in the east, and their mouths are swollen red from each other’s kisses. Loki sits on the hood of the car and ties back Thor’s wet hair, braiding and weaving the strands before binding them with a leather strap.
Thor tosses the remains of his breakfast in a nearby bin and reaches back to slide his hands up the loose fit of Loki’s jeans. “Any idea where you want to go yet?” Thor asks for the eleventh time in eleven days.
There’s a roadmap in the glove-box that neither of them have once looked at.
Loki presses his lips to Thor’s neck, his breath simultaneously warming and cooling the damp skin. “I’m already there,” Loki says, “but we can keep driving all the same.”