It is half-light.
It is when strange transitions happen; stone into sentience, angles into bends, spite into longing.
Brothers into not-brothers into foes into lovers.
Weight into wamth. Words into promises.
It is half-light, and Loki turns pensive.
Meditative, serene; bordering on lazy. Slender finger drawing slow, invisible circles. Still and pliant. Almost tame.
“You seem content,” Thor rumbles gently, battling sleep he cannot afford.
Loki’s lips scarcely move. “Do I.”
Thor smiles as he watches the finger on his chest traces another circle, then another, then another; each one overlapping the last, a succession of never-ending spirals homing in on his heart.
It aches as dawn creeps near, unwelcomed and abhorred and certain.