He’s been carrying himself at stiff and broken angles all day, heavy with the weight of keeping up appearances in front of his subjects. Now that the others have drifted back to New Asgard, however, and even Val has stepped away—
Then Thor finally lets himself crumple and his composure splinter open. Sylvie buries her face his chest and her fingers curl into his cloak, and he bows his head, tucks his chin against the top of her head. Some of his tears trickle quietly, silently, down his cheeks and into his blond beard and then her dyed-blonde hair. It’s a mess. She’s a mess. They’re both a mess, but her voice is sharp and ferocious when she speaks and accepts his vow.
He holds on for longer than normal.
Lokis have never been much for easy physical affection; where Thor was a boundlessly affectionate golden retriever, Loki had been a prickly and aloof black cat, only ever accepting touch on his own terms. It’s easy to think that Sylvie is the same, and that makes the embrace all the more special; he’ll take this rare comfort where he can get it. After everything, they both need it. The pressure of his arms could be claustrophobic, but in this instance it’s comforting: a heavy weighted blanket.
Finally, he lets go. Exhales a shaky breath (truly not befitting of royalty), and wipes the back of his hand against his eyes, swiping the tears away. Gods, what a day it’s been.
“I’ve been thinking of abdicating anyway,” he admits suddenly, with a strangled desperate laugh. The entire situation now feels hysterical and strange. “I know exactly who could run the kingdom in good hands, if I’m to go gallivanting across timelines in search of a lost brother.”
He shouldn’t get his hopes up. He shouldn’t. This is an impossible quest.
And yet. And yet. Having this small, tiny shred of hope — and someone to share it with — is a sudden and unexpected and precious lifeline to hang onto, one to seize with both hands.
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Then Thor finally lets himself crumple and his composure splinter open. Sylvie buries her face his chest and her fingers curl into his cloak, and he bows his head, tucks his chin against the top of her head. Some of his tears trickle quietly, silently, down his cheeks and into his blond beard and then her dyed-blonde hair. It’s a mess. She’s a mess. They’re both a mess, but her voice is sharp and ferocious when she speaks and accepts his vow.
He holds on for longer than normal.
Lokis have never been much for easy physical affection; where Thor was a boundlessly affectionate golden retriever, Loki had been a prickly and aloof black cat, only ever accepting touch on his own terms. It’s easy to think that Sylvie is the same, and that makes the embrace all the more special; he’ll take this rare comfort where he can get it. After everything, they both need it. The pressure of his arms could be claustrophobic, but in this instance it’s comforting: a heavy weighted blanket.
Finally, he lets go. Exhales a shaky breath (truly not befitting of royalty), and wipes the back of his hand against his eyes, swiping the tears away. Gods, what a day it’s been.
“I’ve been thinking of abdicating anyway,” he admits suddenly, with a strangled desperate laugh. The entire situation now feels hysterical and strange. “I know exactly who could run the kingdom in good hands, if I’m to go gallivanting across timelines in search of a lost brother.”
He shouldn’t get his hopes up. He shouldn’t. This is an impossible quest.
And yet. And yet. Having this small, tiny shred of hope — and someone to share it with — is a sudden and unexpected and precious lifeline to hang onto, one to seize with both hands.