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Loki was all too familiar with the beginnings of illness, starting with slow coils of nausea writhing around his insides before the fever hit, leaving him shivering and weak and indisposed. It was manageable, almost, when he could simply curl up in his bed and allow everyone to ignore his absence as they always did. What wasn’t quite as manageable was being left panting through waves of nausea in the middle of the Great Hall, surrounded by important visitors from another realm. And it was almost disastrous in the presence of Odin Allfather himself.
He was accustomed to his position as an outsider. His predisposition to ailments that did not affect most Asgardians, and certainly didn’t trouble the great warriors he was surrounded by, was simply another bullet point on a long list of qualities that made him undesirable, unwanted. He was used to it, but that didn’t make it any easier when he was struck by such intense malaise around people who did not understand it, and who couldn’t care less about how he was feeling.
Although the disdain with which everyone in the palace looked on him was not among his favourite topics of thought, he found himself focusing on it now to distract from the concerning level of unease he was feeling in his stomach. He almost groaned in frustration, wishing his body could have decided to rebel against him yet again at any time but this. Standing beside Thor’s warrior friends in the Great Hall, watching his father address the God of Thunder himself, a banquet bustling around them, was not an ideal situation for him in general. But especially not now. No matter how little anyone here cared about his presence, a Prince of Asgard could not slip away as easily as he would have liked. It made something in him squirm at the best of times, and this was far from that.
He briefly considered casting a projection of himself, but his stomach twisted as soon as he began to even think about gathering his seidr. And there was no way in Hel he was going to turn to Sif or any of the Warriors Three for help. Loki was so frequently indisposed by illness, be it from the heat, or something he had eaten, or a simple bug, that he knew they likely assumed he was simply lying because of laziness. Or else, saw him as so fragile that he wasn’t worth their time. No, he would not admit weakness to them, would not give them the satisfaction. He would wait it out.
Odin turned, then, facing the small band of warriors to speak to them. His eyes did not even appear to see his own son amongst them, but Loki was past being surprised by that. He simply stood quietly, aware that his face was likely beginning to pale as heat crept up his neck. What had done it this time? Something he had eaten, perhaps, knowing how most food on Asgard disagreed with him, and he cringed as his dull nausea slowly turned into an outright ache. He barely noticed his mother’s arrival next to Odin, so preoccupied was he with keeping his breaths even.
“Loki, are you alright?”
He looked up to find his mother’s eyes on him, painfully gentle as always, and realised that his hand had found its way to his stomach in some futile attempt to settle the growing pain there. He hastily moved his hand back to his side and swallowed down the saliva building up in his mouth.
“Fine, mother. I’m fine.”
The conversation continued on around him with ease, but his growing discomfort was more difficult to ignore. Gods, he hadn’t felt this sick in ages. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Thor sending concerned looks in his direction, and desperately hoped his brother wouldn’t try to bring him into the conversation again, as well intentioned as the attempt would be.
Loki swallowed thickly again and realised with resigned dismay that he was starting to see spots in his vision. At the thought of the very real prospect that he was about to vomit all over his shoes in the middle of the Great Hall, he reached a breaking point. Mumbling a quiet “excuse me”, he turned on his heel and stalked out of the Hall as quickly as he dared. He was almost certain no one had heard him or even noticed him leave, but as he reached the doors he caught Odin’s hard stare watching him go. After all these years he knew exactly how to read that look; it was the look of a father wondering how he’d managed to land himself a son so disappointing, so utterly useless. It was a look that said his father no longer expected anything better of him.
Ah, well. At least he’d have peace now. No one would come to check on him. No one ever bothered to check on the young God of Mischief. He supposed he only beget what he was owed.
Doing his best to maintain his composure in front of the guards stationed throughout the wide corridors, Loki made his way to the wing of the palace where he and his brother’s bedrooms were located. Somehow he managed to get there without incident, though he had to stop several times behind pillars and in secluded archways to double over as he pushed a desperate fist to his mouth and stifled gasps of pain.
Once inside his room with the doors secured he could finally let his guard down, and the overwhelming pain and sickness had him stumbling to his knees. He wrapped his arms tightly around his middle and found himself unable to do anything but press his forehead to the floor, gritting his teeth as he groaned through an unbearable wave of nausea. His body was no longer cooperating with him, legs shaky and almost entirely useless beneath him, face covered in a sickly sheen of sweat, but somehow he managed to drag himself to the small bathroom.
Just in time, it seemed, as he clutched the edge of the toilet bowl and gasped before heaving painfully and finally bringing up what little he had eaten that day. He grasped his stomach as he continued to retch, moaning weakly as his body forced him to bring up bile.
Once his body finally decided to settle he was left with his forehead pressed to the toilet bowl and his eyes squeezed shut, doing his best to breathe deeply through his nose. To his dismay, he realised that he was making small keening noises as he tried to breathe through the intense discomfort wracking his entire body. No, he was not a stranger to illness like this, but he hated it no less every time, the complete loss of control, being forced to surrender to the weakness that he was so ashamed of. He was glad no one could see him like this, knowing that it would only confirm to them that he was an incompetent, frail, useless creature, something to be hidden away so that he did not taint the golden image of the Asgardian throne.
He was surprised to hear a knocking at his door. Of course the one time he needed to be alone would be the only time anyone came to find him. He didn’t think that any of his supposed friends had ever even seen this room.
“Brother?” Norns, it was Thor, his unmistakable bellow echoing through the soundproofing spells that surrounded his room. Shouldn’t Asgard’s beloved prince still be at the banquet? “Mother sent me to check on you. Are you alright?”
With a sigh, he lowered the protective spells so that Thor would be able to hear him. “Quite alright, Thor. Go back to the banquet. I’m sure they’re missing you dearly.” If a hint of bitterness crept into those words, he chose to ignore it.
Despite what Thor’s friends said, calling him a jealous parasite, a scheming fool who only cared about himself, Loki loved his brother dearly. He always had, and always would. But it was so much easier, sometimes, to push him away. Especially now, as he lay exposed and helpless on his bathroom floor while his brother should have been busy getting doted on as Asgard’s future king.
But with his energy almost entirely gone, traitorous thoughts crept into his mind, images of Thor coming in and holding him like he had when they were young. Back then, his brother had made him feel like nothing could ever hurt him simply by wrapping his arms around him and holding him tight. But it was becoming harder and harder to allow himself to give in to that aching wish to be loved, to be taken care of. He shouldn’t need this.
His train of thought was interrupted rather quickly as his decision to use his magic to lower the room’s shields came back to bite him. His insides twisted sickeningly at the strain it had taken and he braced himself for another round of vomiting. His whole body heaved with the force of it and he coughed wetly, unable to bring anything up.
“Loki?! Loki, can I come in?” The familiar concern entering his brother’s voice only made him feel worse. His kind, golden-hearted brother, Asgard’s shining sun, whose light Loki didn’t deserve at all.
He shouldn’t need this, but he was weak, after all. When Thor finally came barrelling in, Loki made no attempt to stop him.
“Oh, Loki...” Thor was by his side in a moment, pushing Loki’s sweat-soaked hair back from his face and resting a strong hand on his back, that firm and comforting pressure that Loki had come to crave after many nights spent sick by Thor’s side in their youth. Loki hacked and coughed weakly, a damp and sweaty mess, before finally collapsing into his brother’s hold.
“It’s okay, it’s okay. I’m here,” his brother soothed quietly.
No matter how hard he tried to be strong, to prove that he was more than the meek creature everyone thought him to be, it always came back to this. Loki, weak and useless, reduced to a child in his brother’s arms. It was the most comforting thing in the world. It destroyed him inside. He wanted to cry.
Loki tried to speak, but the world was spinning around him and the only constant was his brother’s unyielding hold. He managed only to spit into the toilet, breath hitching into something almost resembling a sob.
It was not a sob. He would not cry.
“You needn't speak, brother. Don’t worry. Don’t worry about anything.”
Loki began to cry.
Thor stayed with him on the bathroom floor, flushing the toilet and fetching a washcloth before sitting beside him and simply holding him without a word. Treating him with a gentleness and tenderness that most would think impossible for the mighty warrior, the heroic God of Thunder. Rubbing a firm hand up and down his back, the same hands that were coated in the blood of countless realms.
“Let me help you to bed, brother,” Thor murmured after a while. Loki, God of Mischief, outcast, force of chaos and destruction, a being who accepted help from no one, allowed himself to be bundled up like a sack of bones and carried to his bed.
Loki was only vaguely aware of Thor settling him on his bed. He was so hot, unbearably hot, his insides ached, and he craved the release of unconsciousness. He imagined that the soft give of the sheets beneath him was a cold void of stars, and only distantly realised that his mother had given this image to him when he was a child troubled by nightmares. She had spoken it in a soft tongue, words meant only for him to hear. The memory felt like a cruel dream.
“I’m going to get Mother, alright? I’ll be right back,” Thor spoke, but Loki had already been dragged down into a restless slumber.