Chapter Text
“I think I bought the wrong medium.” Thor fishes into his satchel, sighing in relief when his fingers find a small vial as the bottom. He pulls it out, offering an outstretched arm to the man behind the counter. “Apologies. I was abit in a rush last time.”
The clerk claims the bottle from Thor’s hand, slim fingers lightly brushing against his rough palm. Thor’s eyes perk up at the contact, though the man seems unfazed, masking a face that told Thor not to dwell on it for too long.
“I might need the receipt, sir.”
Thor hands him the roll, watching with a curious demeanour as the man retreats from the counter and fumbles with a few overhead cabinets. Mahogany surfaces clear with dust as he works, wooden panels creaking from the hinges to tell of old age. The clerk retrieves a tray of lined bottles labelled with known familiar oil brands, eyes bright but face gloomy with worn weariness.
The shop is old and furnished only by the shimmer of creased wallpaper. An aftershave of turpentine as strong as the orange sticking out like a sore thumb among the dull shades of grey and flesh. Canvases masked by pain across dusted walls, portraits of barren apartments and sagging skin of ageing women softened by dry brushstrokes to achieve a dream-like ambience.
The place seems old, too old for this occupied young man rusted with a ripped cloak to own. Thor successfully forces his curiosity to die down, managing to keep his nosy questions from going all over the place as he accepts the new bottle of medium from the man.
“Linseed oil,” he tells Thor, voice dismissive.
But Thor is more reckless than he could give himself credit for, and even after keeping track of his flaws better than other people have ever done, he knows that staring far too long at a particular painting from the far left corner and asking about it would absolutely get him in the wrong places.
“Sorry, but did you paint that?” he blurts out, not a single ounce of sanity left inside his brain, eyes instinctively darting across the room to where a framed canvas is proudly hung on the wall.
The linen has been painted a portrait of a woman dressed in green luster, the length of her hair receding to a faint grey just below her shoulder blades. The splash of paint is an exceptional work itself, strong pent up colors dragged over intricate details by polished brushstrokes. Her eyes are what pull Thor into an unconscious pace, whether it was the blue around black irises or the mistaken nonchalance in her smile, he didn’t know. They’re no more than two faded irises of deep cerulean, but they hold real intent that only ever makes Thor wishing to sate his own curiosity.
Scribbled white paint could be made out. A trademark of some sort, perhaps. Thor squints to see more clearly. “Loki Laufeyson?”
If this Loki feels appalled that some random customer happened to notice the one painting that could only receive so little attention given the location of its display, it doesn’t show. He follows Thor’s eyes, merely gazing at the painting, before turning back around and chuckling.
“Catches the eye, then?”
“I would say,” Thor muses, distracted. With now confident strides he reaches the painting and runs the pad of his thumb over the rim of the frame. “I’ve only ever expanded my expertise to mastering dry-brush techniques. Twelve years of painting and all it tells me is how your technique exceeds everything else. Your brushstrokes are exceptional.”
It’s a strange thing to see Loki smile. Strange that Thor relishes in the way the compliments he would take as effortless manage to tear the tight line across Loki’s face into an ear-splitting grin. That quick millisecond of sincere flattery. A display of sheepish demeanor, one that opens more cracks than Thor has ever bargained for.
Thor is still inspecting the portrait when Loki appears at his side. They stare at the painting together with understood silence.
For a moment, Thor allows himself to feel at ease.
“Thirty-five years from today,” Loki speaks after a moment. “I could still smell the minerals dad had told me were odorless. Mediums those days were expensive, so he had to give up a quarter of his weekly wage. A bottle of wine popped open to celebrate seven years of marriage.”
Thor is staring at him now, a little behind of what this was slowly leading to. Loki ducks away and chuckles. “I didn’t paint her; dad did. Mum was a wonderful sight that night. She sat for nearly an hour behind the easel. Once it was over, dad turned the canvas around was prized with what happened to be his last kiss.”
It just clicks.
"You're Laufey's kin," Thor says, starting to put two and two together. He switches his gaze from Loki's unaffected expression to the woman on the painting. "I hadn't realized Faurbauti died so young."
"Not many people knew her."
It had been early when Odin put Thor through a local art class. Despite the multitudes of merry among students, the place had been wallowing in grief. Empty hallways were concealed with landscapes of hidden meadows and intricately detailed mammals. Their very canvases branded with the name of the late maestro, and Thor hadn't been old enough to share the grief of his fellow comrades.
"And what of your father?" Thor quips. "Didn't he go to Iceland in the '90s?"
"That trip was mainly for wandering to find inspiration for his next collection," Loki elaborates. "His agency took a lot from him during the process of completing the required thirty frames. Three months in, he came home sick. I barely had a month to prepare for his funeral."
"What did he die of?"
"Pneumonia," says Loki. "Over-exposure to strong mineral spirits. Unrefined turpentine, mostly."
"That's it?" Thor asks, dumbfounded, but corrects himself as soon as he sees the furrow of Loki's eyebrows. "I'm sorry, that was uncalled for. But why use turpentine still? Your studio reeks of it."
Loki shrugs. "I used to avoid it like the plague. Unfortunately, there had been budgetary cuts on my part that added to the inevitable problem of increasing prices of mediums. I had no other choice. I still don't."
Thor allows himself a second to register everything. "Doesn't it give you terrible memories?"
"It reminds me of good ones," Loki offers a smile, eyes glued to the painting. "I can't think of more terrifying moment than the day the store was left to me. Twelve years old with no one and nothing else but second-hand painting supplies and my amateur skills. I had no education back then, no money, but when I did, I earned them from the horizons I painted. Back then, I struggled to paint anything other than grass."
The question remains in the air, even after Loki shared a part of his artistic and familial background to a stranger. "Do you paint?" is an obvious one, one which would make Loki turn his heels and take Thor for someone so agonizingly slow.
"Can I see one of your pieces?" is what he asks instead.
He expects Loki to slow his reluctance, to shake his head and drag Thor to the doorstep for his rash display of nosiness, so he's only a little taken aback at the shrug Loki offers him.
"Behind you."
When Thor turns around, his first instinct is to gape. Wild fir trees structured by fat plains of paint brought about by palette knives, abstract brushstrokes of cerulean waters that stand out among the dull greying shadows. Another sight Thor is able to pick up is that there aren't even dull shades. They're bright in their own crevices and complimenting hues of burnt sienna and scarlet.
"What is this place?"
"Asgard," Loki answers, a sly smile hanging from his lips. "It's... a place I've made up."
"It's fascinating," Thor smiles, completely in awe. He turns to the maestro in front of him and looks at him in a whole new light. "I don't suppose it's for sale?"
Loki approaches him with an openness that eases Thor from his head.
"Why don't I just paint you one?"