A Night On The Mountain

Angst short. In 1954, Loki goes to a party on Mount Olympus with the angel Asmodeus and his brother.

A little under 10k, with a bit of Loki/Asmodeus in places — some slice-of-life, some Greek god stuff, a lot of angst and emotions stuff.

Content warnings for references to rape and captivity (bearing in mind JP was held captive by Myrddin Wyllt until 1946), some very poor mental health from Jean-Pierre’s POV.

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Loki reclined on the chaise long in the hotel room, tipping his head back so that he could feel the heat of the sun on his face. He’d dragged it over to the open doors of the balcony so that he could lie on the comfortably cushioned surface and enjoy the heat and light without having to sit upright.

It wasn’t his hotel, room, of course — it was Asmodeus’, but Loki had paid for it. If Asmodeus had paid for it himself, he would have gotten something much more modest for himself, would have got some simple, quaint little room about two floors down. Loki had gotten him the room on the top floor even as Asmodeus had put out a hand and protested and then given up when Loki had waved him off and told the receptionist to ignore him.

Loki was glad in any case that he’d insisted on this room — it had its own telephone line, and as far as he was aware, there were not a great many lodgings in Bristol that had such things available.

“It’s Asbat Nur-Badr,” Asmodeus was saying on the phone. Loki liked to hear him speak Greek — many people their age spoke the language with a strange and uncommon lilt, sounded strangely formal and had an accent other people couldn’t place.

Asmodeus spoke Greek with a mountain accent — he spoke the language like a Macedonian. He had a favourite sister who lived now in Pristina, and had once upon a time been contemporary of Orpheus himself; Loki forgot her name, but he liked her very well, and he certainly liked her voice. He collected accents here and there, borrowed them from his brothers and sisters and held them close to his heart the way some collectors held autograph books.

Loki had always found it so curious, so very funny and really quite endearing that Asmodeus was, by his nature, a sentimentalist. He was so very old, older than Loki was even at his oldest, older than almost anybody, and so controlled, and yet he was so sentimental. He took such pleasure in one thing or another, let himself become so very attached to everything he oughtn’t get attached to, especially anything that was small and unimportant and very easy for someone not to care about at all.

“… wanted to bring a plus-one, yes,” he was saying, holding the telephone to his ear.

He looked beautiful, naturally.

The sun that shone into the room was bouncing off his skin — he had very dark skin, Asmodeus, and it wasn’t until there was direct sunlight on it (or until he was lit with the right tinted spotlights for his dancing) that one saw the gold that glinted in it, hidden in the undertones; he had green eyes, the colour uncommonly vibrant, and they were lovely too; with the sun on his face, you really appreciated how wonderfully it was carved, as though by the most skilled sculptors, the shape of his jaw, his cheekbones, his nose, his forehead.

He had broad shoulders and a narrow waist and big arse — his arse, his thighs, his calves, all of that was pure muscle. His shoulders and his arms, too, and the chisel of his abdomen, yes, but they were nothing compared to his legs.

“Have I ever told you you remind me of my wife?” asked Loki.

Asmodeus gave him an irritated, impatient look, making Loki laugh, and then turned back to the phone. “My brother. No, not him, Jean-Pierre Delacroix. I — Yes. He’s an angel. Fine, he Fell to France. Of course he does.” Something in Asmodeus’ face went wonderfully, delightfully cool, and his voice quietened and calcified as he said, “For your sake, I thought not to. But if you would prefer that I contact a member of the high council and ask for a personal — ”

That cold, deliberate tone did wonders: Asmodeus went quiet as whoever was on the other end of the line changed their tone, and he stood there with his beautiful lips pressed together and his beautiful eyes facing forward. He’d wrapped the phone cord around two of his fingers, and was delicately playing over it with his thumb.

“Thank you,” he said finally, and put the phone in its cradle.

“Are you absolutely certain that this is a good idea, darling?” asked Loki.

“No,” said Asmodeus bluntly.

Loki took this in, slowly nodding his head, and looked to the door as it opened.

He’d met Jean-Pierre before, of course. He was a Catholic, but he was known to various of the immortals — Loki had never asked around about him specifically, but he’d heard people mention him in passing, and by all accounts he was a very good lay, and a dangerous fighter, and anyone could tell to look at him that he was really very beautiful.

The handful of times Loki had met him in the past had ordinarily been when he and Asmodeus were crossing over and Jean-Pierre happened to be there too, or when Loki went with De because he was going in his brother’s direction.

Jean-Pierre had always struck him as a remarkably commanding man, for one so beautiful — in Loki’s mind, he was tall and haughty, holding a natural soldier’s bearing. He spoke very well, was dangerously charismatic, but he lacked the bluster or arrogance of a man who tried to strong-arm his charm into conversation. He was extremely calm and collected and confident in his various abilities, but he didn’t boast, and nor did he overestimate his skills: he simply stated very frankly what he was good at, if he was asked.

He had the sort of face men died for, which was for the best, Loki supposed, because he’d heard that quite a lot of men had.

Ordinarily he did, anyway — at the moment, he was the most haggard Loki had ever seen him, dark shadows visible under his shining blue eyes, his pink lips chapped and bitten with anxiety, his skin unnaturally pale and his face just a little gaunt. He had a new tear on his face, once that he hadn’t had before, a scar the size of a man’s thumb underneath his left eye — a lingering reminder of the firing squad they’d put him in front of some recent years ago.

“There we are, mazik,” said the big man that had brought him in. He was taller even than Asmodeus, another angel — he looked like an old man, his head bald and his beard all grey and his eyes full of crinkles. He put his hands on Jean-Pierre’s shoulders, rubbing up and down his upper arms, and Jean-Pierre stood there like a ghost, his lips pressed loosely together, his eyes slightly downcast. “You warm, hm? Want to take your coat off, maybe?”

Jean-Pierre’s gaze flitted to Loki, his expression unchanging as the old man took his coat off his arms, undressing him as surely as one undressed a doll.

“Hello,” he said distantly.

“Hello, Jean-Pierre,” said Loki, and when the old man looked at him, he stood to his feet, putting out his hand to shake. “I’m Loki.”

“Oh,” said the old man, and smiled kindly. He didn’t step past Jean-Pierre to shake Loki’s hand, but wrapped his left arm around Jean-Pierre’s shoulder, tugging him against his chest even as he put out his hand to shake.

His hand was a little chilly, but really very large and strong.

“Loki, this is Ephraim,” said Asmodeus quietly. “He’s a doctor at Caer Afon here in Bristol.”

“Jumping back on the horse of medicine, are you?” asked Loki, giving Jean-Pierre a small smile, which Jean-Pierre didn’t return.

“No magical person in this city would trust me to practice medicine on them,” he said quietly, his voice dull in a way Loki had never heard from him before.

“We just relaxed at home, hm?” said Ephraim, almost pointedly, and Loki watched the way he put his fingers under Jean-Pierre’s chin, tipping his chin up slightly to look at his face before he kissed his cheek. “You’re always welcome with me, understand?”

“Yes,” said Jean-Pierre.

“No matter what’s happened,” added Ephraim.

“No matter what I’ve done,” said Jean-Pierre, and Loki watched the tension in Ephraim’s face with interest, the slight tightness in his jaw, the movement of his lips, the slight tilt of his head to one side. He squeezed Jean-Pierre as though he were his own son, touching his hair.

“What have I told you this week, hm, mazik? I’m not your judge or your jury — I’m your brother.”

“Thank you, Ephraim,” said Asmodeus, leaning to kiss him on the cheek, and he walked with Ephraim toward the door, the two of them speaking quietly together.

Jean-Pierre stood in the middle of the room, holding his heavy coat even though it was a warm summer’s day.

“You regret doing it?” asked Loki, and Jean-Pierre looked up at him. For a moment, Loki saw a flash of the Jean-Pierre he was used to in his eyes, a sort of sharp self-awareness visible in them, and although that glint was ordinarily accompanied by smirking lips rather than the blank frown he was sporting, it was still a relief to see it.

“I don’t think you’re supposed to ask me that,” he said.

“Darling, darling,” said Loki, gesturing broadly in a way that made the bracelets he wore quietly clink and ring together. “Don’t you know who I am? Everything I do is things I’m not supposed to.”

“Are they letting him bring me to the party?”

“Why wouldn’t they? It’s not as though you’ll be the only angel other than him.”

“Why wouldn’t they?” Jean-Pierre repeated, and laughed bitterly, shaking his head.

“Your king-slaying was a mortal concern,” said Loki, shrugging his shoulders. “He was no worshiper of the Greeks nor even another pantheon — and it was years ago, now. Old news.”

“You think it’s a good idea for him to bring me?”

“I think it might be good for you to get out,” said Loki. “You haven’t been to a party since the coronation, have you?”

“Don’t try to provoke me,” advised Jean-Pierre, coming forward, and Loki sat down again on the chaise again, leaning to one side and letting Jean-Pierre sit cross-legged on the end with his coat in his lap.

Loki had always known Jean-Pierre to wear tailored clothes fitted to his body, and while he enjoyed billowing sleeves and overlarge jumpers and coats, this coat was not his own. It was too broad for his narrow shoulders, and too square at the hips and waist — it was not large enough for it to be Ephraim’s, nor Asmodeus’.

“It won’t work, and it will only upset De that you are trying.”

“What, to provoke you?”

“Mm.”

“Whose coat is that?”

Jean-Pierre frowned at him. “Mine,” he said.

“Whose was it first?” asked Loki, and Jean-Pierre’s fingers shifted on the fabric, gripping its heavy material underneath them. Loki reached out and touched it himself, feeling the weight of it, the texture of its surface, the echo of blood and gunfire clinging to it in an invisible shroud of memory. It was old, over a hundred years old, and should have been threadbare, by all rights. “Did you serve in this military?”

“In the revolution,” said Jean-Pierre. “Against the Ottomans. This coat was my lover’s — his name was Manolis.”

“They’ll like you very well at the party, then,” said Loki. “A freedom-fighter for sweet Ellada.”

Jean-Pierre didn’t say anything.

“Is he taking good care of you?” asked Loki quietly, and Jean-Pierre nodded his head.

Asmodeus had been all but carrying him on his back since the assassination, Loki was fully aware — he’d defended Jean-Pierre’s right to freedom to one court or another, and the angels were standing by it. Those first six months in the aftermath had been on shaky ground.

King Rupert Blondeau had just had the crown of his new kingdom placed on his head when Jean-Pierre Delacroix — his own angelic fiancé — had had some manner of psychotic break and slit his throat. Loki had seen various etchings and sketches of it already, heard the tale from a dozen mouths of people who both had and those who just claimed to have been there, the way he’d suddenly snapped and killed his own lover in front of the crowd of thousands, the way he’d laughed like a madman, and looked terrifyingly beautiful for it in his shining ceremonial armour now spattered with blood.

Asmodeus had been babysitting him ever since — a lot of people spun it as though he were sitting on top of his brother to make sure he didn’t continue his spree of violence, but Loki had known from the beginning that that wasn’t it, and he could see very clearly that that wasn’t it now.

He’d heard Asmodeus talk about it, and while Asmodeus never said explicitly that he was looking after his brother, Loki had put together the vital pieces of the puzzle — that Jean-Pierre was almost always in his brother’s company, that he couldn’t be left alone for any significant length of time, that Asmodeus had been training him in dance and weapons drills and various forms of athletics, keeping his mind and body exhausted.

Were Jean-Pierre not an angel, Loki had no doubt — and assuming, naturally, that he still hadn’t been successfully executed — he would have been a recipient of one of these new-fangled lobotomies by now.

Loki didn’t pretend to be a doctor himself, but he knew what insanity looked like: he saw it in his own mirror, saw it in the faces of various members of his family, and he saw it without a doubt in Jean-Pierre.

“Do many of them hate you on Mount Olympus?” asked Jean-Pierre placidly.

“Not so many as hate me at home,” said Loki, and that made Jean-Pierre laugh.

“Oath-breaker,” he said softly.

“One of my many kennings.”

“Mine too,” said Jean-Pierre.

“Mm,” said Loki, shifting his position in his seat, and noting the way that Jean-Pierre examined his jewellery, the many necklaces and pendants around his neck, the bracelets, the rings. “Do you prefer to be known as oath-breaker, or as l’ange de mort?”

The dismay on Jean-Pierre’s face was very obviously telegraphed, which was in its way a disappointment — Loki was used to having to make far more of a game of provoking him, having to really work to get a reaction from him.

“Ow,” hissed Loki, taken by surprise at the sudden sharp, whip-fast movement of Asmodeus’ hand as it clapped him upside the head — ordinarily, he wouldn’t have felt the blow make contact, but he was wearing his hair up, and Asmodeus could hit very hard when he wanted to.

“Don’t provoke my brother, Loki,” said Asmodeus, and Loki glanced over, then saw that Jean-Pierre’s “dismay” had been replaced with a sort of cold fierceness to his eyes and a slight smirk to his lips.

“Provoke him,” repeated Loki scornfully, unable to keep the smile from his face and not bothering to try. “Look at him — he’s provoking me!”

Asmodeus cupped Jean-Pierre’s cheek, sliding his thumb over the curve of his handsome cheekbone.

“Is your friend going to be wearing all of that jewellery to the party?” he asked, with his customary sweet savagery.

“I expect he’s about to put some more on,” said Asmodeus.

“Oh, no,” said Jean-Pierre.

“Can I hit your brother?” asked Loki.

“No,” said Asmodeus.

“Can you hit him for me?”

Asmodeus smiled down at them, and then patted Jean-Pierre’s cheek — not hard enough to be a slap, but hard enough that Loki heard the sound it made.

“Go, get showered,” said Asmodeus. “You smell like Ephraim’s incense.”

“He gave me a lecture about how they used to formulate it according to Talmudic literature.”

“Ephraim is a rabbi as much as he’s a doctor, Jean, you should know that by now,” said Asmodeus, and he took Jean’s coat as Jean-Pierre stood to his feet and wandered to the bathroom. Asmodeus hung up the coat, and only when the water started running in the other room did he look down at Loki and say, “Which one?”

“Hm?” Loki replied, looking up at him and tilting his head to one side.

“Which one of your wives do I remind you of?” asked Asmodeus, and Loki stared up at him, feeling his lips part.

“Which one gets me into the least trouble?” he asked, and Asmodeus laughed, but there was something in his face, something tight. “You’ve met them both. Which would you rather reminded me of you?”

“I don’t know,” said Asmodeus softly. “Angrboða was beautiful.”

Most people wouldn’t agree with that.

Loki did, still worshiped the ground she had walked on, had hung from her shoulders — he was a big man in deed and body, and it was rare that someone made him feel as small and inconsequential as Angrboða had. Tall and broad-shouldered and stacked with muscle, with the thick cascades of shining hair appropriate to the goddess she wasn’t.

She had been able to walk with all three of their children in her arms, Jormungandr bound and coiled about her body, Hel upon one shoulder, Fenris balanced upon the other — had been able to do it even with Jormungandr was longer than she was three or four times over, even with Fenris larger than even the largest bears grew, even with Hel almost a young woman in her own right.

Sigyn was beautiful in a wholly different way: she was taller than Loki was, too, but narrower. She wasn’t willowy or lithe, precisely, but narrow — she was strong and steadfast and carried her grace most of all in her shoulders, because her hips didn’t sway at all as she moved.

She could hold a bowl steady even when it almost overflowed, so strong and so solid were her arms, and he was grateful for that whenever he felt the sting of the future burning at his eyes.

“Angrboða was beautiful,” Loki agreed. “So is Sigyn. You’re more like her than Boða was — when I look at you, I don’t just see the weight of your muscle, but the control that underlines them. You’d be a perfect wife, were I angling for a third. Sigyn would be happy to hand me over.”

“It’s a shame I know what sort of husband you make,” said Asmodeus wryly, and Loki exhaled as he watched Asmodeus move across the room, picking up the phone again and beginning to turn the dial, entering in another number. “Imagine the children we’d have together.”

“Oh, I do,” said Loki. “All the time.”

Asmodeus laughed, and Loki fell back on the chaise as Asmodeus spoke in English this time — this time, winding the phone cable around his fingers, it seemed to Loki there was more emotion in the movement, more affection. There was a breathlessness to his voice.

Thick, white cloud was beginning to cast across the sky, and Loki sighed as the sunlight he’d been enjoying was blotted out.

* * *

Loki was their means of transport to Mount Olympus.

He wrenched in the very air before them a tear between realities, such that they had to simply pass through one side of the portal and emerge from another at the very base of the mountain. The summer air here was far different to what had been in Bristol, and Jean-Pierre grunted at the sudden shift in air pressure that made his head feel suddenly full.

“Oh, sorry, darling,” said Loki immediately, and reached for Jean-Pierre’s cheeks, cupping his jaw with his hands. “Sudden shift upwards of about thirteen hundred feet, I forgot about your poor head.” Magic radiated from Loki’s palms, and while he didn’t need it — he had accustomed to more extreme differences in elevation in just as short a period — he did appreciate the relief that immediately followed, the lingering warmth on his skin.

“Thank you,” said Jean-Pierre.

“By the Norns, that’s creepy,” muttered Loki, his lips twisting, and Jean-Pierre felt a distant pull of something disapproving, almost indignant, as Loki pulled away from him.

“What?” he asked, and Loki waved one hand dismissively, making the bangles on his wrist clink together like distant bells.

He’d changed his clothes, of course — earlier he’d been in a pair of jeans and a ratty blouse that was such a thin white fabric that it was transparent even before one noted the many holes in it — between all his tattoos on display and the many fabric bracelets he’d been wearing, he’d looked more like a Las Vegas stage magician than a god, if only his hair was black instead of red.

He’d put on a pair of black leather trousers and a dark green shirt — he wore it open, the sleeves rolled up to the elbow and the collar cropped without lapels, and he’d changed out a good deal of the jewellery he was wearing for heavier metals, now wearing silvers and a few platinum pieces, although Jean-Pierre noticed that a fair few of the stone bead ones were still in place.

“Leave him alone,” said Asmodeus, knocking Loki in the head, and Loki began to walk up the dirt path ahead of them.

Jean-Pierre inhaled, taking in the dusty scent of olives on the hair — summer was hotter and heavier here, the humidity a familiar weight on his skin.

“Am I being creepy?” asked Jean-Pierre.

“You’re a little flat, that’s all,” said Asmodeus, reaching out and adjusting Jean’s hair, which he’d braided around one side, the rest of Jean-Pierre’s hair up in a loose and messy bun.

“Flatter than you?” asked Jean-Pierre, aware that it was rude, aware that there was a slight nastiness in his voice even though he couldn’t feel the spite as much as he wanted to, as much as he was meant to. Everything was muted, had been muted for a while, but it was getting better — he was getting better.

Some days, he saw the world in all its colours for hours at a time, and a year ago, that never happened at all, except for when he felt everything at once, and it all went white.

“Tell me the rules,” said Asmodeus, adjusting the front of Jean-Pierre’s vest, which he was wearing open — red trousers, the vest red and gold, his blouse white. He kept unbuttoning the buttons on the breast after Asmodeus buttoned them up, and he could feel De’s fingers twitch, fighting the urge to button it up to the neck again.

“I’ll be with you, mostly, or Loki,” said Jean-Pierre. “Or another angel — Doros, Lucretia, Bernard, Lykan. Try not to get left on my own. Don’t go off with anybody privately, even one of the other angels — stay in the main halls. No highs or stimulants unless I ask you first. No sex unless I ask you first. No fights, either.”

“Are you carrying any weapons?”

“No.”

“Are you lying?”

Jean-Pierre looked up at Asmodeus, his lips twisting, a burn of angry indignation twisting in his chest, burning up from the base of his gut. “No,” he said, sharper now. “What, you want to search me?”

Asmodeus stared down at him, his expression unreadable, and Jean-Pierre stared at up at his face, categorically refusing to look away even though it made his skin prickle and his guts twist in knots, until Asmodeus leaned back on his heels and seemed to slightly relax.

“Fine,” he said. “You forgot the biggest rule.”

Jean-Pierre stared at him, not grasping hold of it, not understanding exactly what he meant for a moment, and then said, “If I’m uncomfortable, I tell you. I call your name. I ask for help.”

“Good,” said Asmodeus, patting his cheek. “Let’s go, then. We’ve a mountain to climb.”

The higher they climbed, the thinner the air got, magic thicker and thicker on it, spread on every square inch of it like clotted cream on pastry. Loki was ahead of them, strode with purpose and focus — it was natural that the heat wouldn’t bother him at all. Sometimes, when he took two steps in quick succession, Jean-Pierre saw the sparks of wildfire under the trainers he wore.

“Why don’t you wear heels?” asked Jean-Pierre.

“You don’t think I’m tall enough?”

“You don’t have to worry about being tall tonight,” said Jean-Pierre. “Everyone here will be taller than you.”

“Unlike you, I don’t think of heels as appropriate mountain-climbing fare.”

“What do you mean, unlike me? My boots don’t have a heel.”

“They make you taller, don’t they?”

“Only by an extra inch, if that,” said Jean-Pierre. “It’s not as if I need it.”

“But I do?”

“You’re just more confident in heels, that’s all,” said Jean-Pierre.

“Oh, I see,” said Asmodeus coolly. “I need additional confidence, do I?”

“Why are you being a bitch?”

Asmodeus grabbed him by the back of the collar, and Jean-Pierre let out a sharp noise as he was hauled closer, and Asmodeus pulled him up so that he was forced onto his tiptoes, struggling with the grip on the scruff of his neck as though he were a recalcitrant kitten.

“Say what you mean, Jean,” said Asmodeus quietly, his gaze so cold Jean-Pierre thought he would freeze. “Or don’t say anything at all.”

Jean-Pierre swallowed, turning his head away, and Asmodeus responded by tightening his grip, pulling Jean-Pierre closer to him. Jean-Pierre looked down, not meeting his gaze, and De responded by immediately grasping his chin from underneath, pushing his head up.

Jean-Pierre looked to the side, but he could still feel the weight of Asmodeus’ stare on him, boring into him.

“Just,” he said, then set his jaw.

“Just?”

“Are you two coming?” called Loki from further up the hill.

“Jean.”

“Just — If I wasn’t here, you’d be letting them flirt with you. You’d be having a good time — you’d be enjoying yourself.”

“You think I won’t enjoy myself because you’re with me?”

“Not like you would if I wasn’t here,” said Jean-Pierre. “If I wasn’t here, you’d be wearing heels.”

“Is that so?”

“And jewellery,” said Jean-Pierre, almost biting out the words because they tasted too bitter in his mouth. “You think I don’t know you’re different with immortals than you are humans? With other angels, even? With me, with Colm, with Benedictine? With — ”

“Jean-Pierre,” said Asmodeus.

When he dropped the scruff of Jean-Pierre’s coat, Jean-Pierre’s feet hit the floor, and he thought that Asmodeus was going to adjust his clothes again, but instead he put his hands on Jean-Pierre’s shoulders, his palms warm and heavy, gripping the tops of his shoulders.

“If I didn’t want you here, do you think I would have brought you?”

“Yes,” said Jean-Pierre. “You’d bring me anywhere. You’d do anything for me, even if it made you miserable.”

“I’m not miserable,” said Asmodeus, clucking his tongue. “I would have asked you to stay with Ephraim another night, if I didn’t want to bring you with me — if I didn’t want you to have a good time with me. Jean-Pierre, for two years, I’ve brought you everywhere with me, but for the small periods you’ve stayed with Ephraim or Bene. I have done so out of duty, and out of love — if I felt like putting aside either for my solitude, I would already have done so.” His voice was solid and smooth and firm, sterner than he was even when instructing Jean-Pierre in drills or dance, and it made him relax.

He’d made him sting, though.

Jean-Pierre knew that, knew that he’d managed to cut even though he hadn’t truly been meaning to, because Asmodeus’ face was just slightly more expressionless than it usually was, a complete and solid mask.

“I can go home with Doros,” said Jean-Pierre. “If you wanted me to. If you wanted to, to let Mr Zagre take you home, or — ”

“I’m an ambassador, Jean-Pierre.”

“Don’t bullshit me,” said Jean-Pierre. “This is Olympus — this is not a soirée for a sitting government or some political affair. It may not be a fully liberated bacchanal, but don’t pretend to me that your intentions here are purely as angelic servant — you were invited here to enjoy yourself, as yourself, and that is why you accepted the invitation. You wouldn’t have brought me here were that not the case.”

Asmodeus inhaled, tension showing in his jaw, but then he raised his head, and now, he smoothed out Jean-Pierre’s clothes.

“If I wish to be alone with someone, I will be,” said Asmodeus quietly. “I know the limits of my own sacrifice, and believe it or not, if I wanted to bring a man home and deposit him in my bed, I would do so, regardless of whether you approved or not. Is that clear?”

“Mm,” said Jean-Pierre. “Yes, De.”

“Go, then,” said Asmodeus, and Jean-Pierre began back up the hill.

Loki was looking back at them, his head held high, his hands clasped loosely together in front of his belly. His lips were pressed loosely together and his face was expressionless, his eyes distant as he waited for them to catch up.

Now, with the sun lighting the sparks in his hair and glittering in his mismatched eyes, each a different colour, all the light in the world seeming to gleam off the jewellery he wore, he did look like a god, flames licking about his shoulders, his waist, his head, in a halo just beyond the veil.

“We’re at the threshold,” he said. “You’re on divine ground, as soon as you catch up to me.”

Jean-Pierre nodded his head, and trudged up to meet him.

He felt the change in the air as surely as he had coming through the portal from Bristol, but this time, there was no pop in his ears and no change in pressure — there was simply a sudden change in energy, a thrum that tingled under his skin, and he sighed, enjoying the way it heated his blood, made his scalp tingle.

“Ha,” said Loki softly. “You’re not unfamiliar with ground like this, are you?”

“I’ve climbed this mountain before,” said Jean-Pierre, and walked ahead this time.

* * *

“Do you ever just hate your brother?” asked Loki, and Asmodeus laughed, shaking his head as more wine was poured for him, a fine vintage of mundane wine for the time being, although Loki knew he was perfectly capable of drinking the magically fortified wines favoured by the gods of this mountain.

“Never,” said Asmodeus softly, but followed Loki’s gaze.

They’d lingered time and time again on the mountain, and Loki had wondered if the whole night through, Asmodeus would be taking time aside to lecture his little brother as to his manners and his compunction, as it seemed he was doing continuously as they’d come up the mountain path, but he’d been wrong to even think of it.

Jean-Pierre was arm-in-arm with another angel, Doros, with whom Loki was acquainted — they looked like mirrors of one another, the both of them tall and beautiful in their haughty ways, but where Jean-Pierre was pale and fair-haired and blue-eyed, Doros had a slightly darker, warmer hue to his skin, thick dark curls, and similarly dark eyes.

They were the archetypal Gaul and Greek, each with matching faces to differing specifications, Jean-Pierre’s nose strong and square with a sharp tip, Doros’ more aquiline in its carving; Jean-Pierre’s brow smooth and more delicate where his brother’s was heavy; Jean-Pierre’s lips brightly pink, Doros’ a duskier, darker colour, as though they’d already been kissed bruised.

Even when they laughed, they did it in synchronicity, and they laughed now, the two of them speaking easily with a pair of spell-bound priestesses who were looking in awe at Doros’ wings, with curved about himself and the back of his brother.

Two thousand years ago, or thereabouts, on Asmodeus’ behalf Loki had put in a bid for Doros — Hephaestus, having found him and caged him, had put him up for auction as a curiosity, and they had refused Asmodeus the opportunity to bid for him himself, not being a god, and having no standing there.

Loki hadn’t won, of course.

Hermes had — he had kept Doros as his favoured possession, his consort, all these many centuries, and yet Loki couldn’t help but wonder if he would ever have bid on the angel at all, were it not for his thinking Loki wanted him first.

“He looks natural here,” said Loki softly. “Has no one attempted to sway him to their priesthood?”

“All the time,” said Asmodeus. “Many years ago, while he was living in Vietnam but kept travelling on the continent, your brother tried a few times to sway him, but he’s a staunch Catholic.”

“Which brother?”

“Nezha.”

“Oh, him,” said Loki, and laughed. “He would. Have none of the Catholic gods tried?”

“I don’t think he likes it when you call them Catholic gods,” said Asmodeus dryly, and Loki threw up his hands. “He does look better, doesn’t he? For being here?”

“I’m no expert, he’s your brother,” said Loki. “But yes. He likes parties, doesn’t he?”

“So long as he doesn’t get too tired,” murmured Asmodeus, and then turned his head. “Dio.”

Dionysus grinned down at the both of them as he came over, and Loki gripped his arm before he let the other god haul him against his huge, barrel chest for a hug that made Loki’s bones creak; he hugged Asmodeus even more tightly, naturally, and cupped both of their heads in his big hands, grinning wildly.

“My boys who aren’t boys,” he rumbled affectionately, and Loki sniggered, patting his palm against Dionysus’ thick curls of chest hair.

“That’s the three of us,” he agreed. “We could start a not-boy band.”

“How are you, Dio?”

“Bad,” said Dionysus, picking up the bottle Asmodeus had poured their drinks from. “You’re drinking mundie wine instead of my brew?”

“I brought my brother,” demurred Asmodeus. “I’m trying to stay — ”

“What brother?” demanded Dionysus, looking around. “Why doesn’t he just — Oh! Jean!”

“Salut, Monsieur Zagre,” called Jean-Pierre politely, giving Dionysus a dazzling smile, and Dionysus immediately put his arm around Asmodeus’ shoulder, leaning down over him with his great bulk. Dionysus was large, towered over the both of them, but Asmodeus didn’t flinch at the weight on his shoulder, nor Dionysus’ natural, rippling brawn.

“Jean loves to party,” said Dio, scratching at his thick beard with even thicker fingers. “He won’t mind if you drink.”

Loki didn’t strain to listen as Asmodeus leaned in slightly, murmuring in Dionysus’ ear, no doubt reminding him precisely who Jean-Pierre was and what he’d been doing lately: Loki watched Dionysus’ thick brows furrow together, watched his lips twist under his beard.

“Well,” he said. “That’s no reason you shouldn’t drink. Come sit with me later — drink from my cup.”

“I’ll try,” said Asmodeus.

“Liar,” said Loki, clucking his tongue at the same time Dionysys curled his lip. “Darling, we’re not your little angel children. You can’t lie to us — we invented it.”

“I’m older than you,” Asmodeus replied, putting a little magic into his voice, a little of that old resonance that came from before time, and Loki shivered. “I will try, Dio.”

“Do,” said Dio, and kissed Asmodeus’ cheek. “Are you fucking?”

“Not right this moment.”

“My father has this new priest — ”

“Severus,” said Asmodeus, and Loki felt his face light up, felt his eyebrows raise, watched the same thing occur in Dio’s features, although Asmodeus’ face remained almost blank.

“I’ve already introduced you?” asked Dio.

“You don’t need to,” said Asmodeus, sipping from his glass. “The two of us are acquainted.”

“You know, De, so few people would know to look at you what a whore you are,” said Loki admiringly, and Asmodeus frowned at him even as Dionysus belly-laughed, the hand not wrapped around Asmodeus patting his own prodigious stomach.

“I suppose this does mean I was right to think he might suit your preferences, though!”

“You weren’t wrong, no,” said Asmodeus, almost prim. “Merely that that road has already been taken.”

“How many times?” asked Loki, and Asmodeus flicked wine at him, spattering drops over his nose and making him laugh and flick sparks back at him. “How did you — ”

“Fuck, excuse me,” said Asmodeus, and Loki’s head whipped to the side to look after him as Asmodeus went back toward Jean-Pierre, who was held by the waist of —

“Oh, fuck,” Loki echoed, and he and Dio followed after him as Dio asked in an aside, “De let him bring a dagger?”

* * *

Jean-Pierre was stock-still, his jaw set, and where he pressed the blade of the knife he’d had under his vest to the very underside of the god’s jaw, it pressed against the skin, threatening to draw out what was too black to be blood — but then, this wouldn’t be the first time Jean-Pierre had drawn forth ichor like this.

“Such a long time since I’ve laid eyes on that handsome face of yours,” rumbled his captor: he was huge, stacked lightly with muscle, and one of his impossibly broad hand was splayed on Jean-Pierre’s waist — with both of them, he would be able to encircle Jean-Pierre’s middle, he was sure. “Where ever have you been?”

“Unhand me,” said Jean-Pierre. “Or your concern will be less where I have been and more where my knife is.”

“Going to slit my throat?” asked the god. “Want a drink, do you?”

Jean-Pierre’s skin was burning, his heart pounding in his chest, and the god stared down at him, something shifting in his expression. He wore a red cape thrown over his shoulder, pinned about his waist, and an armoured skirt and sandals, a sword hanging from his belt.

“Jean-Pierre?”

“Let me go,” growled Jean-Pierre, and the god laughed, reaching to touch his face, loosely gripping his jaw: Jean-Pierre pressed harder with the blade, but the other man didn’t so much as flinch, just chuckled even as blackness welled against the blade’s edge.

“You don’t know me, it seems,” he said. “But I know you — I know and admire your work. I’ve missed you, all these years — where have you been?”

“Let me go,” said Jean-Pierre again, and he hated how his voice faltered — his heart was beating even harder, his lungs aching and his head feeling swollen, dizziness flowing hard over him.

“Lord Ares,” said Asmodeus from the side, but Jean-Pierre couldn’t see him — his vision had narrowed down to a tunnel, everything blurring to blackness except for the face of the Greek holding him, whose heavy brow had furrowed in consternation, his lips twisted.

“What’s wrong with you?” he asked softly, and then turned to the side, looking toward where Asmodeus’ voice had come from. “What’s wrong with him?”

“He’s not well,” Jean-Pierre heard Asmodeus say — his hands had gone weak, and although he tried to stop them trembling, he concentrated so hard on heaving in a breath that his hand went weak, and the dagger fell out of his hands at the same time his knees went weak.

“Oh, hey, hey, alright, alright,” said the big man, and Jean-Pierre was ashamed of the tears welling in his eyes, but Ares caught him before he fell, and heat radiated from him, a hot tingle that burned over Jean-Pierre’s skin, settling in his muscles like the ache after exercise. “Focus on that. Feel it? Feel the exhaustion, the ache, the burn, feel it hit you, feel it heavy in you?”

“What next?” asked Jean-Pierre scornfully. “A breathing exercise?”

“That was my next port of call,” said Ares, and despite his irritation, Jean-Pierre laughed breathlessly, his head feeling a little lighter — the tunnel vision lingered for some time, but Ares did not make him breathe in or out for a count — they simply breathed together, one of Jean-Pierre’s hands splayed on Ares’ chest, bared on one side, and the other fisted in the cape he wore. “Your heart was beating like a sparrow’s.”

“A stranger grabbed me unexpectedly.”

“That wouldn’t have bothered you before,” said Ares. “You might not know me, but I’ve watched you — as I said, I’m an admirer of your work. Do you have any idea how many wars you’ve started?”

“Fewer than I’ve finished.”

“You’ve finished a few too, though,” murmured Ares softly. “What happened to you? You were… so strong.”

“Lord Ares,” said Asmodeus again, and this time Jean-Pierre could see him as he turned to look at him. He was holding Jean-Pierre’s dagger by the blade, but he looked more concerned than angry, and Jean-Pierre slowly exhaled, splaying his hand wider on Ares’ chest, feeling the heat of his skin, the firmness of his pectoral muscle and his shoulder, too.

“I’d heard you assassinated some would-be king,” said Ares quietly. “But — ”

“I was held captive for many years,” said Jean-Pierre. He didn’t know why he said it, didn’t know why he admitted it — the last few years, effectively, had been spent plastered to Asmodeus’ side, with an interim for his romance with Rupert, as poorly fated as that was. “Solitary confinement. For… De?”

“For six years,” said Asmodeus quietly.

“Six years in a hole, Lord Ares,” said Jean-Pierre. “A year free, a few years in service to — to the man you mentioned. And then, then I’ve been with my brother.”

“Fuck,” said Ares, and then dragged him closer, his hand on Jean-Pierre’s arse this time instead of his waist. “Would you like to be my captive instead?”

“Ares — ” growled Asmodeus, but Jean-Pierre laughed, shoving Ares backward: it was a quick motion between the two of them, all footwork and movements of their hips, more like a dance than a spar.

Ares tried to grab him by the throat again, but Jean-Pierre dodged it with ease — he was inhumanly fast, naturally, but his size counted against him when Jean-Pierre was so lithe and small in comparison, and when Jean-Pierre managed to dance behind him, it was the war god who laughed.

Ares was canny to the movement the second time, grabbing him around his middle and dragging him closer again. “What boon do I need to offer you to be my champion?”

“I don’t want any boons from you,” said Jean-Pierre, laughing. “I’m not some young warrior at your bidding, Lord Ares, desperate for your promised glory and willing to trade my dignity for it.”

“You don’t need to need to convert to take a reward from me,” said Ares — his hand was rubbing circles at the small of his back, wholly different from how Rupert had touched him, from how Rupert had ever touched him, even before Jean-Pierre slit his throat and watched the crown fall from his head. “Keep your one true God — I just want a champion who’ll win me bragging rights from the gauntlet today.”

“Fight yourself.”

Ares laughed. “We don’t fight ourselves — you’d be fighting priests and hand-picked warriors, champions of my brothers and sisters.”

“Can I?” asked Jean-Pierre, turning his head, and he looked at Asmodeus where he stood with Loki and Mr Zagre at his shoulders, and he saw the tension in De’s face, saw the way he gripped Jean-Pierre’s blade in his hand, saw the coolness in his gaze.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” said Asmodeus.

“Are you my brother or my keeper?” retorted Jean-Pierre, and Asmodeus arched his eyebrows, his look growing even colder.

“In your case, Jean-Pierre, I am both.”

“Won’t it be good for my reputation?” he demanded. “For yours?”

“To earn a god’s boon?”

“To win a competition at an event of political significance.”

“I believe you were advising me earlier that this was no ambassadorial event,” said Asmodeus dryly, “And that I was obviously here for — ”

“De,” said Jean-Pierre plaintively. “Please?”

“Go on, De,” said Ares. “He said please.”

“What will you give him?” asked Asmodeus.

“Negotiating on his behalf, are you?” asked Ares, arching his eyebrows. “I’ll give him whatever he asks for.”

“I want your sword,” said Jean-Pierre, and laughed at the way Ares’ expression suddenly shifted, his lips frowning, his brows knitting together.

“What?”

“Your sword,” said Jean-Pierre, and gestured to Ares’ belt — it was nothing extraordinarily impressive, just a xiphos with a heavy handle and a blade polished to a perfect shine, but it was no simple ceremony blade, and Jean-Pierre knew without touching it that it likely had a host of enchantments embedded in its forging.

Ares laughed slowly, his dark eyes glinting. “Your brother’s a mischievous one, isn’t he?” he asked softly, his voice rich with amusement, arousal, pleasure. “I’ve always liked him. For two hundred years, he’s brought me nothing but satisfaction. He’ll have my sword, then, if he wins for me.”

“If,” repeated Jean-Pierre, with more scorn than mockery — it sat ill with him for reasons he didn’t feel able to put into words, the idea that any war-god should look on him so favourably — and looked back to De, who was exhaling, but in the way he did when he was about to give in. “Can I have my knife back?”

“You told me you weren’t carrying one,” said Asmodeus coldly.

“I offered to let you search me,” said Jean-Pierre, and De scowled at him in a way that really did make his stomach flip, his skin hot and cold at once, but he held out the dagger nonetheless.

Jean-Pierre took it, secreting it in his clothes again, and took Ares’ arm to be led down the steps to where the arena was laid out, still in the process of being set up. His head throbbed, his heart feeling too big for his chest, so that he felt every beat of it.

The taste of blood in his mouth brought his mind to a keen focus, and he almost felt normal — as normal as he got, these days.

* * *

Jean-Pierre fought like a demon in the ring, naturally.

Loki had seen him fight before, had seen him spar and seen his work as assassin — in a competition setting, he was no less graceful, no less cunning, and no less efficient with his knifework.

In the hand-to-hand, he had dominated many of his opponents with ease, including a new daughter of Poseidon, some young demigod with more muscle than sense; in the speed trials, he’d been in the top five; now, cutting down automata, his count vastly exceeded his opponents.

“Does Tyr know who my brother is?” asked Asmodeus, not looking away from the action for a moment.

“No idea,” said Loki. “If Ares knows him this well, then, yes, probably. Ares and Tyr are closer brothers than he and I.”

A muscle twitched in Asmodeus’ jaw, even though his face remained studiously blank. “I see,” he said, in a tone conveyed that he did not like what he saw, and would be making adjustments to the view as soon as he was able.

Loki moved forward, resting his elbows on the edge of the balcony wall as Asmodeus was doing, and stared down at the fighters as they moved over the dust. Jean-Pierre finally looked as radiant as Loki remembered him being — he was laughing as he moved, his eyes glittering with fierce excitement, and even when he wasn’t enjoying himself as he was now, there was a hungry focus to his movement that hadn’t been present before.

He was completely, utterly engaged, alive, and life suited him very well — he was radiant with it.

“Asmodeus,” said Loki quietly.

“Mm.”

“I didn’t know that he was held captive.”

Asmodeus’ expression didn’t change. He didn’t blink. No muscles moved in his throat or his jaw.

“You were doing this,” said Loki quietly, “some years ago. Before he went to the German boy — you were carrying him around with you for, what, a year? People commented on it. I remember, Dio remarked on it, that you’d brought Jean with you to his vineyard, and you stayed there several weeks. I remember him saying how unlike you it was, to stay.”

“My brother was held captive for six years,” said Asmodeus quietly. “You recall I was looking for him?”

“I remembered you looking for something,” said Loki. “I didn’t realise it was him.”

“I found him in 1946. He was… insensible. We moved very little that year — I tried not to make him travel too much, but he couldn’t be alone, and I ordinarily cant linger in one place. He couldn’t handle travelling — when he met Rupert, he was enamoured. He was a boxer. A lawyer. He was… prim and poetic, but he appeared more delicate than he truly was. He was very kind, very generous, and very much an idealist.”

“And, what, Jean didn’t know he was in line for a throne?”

“The throne was manufactured,” murmured Asmodeus. “It would have been little more than yet another magical micronation, but the monarchy was intended to give them some legitimacy, I think. They were already engaged before his uncle pushed the idea of the coronation, and I…” Asmodeus put his head in his hand, pressing his thumb and the tips of his fingers to either side of his brows, his eyes closing. “I should have been there. With him, had I been there, I would have been able to see the signs, to realise, but those people had no idea how to read him. He was profoundly unwell, pressured from all sides, and he had convinced himself that he would be alright with whatever happened, so long as he remained at the side of his new lover. When he saw the crown on his head, heard the coronation speech, he just…” Asmodeus snapped his fingers.

“You’re really blaming yourself for this?” asked Loki dryly. “Do you blame yourself for all of his other assassinations, too?”

“This wasn’t like the other assassinations.”

“Well, no,” said Loki. “Your brother’s never been of sound mind, but I imagine he was somewhat sounder doing all of those — not coming off the back of six years in solitary confinement.” He was trying to be wry, but his voice sounded a little too wooden to his own ears, and Asmodeus didn’t smile or soften. “One of the fae governments, was it?”

Asmodeus stared down at the backs of his own knuckles, spreading his palms out for a moment before he loosely gripped at the balcony railing again.

“You know Ares,” he said.

“Of course,” said Loki. “Ever since we weren’t children.”

That made Asmodeus laugh — it was a soft, quiet sound, but it was a relief to see the shift of his lips, the softness of his smile. He wasn’t anything like Sigyn, in truth, nor particularly like Angrboða — he was so much more forgiving than either of them, lacked Sigyn’s mercurial nature or Angrboða’s hot temper. His control went deeper than his muscles and his grace — his were still waters that ran very, very deep.

“He was joking?” asked Asmodeus. “When he said he’d hold Jean captive?”

“Oh, he’d never bother with that,” said Loki. “I don’t think — he’s too impatient by his nature, to actually keep a hostage, a prisoner.”

Asmodeus crumpled, dropping forward, his elbows on the balcony railing again, his head in his hands, and Loki’s hand went to his back, resting between his shoulder blades and feeling the impossible tension there.

“Norns,” he murmured. “They might as well have invited Atlas, what with you holding the world on these shoulders.”

“I can’t fix him, Loki,” whispered Asmodeus. “I can’t make him better. Six years in a cell, no windows, no people, no books, even. Just four walls, three meals a day, and once in six months he’d go inside, and Jean-Pierre would pull him into his bed in the hope it would make him stay longer. I knew he wasn’t fine. I knew that he wasn’t… But I’d spent six years looking for him, and another year caring for him. I was under a lot of pressure from the Embassy to return to my ordinary… I greet every angel that Falls personally, Loki. On the day they hit the ground, if I can — if not, in as short a time as possible. For millennia, that’s what I’ve done.”

“What’s seven years?” asked Loki quietly. “Twenty new angels? Less? It’s not as if no other angel is capable of giving them their welcome package and apologising for the state of the world they’ve dropped into.”

“Loki — ”

“You felt guilty for devoting time to one brother, when you’ve got a few thousand others to juggle,” said Loki. “I’d like to believe it were even true, were it not the fact that I know Jean-Pierre. How many names did he call you when he told you to leave him be with his fancy new German fiancé, hm? Which particular insecurities of yours did he aim for — your obsessive focus on your work? Your emotional distance? Your gender, maybe? Did he perhaps suggest that your intent focus on acting as his nursemaid and keeping him from going on the violent spree was the manifestation of your desire to have children of your own?”

“Loki,” whispered De, and Loki hummed, crossing his arms loosely over his chest and looking down at Jean-Pierre as he ripped out the spinal column of one of the automata, sending its metal skeleton dropping to the dirt.

“He knows you very well, that little brother of yours,” said Loki. “He knows which wounds to stick his fingers in when he wants you to leave him alone — or give him his knife back.”

“Because of me — ”

“Because of you, your brother is alive and well and laughing,” said Loki. “He’s going to be fine — he is mad, yes, but he was mad before he was held hostage, and before he murdered his fiancé. He’ll always be mad. It’s his nature, that instability. It’s as much a part of him as his wings, no matter how hidden. You didn’t make him that way.”

Asmodeus turned his head into Loki’s, and Loki pressed their noses, their foreheads together, wrapping an arm around Asmodeus’ side.

“How long since you’ve been back to that man of yours?” he asked quietly. “The one in Nottingham?”

“He’s not my man,” said Asmodeus.

“I don’t see anybody else wanting to lay claim.”

“I brought him there first,” said Asmodeus. “Nottingham isn’t so far from Camelot.”

“Camelot?” repeated Loki, and felt his jaw drop. “You mean his captor was — ”

The bell sounded, and Jean-Pierre raised his hands high in victory as it was announced, grinning like a devil.

“In any case,” said Loki, trying to put it out of his head, “you should go back there. He makes you happy, doesn’t he? I hear he’s a funny little man — pudgy and old-fashioned, very prim and proper. A Scotsman.”

“What, you had him vetted?”

“The Allfather likes antiques,” said Loki. “Your man sells them.”

“Nosy old codger,” muttered Asmodeus.

Down on the arena floor, Jean-Pierre was waving up at them, beaming like sunshine. Asmodeus waved back, his lips unsmiling.

“He’s having a good time,” said Loki.

“I know,” said Asmodeus. “After this is through, he’ll crash.”

“And you?” asked Loki.

Asmodeus didn’t say anything, but he caught Loki’s hand in his, and squeezed it. Loki squeezed back.

* * *

At the hotel room, Loki waited outside of the door that adjoined the two hotel rooms — Jean-Pierre’s wasn’t rented on its own, but was part of the sort of suite up on the top floor.

Jean-Pierre had started silently crying on the walk home, and although he’d done his best to both hide it from Asmodeus and to stop, he hadn’t been able to do either. He was shaking nearly constantly, and he’d already lost almost all interest in the weapon he’d won, so that it was sat aside on the dresser.

In the other room, Loki could hear the sounds Jean-Pierre was making, desperate, bitten-back sobs that he was trying his best to muffle. “Why can’t I stop?” he asked raggedly, voice breaking in the middle. “I’m so tired, I just want it to stop — ”

He hadn’t voiced it aloud, but he had been hopeful, in a distant way, that he and Asmodeus might be able to go to bed together once his brother was put to bed himself, exhausted from the party. Loki had thought Jean-Pierre would be tired enough to simply sleep, not tired enough that he sobbed over it.

He looked through the gap in the door, saw Asmodeus sitting on the bed with Jean-Pierre crumpled in his lap, his shoulders racked with sobs.

“I’m going to go,” mouthed Loki, gesturing with one hand, and he saw the tautness in Asmodeus’ face, saw him open his mouth, but then Jean-Pierre heaved in a gasp and started sobbing harder, and he closed it.

“Thank you,” he mouthed back, and nodded to Loki as he took his leave.