milliways_bar | (no subject)

Thor thought he was leaving his chambers for the palace hallway. (He also thought that the only doors to Milliways seemed to be on Earth, and not Asgard.)

And yet: Milliways.

The Thor that casts a look across the barroom looks notably different than anyone here will have seen him before. He's clad in armor, and carries a large war-hammer easily in one hand. And there's a subtle radiance to him that wasn't there before -- not an actual glow, but as if the light is hitting him differently, so that all the colors of his body and clothing are just a tad more saturated than those of anything around him.

Other things Thor looks: weary, and heartsore.

Thor wouldn't necessarily mind companionship right now, but this -- this brightly lit room full of bustle and strangers and curious faces and lives untouched by his brother's life and his brother's (probable) death -- is exactly what he doesn't want. That one look done, he heads straight for the back door.

You'll be able to find him out back, striding alongside the lake, or sitting on a rock some ways away from the bar with his forearms on his knees and his hammer resting beside him.

Or, perhaps, you'll just see a strangely isolated thunderstorm moving rapidly over the lake towards the mountains, with what the keen-eyed might perceive to be a humanoid form in its midst.

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Thor considers that, heavy-hearted and serious.

My brother is--

"I think not," he says, weary sorrow under his words.

"It is not a matter that any words can remedy."

She frowns.

"That sounds pretty bad."

"Yes."

Well. It is.

Was.

Will always be.

Aphrodite nods, sighing softly.

(It puts one rather in mind of doves and summer breezes.)

She glances to him slantways.

"I could give you a hug."

Thor's surprised into a quick, ruefully amused glance sideways.

(The amusement is very much dimmed from what it would be, any other night.)

Is my mood so clear? he doesn't ask, because he knows full well it is.

"My brother," he says to the distant trees, and has to steel himself for an instant to finish the sentence, "is dead."

"Or so I fear. I know not how he could have survived."

She hadn't really intended to actually provoke a confession, and at the revelation, her breath catches in her throat.

(She has to admit, she can't conceive of what the world would be like if any of her brothers weren't in it anymore.)

"Oh," she murmurs.

"Sweetie. I'm sorry."

Yeah.

Thor doesn't say anything, because -- what could he say?

He's said it. And the night breeze sounds that much more empty afterwards.

Yet again, Aphrodite isn't so great with all this grieving and death.

In her defense, her family has never really had anybody on call for that sort of thing. (Hades' bedside manner leaves something to be desired.) And while she's an advocate of losing yourself-- and your cares-- in someone else's touch, she's aware that some mortals have the gall to find this lacking.

Everybody else is full of swirling, often contradictory urges.

She herself is just the one.

"You know," soft, "I wasn't really joking about the hug."

Thor glances at her again.

This twist of a smile is self-deprecating, almost self-mocking. Thor's heart is all grief and guilt and bewildered pain right now. But Aphrodite doesn't deserve his mood; he'll spare her the little of it he can.

Silently, he lifts a massive arm.

Aphrodite smiles gently.

And leans in.

Where her words often fail, her touch certainly doesn't. If her hugs are perhaps not of the same caliber as her kisses, it's only because comparing the two is a case of apples and oranges.

Her embrace -- anyone's embrace, anything at all -- shouldn't ease his heart, he thinks.

But it does. Just a little.

And sometimes, a little is enough to matter.