It's been a week, and he still can't sleep.
Lying awake in a bed that's not his—it's not natural. The blankets and sheets (forever tangled between his legs) are shoved down to his waist, and he'd like to feel bad about sleeping naked in his brother's bed, but he just can't. He blinks slowly from where he stares out the window. The moon is big and bright, a half-waned crescent bitten and cragged just like his thumbnail. The light that spills in through the glass is misty, and the lone tree outside tilts with the wind, making dark patterns across his face.
There are books upon books stacked on the desk near the window; philosophy and physics and he doesn't think that he'll ever touch them again. He doesn't really have any desire or inclination to return to school. Just... not now. Not yet. Not anytime soon.
Sure, he's strong enough—mentally, in any case—but he doesn't think that he'll ever actually recover from this. He doesn't think or even care about graduating. Not anymore.
When he actually listens and pays attention, he can hear the sound of the occasional car whooshing by outside. His phone rests on the nightstand, turned off as it has been all week. Right now—right now; he doesn't think he's ever going to contact any of his friends again. He knows that he is being childish, but everything has gone to shit and—
He should feel sorry; he knows they'll worry and call, but he doesn't have it in him to talk.
It's still too soon.
He's barely over nineteen years old, and the world has ended. Goodbye school and goodbye friends— the thought of returning to that life makes him nauseous, physically sickened. He no longer wants to attend medical school, and he sure as hell no longer wants to be a psychiatrist.
Just before he shut his phone off, his entire inbox was packed full of text messages and voice recordings. All sorry and sympathetic and Are you going to be alright? He listened to two voice-mails before his heart concaved somewhere down by his navel. He can't hear any of that right now. Can't hear or believe any of that tripe, so he doesn't. He shuts off his phone and keeps everyone else at bay. It's better that he holes himself up in his parent's house and not talk, lest the beast in his gut unleashes all its fury.
He only leaves once a day for his daily trip.
It's enough for now. Until Thor forgives him.
..
It has been very difficult to think for about three weeks now, with all the gunk they've been pumping into his wrist. It's clear and comes from a plastic bag, the type you see in TV hospital dramas; Grey's Anatomy and the like. But doctor TV shows, the hospital itself, it all makes him think of his brother and his brother's stupid goals and that is the last thing he needs.
Thank God for drugs.
He doesn't know how he's supposed to sleep in this godforsaken place. The pediatrics ward is right down the hall, and it's the corridor reserved for the— he hates the word— terminally ill. It's for the bald skeleton children that ghost by in wheelchairs.
There are two types of skeleton children: there are the ones hunched over and wheezing, defeated, and there are the ones who laugh and point at him as they're pushed past his door. You have girly hair! He does not, the little bastards, but he scowls at them good naturedly and winks at them anyway, which sends them into giggles.)
Loki would call him painfully selfless. Thor can practically hear him now: "Even when you're dying, you need an audience. You great fool."
He's tried to read magazines, play board games, do crossword puzzles (he's awful at them; Loki was always the cerebral one). But the slightest effort wears him out, reminds him of the pain in his chest and his heart and his head. The bandages are still wrapped tight, everywhere. They should be a sign of healing, shouldn't they? But they're not. He's been told that there is no getting well soon, whatever the Hallmark cards on his bedside table may say.
It has been difficult to think, indeed, but that actually may be a blessing. When his head clears for even a moment (it's usually when the drugs are wearing off, and that's as bad as remembering), it's filled with images of his brother. Loki, Loki, Loki. He closes his eyes, but the pictures are inside, not out, so what good will that do?
He consoles himself with curses. Stupid, idiot, narcissistic brother of mine, brother with a Napoleon complex big enough to crush Napoleon himself, brother brother brother of mine—
The most alarming part of this entire mess, though, is his own willingness to forgive. And there is something more disturbing in that than the entire catastrophe itself— something dangerous in how the image of sharp cheekbones and a smile makes the pain throbbing through Thor's body dissipate, even if it's only for a second, even if it's only imagined.
Even if in the end, this is all Loki's fault. Manipulative, jealous, possessive Loki and one horrible decision.
When he's feeling well enough, a nurse helps him into a stiff wooden chair, and he looks out of the window. He's been less and less able to do so, but when he can, he always sitsaround three in the afternoon. And his brother, without fail, is in the parking lot, ambling around for about an hour, obviously trying to muster the courage to enter. Loki's hair is getting longer, he notices, and Loki looks sallow, disheveled, more so every time; even with the drugs, which are usually so capable of numbing him, he's struck by every sighting.
Does Loki come here every day? Why is he here when he should be at school? Does he agonize about what he's done?
And why doesn't he come in so Thor can forgive him properly?
..
A cigarette dangles between the seam of his lips.
The air is cool and nippy, painted still by the colors of winter. He finds himself dressed in a navy blue jacket with a matching scarf; it was a gift from Thor, a regulated token from memories past. He thinks that he should derive some sort of comfort in it, but he doesn't.
It's dry outside— anhydrous and somber—and the sky is covered with fluffy tails of gray. It looks like it's about to rain, but Loki isn't fooled. It never rains here. Not that he really minds; he thinks the setting is just about right— the outside matches what he feels on the inside, in any case.
The parking lot is a desolate place, filled with people yakking ninety to nothing on cell-phones and beepers. Some are jubilant—"They'll release her this afternoon, baby!"— and others are quiet, their voices resigned and soft when they say:"He's getting sicker by the minute, and the Doctor says there's nothing else they can do."
Loki sighs.
Leaves get kicked up as he walks, and he rather likes the steady 'crunch crunch crunch' they make as he steps through them. He's finally reached the front entrance of the hospital after weeks of stalking about outside, and though he doubts he'll make it past the gift shop area, the first step inside is a start. He crushes his cigarette beneath his sneaker before entering.
It's generic in every sense of the word, all cheap décor and green carpet, with south-facing windows and janitors milling about. It occurs to him that it would be very easy to become invisible inside a hospital, and he almost smiles. He wanders pass the receptionist's desk and eyes the gift shop with a certain sense of scrutiny. The little alcove is filled with balloons and candy cigars, books and baby clothes. The people browsing inside quizzically pick at everything slightly colorful and Loki shudders to think of all the germs passing around in that one little room.
The cafeteria is set adjacent down the corridor. Figuring that the dining hall would be more sanitary, Loki forgoes his trip inside the gift shop in favor of eating.
The cafeteria is huge. Full of people wearing scrubs and crisp lab coats, sitting with college-degree posture and poise. Loki always thought doctors would be real health nuts but these people eat junk food like it is going out of style. Big piles of nachos, hamburgers wide as plates, apple pie topped with vanilla ice-cream and sprinkles—all the good stuff. One lone worker named Nadine stands beside a steamed-fish and onion tray. Loki knows that Thor would definitely talk to her, but Loki's tongue has the habit of swelling fat when talking to strangers, so he simply motions for a plate of her fish and adds a pile of mashed potatoes on the side, nabbing a yogurt before he plops down at an empty table.
The people sitting next to him are serious and frowning, using big words so long that Loki's surprised they don't choke. But it's all very official and it's nice to hang around people who know what they're talking about unlike his parents who say ridiculous things like "It's not your fault" and "You know he'll forgive you".
Loki could be one of these doctors. He really could. But then he thinks of Thor floors above him, hooked to wires and machines and struggling to live. Loki swallows the fish in his mouth and it settles like lead in his stomach.
He thinks of slinking into Thor's room and crawling into bed with him, snuggling beneath the white itchy sheets and breathing in his scent. The nurses surely have shaved his beard by now and Loki thinks of rubbing his skin against the smooth skin there, kissing at his lips and whispering apologies while sinking down onto his—
The thought sends Loki running out the hospital.
..
Loki has always been tall, but feet, inches, meters, whatever have never been enough to paint his full picture. How Thor figures Loki in his mind is more of an intrinsic thing, drawn through memory, pulled from childhood pranks and fights and all the times Loki tried to hide in Thor's closet because he was scared of thunder.
Thor would pull him out, laughing while his brother whimpered, and say, "Loki, there's no such thing as thunder. It's the lions in Africa, yelling at you, telling you to come out of the closet." (Before they knew the implications of such a phrase.)
And Loki would giggle, reluctantly, and argue, like he always did, always does: "No, Thor. You're so loud, the thunder is you shouting!"
And Thor would throw out a big, booming laugh to prove it.
And not like he'd admit it, but sharing a bed with his brother after a scare was a comfort to him, too. When they were six they'd hold each other so close their first whiff of morning air was of each other's breath. (Never pleasant.) And their parents would come in and kiss them awake and laugh about their boys, their boys, always joined at the hip.
Drawn together by thunder storms.
Those scared nights changed somewhere along the way, though, and Thor could never be sure where. Or why. Did Loki ask him: can we do this, brother? Yes, Loki was always the one to initiate, always the one to encourage subtly, make Thor throw baseballs inside even though Father told them not to, to make Thor— he made Thor— but it wasn't as if he hadn't wanted it, there was nothing forced because it was Loki, and Loki could talk a dove into giving up flying.
Besides, Thor could never deny Loki. Why would he say no to something that felt good?
He feels that if Loki were right there, arms thrown over Thor's chest in some haphazard manner unique to him (because really, who else besides his brother could be comfortable in such a position?), he would feel better. And when Thor's breathing would start to get really low, like he's almost asleep, Loki would run long, slim fingers across his neck and then lower, oh, lower, kiss him with that pale feather touch of his and whispering poems all the while.
Midnights were Loki's trick, his grand prank. At midnight, Loki would say, anything goes, Thor. You don't need to feel bad, Thor. What happens at midnight never matters later.
Thor would ask him how he knew that. Then Loki would act hurt and say, Oh, you don't trust me? I'll leave, Thor, I will not stay if you don't want me to.
He never, ever made Loki leave.
What happens at midnight.
Thor opens one eye and looks at the digital clock beside his bed: 12:01.
(Thor feels that feather touch now. He presses his hand against his mouth to make it stop.)
..
Mother wants him to see a therapist.
She says it'll do him good; help him deal with the grief – that she's already seeing the person herself, baby there' s no reason to be ashamed. But Loki ignores her as he climbs the stairs. He doesn't feel like talking and he walks heavily down the hallway to make a (juvenile) point. Thor's bedroom is adjacent to his own, and Loki stares for a few moments before giving into himself.
Inside his brother's room, he kicks the door shut and collapses face first on the bed. He's been sleeping in here ever since the accident– he feels closer to Thor this way. This is his sanctuary, now, even if he knows how incredibly unhealthy it is. But he's dealing.
Loki lies quietly for about an hour before the silence nearly kills him. He grabs his hand out to reach for the tiny white remote on the night stand, and he doesn't move from his position as he clicks on the small TV that belongs – belonged– to his brother.
The News plays and Loki doesn't particularly care. He just needs background noise – something to help drown out the endless static playing inside his own head. Father thinks he's been too quiet, too withdrawn, but Loki begs to differ. He's screaming inside, but no one can hear it.
Thor's ceiling is littered with stick-on stars and moons and Loki can't wait to see them light up in the dark. His brother was always fascinated by little things like that; always wanting to learn about anything and everything, no matter the topic. Space, which seemed so lonely and sad to Loki, seemed to make Thor the happiest. Yes, Loki remembers all the trips to the Explorium when the space exhibit rolled into town, all the nights scrambling atop the roof and gazing around stupidly, pretending to see the Big Dipper when all they saw was dots.
Loki buries his face into his brother's pillow. His eyes slide close and he cannot take the exhaustion anymore. Too many days have passed and not enough sleep has been acquired. He breathes easy; a calming factor as he drifts off, but he can feel tiny prickles of chill against his skin.
He chances a look at the clock.
It reads 12:01.
..
Thor finds himself wishing, for the who-knows-what-number time, that for one minute, he could exist without any pain. What a novelty that would be, for the spikes in his chest to stop driving in, for his breath to come easily and clearly, for his eyesight to really kick in again, erase the blurriness around the edges of everything.
But that isn't possible, so tries to catch up on sleep instead.
In the hospital, his dreams stick in his mind, which they never have before. It was Loki who always woke him and regaled Thor with what he dreamt in the night. Many times it was giant blue men with the powers of ice ("I was working for them against you and Father— you wouldn't believe it").
Mostly Thor dreams about what happened. He dream-recalls the look on Loki's face when Jane fell. The look on Loki's when Thor plummeted after her. And what vastly different expressions they had been! Sick delight when Jane tumbled down the slope and was…
…It hurts to even think it. But he does, because some lion-ish thing inside him tells him to grow a set of balls and face what comes at him with a snarl on his face and a rumble in his throat.
Thor never saw the impact, but he heard the screaming and then the not-screaming.
And when Thor slipped. He fell back-first, so he saw that expression of accomplishment on Loki's face twist into one of oh holy flying fuck no. Loki reached out for his brother, a slim pale hand stretching out to grip that large tanned one, but it was no use, because Thor's ankles hit the ledge and he was flipped over, face-first now, and he found himself falling, falling.
He doesn't remember anything else, but the rest has been relayed to him a million times by doctors and his parents and anyone with a stomach strong enough to tell him what the fall did to him.
His parents visit him that afternoon. Loki, naturally, is not with them.
"He'll be by soon," Father says, like he always does.
Breathing is hard, so Thor can only honor them with terse responses. "You said that a week ago." What's left of his deep, booming voice, his thunder, is nothing but a breathless little crackle. Pathetic.
Mother stifles her tears, but it's still obvious that she wants to cry.
Father just coughs into his fist. He's tense in his crisp black suit, ever formal. "He's just not taking this whole thing well."
"None of us are," his mother assures him.
"I don't know," Thor wheezes, "why anyone would—" breathe, breathe, pain, pain— "Take it well."
He thinks of Jane and shuts his eyes.
His mother whispers timidly, "Darling? Are you okay?" like every time Thor blinks his eyes may never open again. Which, in truth, is all too likely. He hears the doctors' whispers; for some reason, they think that dying makes people deaf.
"Tell him." Thor takes a deep breath so painful that it makes stars interrupt the blackness beneath his eyelids. "Tell Loki—" (And saying the name is more painful than breathing.)
"What?" asks his father.
"Tell Loki to get his ass down here. So I can kill him before I die."
A choked sob from his mother. His father glares at him with the eye he has left. Thor wants to laugh, but it comes out as a painful huff. What a dumb game of pretend this all is, what a soap opera their life has become.
His father was in the military, once, and his service cost him an eye. But that old discipline still shines through him like the sun during the summer; you can see it in the way he sits, ramrod straight, and in the way he says, "Do not upset your mother, son."
Thor disregards him. "Tell Loki to come see me," he begs.
"Thor," his mother weeps desperately.
"Tell him!" he cries.
"Thor!" It's his father this time. "Have some compassion!" He holds him crying wife by the shoulders; her face is blotched and red, his regal mother reduced to snot and tears.
"I'm the one dying, not him!" Thor protests. He feels bad, but he won't apologize. He is beyond apologizing, beyond guilt.
All I want to do, he thinks, is forgive my brother and then wring his neck.
His parents leave.
Thor sighs against his pillows, lips dry and pursed. He isn't strong enough to wring his brother's neck. The only thing he has left is forgiveness.
When he falls asleep, the skeleton children walk in his brain's halls. Is he watching them, or are they watching him?
..
Loki does not greet Thor with exuberance or with a hug.
"Have you ever heard of a 'death rattle' before?"
He does not beg for forgiveness or spew out the apologies that have festered on his tongue for weeks.
"Well, have you?"
He steps into his brother's room with false bravado, chin raised high. The room is cheerless, but not decrepit like he expected. Everything is clean; it smells like familiar chemicals and mothballs, a combination that makes his throat itch. Thor blinks up at him, wide-eyed and dazed, as if Loki is some astral being sent to guide him to Hell. Loki cannot help but to grin at the thought—a cruel curling of lip against teeth—because he played Death's role fairly well, all things considered.
Thor's chapped lips quiver as he slowly shakes his head, answering Loki's question not with words but with sluggish gesticulations, pallid skin flushing bright (whether this is because of excitement or anger, Loki knows not).
"It's that sound people tend to make right before they die. It's kind of like choking, I suppose you could say. Saliva builds up in your mouth, and you can't swallow, and all that comes out is some sputtering. Then – you kick the bucket."
Thor stares at him, mouth agape. He is too alert for teetering on the periphery of death, and Loki begins to ramble, rushed and panicked.
"There are instances where – after you die – your body will twitch or move. They show that kind of stuff in horror films a lot and all, you know. It's pretty fascinating – well, to me at least." Loki looks over at Thor and offers him a fake grin. "You see, after you die... after your heart stops, your brain doesn't really process it. You might be dead, but your body still thinks it's alive, and you've still got electrical impulses. Your nerves will send them through your muscles, and your arms or legs will twitch and jerk. Sometimes it'll look like a corpse having a seizure, if it's bad enough. But, if you sever the parametrical tract then it'll stop the spasms. The brain won't be connected to the nerves anymore."
"Brother."
Loki continues, "And then, sometimes—"
"Brother." Thor pats the spot beside his thigh gently. "Now."
His feet drag themselves to his brother's bed before he can stop them. He primly sits where designated and breathes shallowly from his mouth, wanting oh-so-desperately to turn tail and flee. This is it; this is the encounter he has dreaded for weeks, the cataclysmic moment that decides everything, be it good or bad.
Thor's skeletal fingers come up to fan against his cheekbone, stroking for a moment before stopping completely. It's odd—he hasn't seen Thor without facial hair since childhood, and he looks a lot younger without it, clinging baby fat more visible and pronounced. The apologies that have poisoned his lips since the accident begin to bubble from his throat, and before he can even articulate the right words (there are not any) a bruising force wraps itself tight around his throat.
Loki had always admired Thor's hands. Even now, with them wringing his neck tight enough to cut off his breathing, Loki cannot help but to marvel at their size. They were so big, spanning wide from thumb to pinky, nicked to perfection with various scars and scabs. It is only when Thor begins to whisper "Brother" in a devout chant that he begins to cry, gasping for any semblance of oxygen.
The lips that slam roughly atop his own make his stomach lurch. He shouldn't kiss back, knows that isn't what Thor wants, but he just can't stop from responding. The tongue that plunders his mouth tastes of cheap hospital food, and Loki bucks his hips in fake defiance because he has to. This is how it has to be because Thor is small yet undeniably big, and Loki could probably throw him off (if he wanted to) but everything is broken and wrong and—
Thor sits back on his haunches and lifts his hands from Loki's neck, staring right through him. His face bleeds white and Loki feels something crack in his chest, settling thick at the bottom of his stomach.
Loki mumbles a mosquito whine of "I'm sorry" before hopping off the bed and sprinting out the room, not even daring to look back.
Cowardice had always been his forte.
..
It had been Loki's idea. Thor remembers this as he licks his lips, tastes Loki there, cries so that he'll taste salt instead. Salt like the sea.
"There's a scenic path," Loki had said, "by the ocean. Do you want to go?"
"Of course," Thor said.
"Bring Jane. Does she like hiking? I'm sure she'll love it there."
Summer break had just begun and Loki was back from college; Thor had met Jane when he was visiting Loki one weekend. She was an astrophysics major and she shared an Ethics class with his brother.
Thor was planning to join the military in the fall, when he turned nineteen. He helped Jane pick up some dropped papers outside her classroom and immediately, unabashedly, in that endlessly confident way of his, asked her out for coffee.
He remembered Loki's deep silence as they had exchanged phone numbers.
Thor had been so happy when Loki had invited Jane as well, and Jane was thrilled to finally be accepted, so they all walked up that cliff path together. Loki had been perfectly cheerful. Thor was so elated. He kissed Jane deeply and he hadn't noticed, then, what had snapped in his brother.
They reached the top of the ridge. Loki put a comforting hand on Jane's shoulder, grinned, and— you couldn't tell what he did, unless you'd dissected every single movement of Loki's for years— pushed.
Thor stepped forward. He fell.
Jane died. Thor did not.
He is still convinced that God got it backwards.
And, Jesus, Loki came in and started talking about— about whatever, medical shit, and Thor could have killed the bastard because Loki probably would have let him. Loki would do anything for Thor. Loki would die at his brother's hands just because he is Loki and how could Thor not forgive him, if he's willing to do that?
Nurses have come in since— they ask, demand, who was just in your room, who were you kissing? And Thor pretends like he is too drugged to speak because he sure as hell can't tell them that it was his brother.
He is surprised to find that he doesn't even feel guilty about it anymore. That they're brothers. He is so beyond guilt.
All the time, though, he keeps his right hand under his scratchy blankets. Loki's phone. He had dropped it when he ran. Thor grips it tightly and he is convinced that it is the only thing keeping him alive, a better lifeline than the painkillers or the glucose flowing into his forearm.
Suddenly, one of the cancer kids peeks her bald head around the door. Her neck is as thin as her arms.
"Was that the brother you always talk about?" she whispers.
"How did you get out of your room?" he asks. Her skin is gray, and he can't tell how old she is. Death makes everyone a bit ageless, it seems. Her hospital gown is pink and floral, falsely cheerful, and it hangs off her like a wraith's sheet.
She just asks, again, "Was that the brother you always talk about? In your sleep."
Thor wasn't aware that he had been sleeping.
"It was, wasn't it," she says, definitively. "Only weirdoes kiss their brothers. Especially if you're both boys."
She pads off, slippers clicking on the linoleum floors.
"My girly hair makes up for it," he calls out.
At night, when all the lights are off and the mothers of one of the skeleton children cry down the hall, Thor opens the phone and presses 2 on speed dial.
If he knows Loki at all, he'll have Thor's phone close.
His brother answers on the first ring. "What—"
"I hate you for what you did to her, Loki. God, I hate you. But I love you, too, and I wish like you'd act like that meant something.
"Thor." Loki's voice breaks.
Thor breathes in.
"I want you," he says, "to come in here and say 'hello' to me. I want you to say 'hello, Thor,' like nothing is wrong— no shit about, about death rattles— and then you will tell me about how school is going, and then you will go back to school because it is what I deserve."
Thor breathes out.
Loki hangs up.
As long as he can keep breathing. He has to keep breathing, even though it hurts so much that it's blinding. He has to keep breathing. He can stop when he sees Loki.
Stopping, though, is just such a wonderful idea. And Thor is very tired.
This time? No, he doesn't dream.
..
It's been a week, and he still can't sleep.
"I know that you think I'm selfish, brother."
Loki takes a deep breath and blinks rapidly.
"And I am. But you are more selfish than me."
He huddles down into his navy jacket. The sun is bright and in the distance, he can faintly hear the geese hankering back home.
"You didn't have to be so dramatic. But you are. You always are dramatic."
His phone vibrates in his pocket. It's probably Darcy, phoning him to ask why all her PopTarts are missing and if she can copy his notes again. Loki wants to reply to her, wants desperately to return to her and the real world and watch trashy reality TV and eat ramen noodles from an empty butter carton. But he can't.
"School is fine. I hate my professor though. She's a real quim, always calling on me to answer her questions. And it's not because she thinks I'm smart, so stop saying that. She just doesn't think I pay attention. But I show her. I always do." Loki pauses. "I got a job. I'm a magician. And yeah, go ahead and laugh, but science and magic are really similar. And the kids at the hospital seem to love my act. Even the quarter behind the ear thing, which I always thought was stupid when I was little. "
His phone vibrates again.
"And I'm not afraid of thunder anymore. Really, I'm not. "
A car door slams in the distance.
"I brought you these PopTarts. They don't sell the ones with Pokemon sprinkles on them anymore, but I got your second favorite." His words catch in his throat. "Well, stole really. But I did look for those with the sprinkles. Really."
Loki leans down and presses a kiss against the plaque. "I'm sorry I couldn't do this when you…when you needed it the most."
Then, he stands on his wobbly legs. He doesn't sleep much nowadays but that's okay. Thor does the sleeping now and Loki does the living. Looking down at the headstone, he smiles.
"Happy endings were never meant for people like us, brother."
end