The letters on the glass door read St. Boniface's Hospital: Visitor's Entrance. Thor shoved his way through it impatiently, almost barreling over a frail elderly woman on her way out.

"I'm sorry, ma'am," he apologized, holding up his hands defensively as she gave him a sour look. He was an imposing man—six foot four, arms banded with muscle ever since his high school rugby days—and sometimes he simply didn't know his own strength. Especially not when his mind was clouded with urgency, when his throat was closed up with fear, and he just didn't have the energy to think about anything else.

He pushed his tangled golden hair out of his face, dripping from the rain—though it was a cold, stormy November day, he had forgotten an umbrella, or a coat sturdier than his denim jacket.

"What room is Odin Borson in?" he demanded at the front desk. It took all his willpower not to simply barge right into the hospital hallway and search every room himself.

The receptionist's voice was bored and disbelieving in equal measures. "Odin Borson? As in…CEO of Borson Manufacturing?"

"Yes, I know he's here, my mother just called—"

"What relation are you to him, sir?" she spoke over him, still in a monotone. "If you're from the press, I can't let you in."

"I'm his son," he growled. Was she trying to torment him with suspense? "Please, let me see him."

She checked something on her computer. "I'm afraid Mr. Borson is still in surgery. You can take a seat until he's out."

He grudgingly stepped inside the waiting room, his palms itching. It smelled of disinfectant. There was a low murmur from the TV screen, currently turned to CNN. Two children sat on the rug near the coffee table, flipping through pop-up books.

The first thing that caught Thor's eye was a black coat and emerald scarf amidst the sea of sterile grey and beige. Sure enough, they were slung over a chair next to a familiar lanky figure—familiar, though he hadn't seen him for a long time.

His gaze swept from the patent-leather shoes, to the long crossed legs, to the pale slender fingers delicately turning a page in the book open on his lap, to the wandering green eyes clearly not taking in a word of his novel, to the dark hair—usually combed back so neatly, but currently a few strands out of place across his forehead, wrinkled with worry.

Thor's strides toward him grew longer. "Loki!" he called, wincing as he realized belatedly that his booming voice reverberated too loudly in the hushed, confined space. A few strangers in the waiting room looked up reflexively, then resumed perusing their issues of National Geographic. In one corner, a woman with a sleeping baby glared at him.

Loki glanced up, eyebrow twitching in annoyance. His book snapped shut.

"You took your time," he said coldly. "I flew in from Chicago and still got here sooner."

"Loki," chastised a gentle voice, and Thor noticed for the first time that a woman in a crisp blue blouse, her gold hair streaked with grey, was sitting across from the younger man.

"Mom," Thor sighed, embracing her. "How is he? What happened? Is he alright?"

His mother carried herself with her usual poise, yet the circles under her eyes, and the way she compulsively folded and unfolded her hands, hinted at her anxiety.

"He's in surgery right now," she said. "The doctors say he should be out soon."

"I thought you said it was a stroke," said Thor.

"They had to clear the blocked artery. Then he should be fine, as long as he rests for a little while, and takes his medicine," she said with a strained smile and false confidence.

Loki lifted up his coat and scarf beside him, and Thor realized that his brother had been saving him a seat. It touched and surprised him perhaps more than it ought to have.

Thor loved his brother, but he'd never exactly understood him. He never knew quite what to make of him, or what to expect from him.

He thought of when he and Loki were seven and five years old, and had slipped away from their nanny again. It was his little brother's idea—naturally—to sneak into the pantry and steal some candy. He concocted an elaborate plan. They stole the key, collected boxes to stand on and reach the top shelf, and finally seized their prize—and Loki had been completely uninterested in the end result.

You can have the candy, he had shrugged, and Thor had sputtered incoherently for a few minutes in disbelief. It had only been about the thrill for Loki.

That smirk had etched itself permanently on Loki's face, become a constant fixture—eerily similar to the one he wore now, in the present day.

"I did warn him all that stress and rich food would catch up to him someday," said Loki. "But did he listen to me? Did he ever take a long weekend like I suggested?"

"Loki," their mother said again mildly. "Your father is a very hardworking man. He doesn't like to feel useless—vacations just put him more on edge."

She wasn't wrong, Thor thought. He remembered traveling to Jamaica when he was ten—Loki would have been eight—and their father had spent most of the trip on his computer. Even on the beach, he couldn't seem to escape his business, talking to his secretary over the phone about contracts and suppliers and whatever else a box manufacturing company needed to worry about.

"More like he doesn't trust anyone else not to run the company into the ground in his absence," the younger son replied, rolling his eyes.

Thor couldn't stop his knees from bouncing. If there was anything he hated more than boredom, it was helplessness. He wanted to jump up and pace the room feverishly, until he wore down the bland speckled carpet; he wanted to run into the hospital room and—and what? There wasn't anything he could do. There were no bad guys he could punish, like when he used to beat kids up in middle school for making fun of his weird little brother. There was nothing to be accomplished, no one to blame—just sitting and waiting and hoping.

Loki's irritated gaze drifted back to him as he fidgeted, and he gave a dramatic sigh, turning back to his book. But Thor noticed that his eyes remained fixed on the same page for at least ten minutes. Their mother was knitting furiously, her speed masking how her hands shook.

Eventually, Loki must have taken pity on him, as he shut his book and thrust it into Thor's hands. "Here. Have something to do. You look like you're about to explode."

"Thanks."

"I just can't concentrate properly on anything with you constantly moving around like that," Loki said shortly.

Why did he always have to mask every nice thing he ever did with a snide remark? As his brother put in a pair of earbuds, Thor flipped to the first page.

Now is the winter of our discontent made glorious by this Sun of York; and all the clouds that lour'd upon our house in the deep bosom of the ocean buried…

What the hell was this? He couldn't even plow through the first page without his head swimming—it was like reading in a foreign language, of which he barely knew a few words. He yanked his brother's left earbud out.

"Dammit, Loki, did you give me Shakespeare just to piss me off?"

Loki smirked. "I was only trying to help you expand your mind a little, Thor. It wouldn't kill you to learn a bit of taste."

"Says the guy who has opera on his MP3 player," Thor retorted, hearing the music drifting from the earbud in his hand.

Loki snatched it back from him. "Wagner is a classic, thank you very much. Not that I would expect a clueless boor like you to appreciate The Ring Cycle."

"Pretentious prick," Thor muttered.

For a second, it felt like old habit to Thor, the familiar harmless bickering that was simply normal communication for them. But there was a harder edge in Loki's voice than usual, that made Thor's stomach sink a little.

"Boys," murmured their mother, not even looking up from her knitting, merely arching her eyebrow.

She didn't need to say anything more. Mother was always kind but firm—her anger tended to intimidate them with its calmness, far more than Dad's hot temper ever could.

For some reason, he was reminded of the time he and Loki had given their parents the slip during a rare family outing to the park. Loki's idea, of course. Their father had shouted a great deal at both of them, but it was Mother's overly sweet voice, shaking with a hint of controlled ire, that had instilled the fear of God into them.

But Mother, we only wanted to get a closer look at the ducks on the pond, Loki had pleaded with theatrical innocence and penitence. We tried to find you again, but we got lost. We're sorry we worried you.

Mother saw through his act, but as she was mostly just relieved they were both unharmed, they were let off with a warning.

He smiled nostalgically. He and Loki had been quite the troublemakers as children—half of the time, Loki had managed to pin the blame on him when they were caught, but other times, he had talked their way out of trouble like a politician.

Now he glanced sidelong at his brother, hoping to share a smile and pleasant memories with him—it felt like ages since they had seen each other last—but he hesitated, the words sticking in his throat. Loki wasn't looking at him, but there was an icy, embittered expression on his pale face that startled Thor; his brow seemed permanently furrowed, his thin lips set gloomily. When had that happened? Or had it been creeping up on him for a long time, and Thor had simply never noticed before?

The brothers resumed their restless silence. Desperate for something to do, Thor pulled his phone out of his back pocket: 14 unread texts.

Hey, sorry you had to leave so soon, is everything okay?

Sorry about your dad, is it serious?

Is there anything we can do, Thor?

He winced. I've got to remember to check my messages more often and keep my phone charged, he thought sheepishly. If the battery hadn't been dead, it wouldn't have taken him so long to notice his mom's three voicemails and his brother's curt text messages asking why he wasn't at the hospital yet. Now all his friends were concerned because he'd had to leave the bowling alley so abruptly. He hastily started to respond.

Loki glanced over at his furious texting and muttered, "My, aren't you popular. It's a wonder you could spare the time out of your social life for this."

Seriously, what was with him? They hadn't seen each other in months and now all Loki seemed to want to do was pick a fight over every little thing. Ever since Loki had moved to Chicago two years ago, their communication had been sporadic at best. Sometimes Thor just opened up the front cover of one of the books his brother had written, just to see his name printed there, to feel close to him again for a second.

Before Thor could respond, their mom intervened.

"I think we could all use a distraction," she said firmly, setting aside her knitting. Her tone was conciliating, but she gave Loki a very pointed glare. "It's going to be a few hours at least, and sitting around is just going to set us more on edge."

Loki looked down at his hands, biting his lip as if somewhat ashamed. Only Mom had the ability to put that expression on his face.

"I know," she said, brightening a little, "why don't we play BS?" She indicated a deck of cards lying on the table next to her. "We used to play that game all the time when you two were little, remember?"

"Yeah, that was fun," Thor said, smiling. "You always won, though."

He half-expected Loki to scoff and say he wasn't feeling particularly nostalgic, given the misanthropic mood he seemed to be in, but to Thor's surprise, Loki nodded.

Of course, Thor thought, suppressing a chuckle, anything for Mom. Loki was still as much a Mama's Boy as when he was six, and she read them poetry before tucking them in at night. Loki still dedicated every one of his books to his "dear Mother," like he was a kindergartener showing off his work to her.

"Why don't you shuffle, Thor?" said Mom, handing him the cards.

It was a brutal game, every man for himself. Soon Loki and Mother were telling more and more daring lies, setting down three cards and claiming it was only two, pretending to have four aces when they only had one. Thor didn't mind whenever they called him out for lying—he wasn't very good at keeping a poker face anyway—but it was always funny to see just how ridiculously cutthroat the other two would get. Loki hadn't inherited his deceit from no one.

Finally Thor, who had such a large pile of cards that he couldn't fan them all out in his hands, began to laugh, "Mom, you can't hide cards up your sleeves, that's cheating!"

Loki goggled at her. He must have been so engrossed in the game that he hadn't even noticed the obvious.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said innocently. Her smirk looked uncannily like Loki for a moment, Thor thought, a little disconcerted—the only difference was that most people didn't expect dishonesty from Mom, since it seemed incongruous with her sweet, nurturing manner.

A king of hearts slid out onto the coffee table as she denied her cheating, and even Loki had to chuckle at that. Maybe Mom can be the one to get him out of this terrible mood, Thor thought hopefully. She usually knows the right thing to do.

"Alright, alright, I forfeit," Mom sighed, holding up her hands in surrender.

But when she suggested they play another round, Loki declined, and the three of them went back to their uncomfortable silence, and Thor didn't know how to break it this time. He felt like a chance to make things normal again had slipped through his fingers, and now the mood was awkward again.

Thor tried to focus his attention on the cheap watercolor on the opposite wall, depicting a bowl of golden apples. Soon he had memorized every shadow in it. He tried not to listen to the clock tick.

Hours had passed. Mr. Borson was out of surgery, but still unconscious and sedated.

It had been storming all afternoon, Loki noted as he watched out the window of his father's hospital room. He concentrated on the rumbling thunder, letting it drown out the heart monitor. He kept his eyes on the ravens perched in a nearby ash tree beside the hospital parking lot, rather than turn back to his seemingly lifeless father behind him. Loath as he was to admit it, it scared him to see him looking so feeble—did he imagine that his hair was greyer? That there were more wrinkles around his closed eyes?

Without looking, he knew that Mother was sitting at his bedside, holding Father's hand, at once tender and dignified. Thor was pacing the small room helplessly, as if that would make him wake up sooner. Loki suppressed a chuckle—his big brother was ever the man of action, and panicked when he could not be useful.

"Careful, Thor, you'll wear a hole through the floor," he murmured.

"Is that all you can say, at a time like this? Is everything a chance to make everyone else feel stupid?"

"I'm worried about Father, too," Loki said sharply. "I'm only pointing out that it won't do you any good. He'll be alright, the doctors said so."

If it were me on that hospital bed, he wondered, would you all be as anxious? Would you, Father?

It was mere idle curiosity, of course. Nothing more. Yet the thought burned inside him. Another idea, still worse, surfaced: If it were your dear 'golden child' lying there, you would be inconsolable, Father.

He gritted his teeth. Behind his closed eyes, he saw a scrawny teenager with dark hair, knocking excitedly on his father's office door, bursting with pride.

Father, you'll never guess the letter I just got in the mail, he had crowed, waving the paper in question in one hand. I won the scholarship! I won it! And it was fair and square—I put a different name on the application, so no one would know I was your son. So they must have really, actually liked my essay the best!

Yet his proud grin had faded after a moment of silence. His father had simply stared at him, unimpressed.

What do you need with a college scholarship, Loki? We have enough money to send you to whatever school you want. You should be grateful for that, Loki, not a lot of other people have that privilege.

Loki, usually so eloquent, had been speechless. He could not quite explain why it had mattered so much to him—not that he needed the five thousand dollars, not that he would have taken the money, just that he could do it, just that he had been picked as the best for once, he had written something that other people appreciated enough to reward—he had accomplished something quantifiable, he had won.

Meanwhile, the shelf behind his father's giant mahogany desk was filling up with Thor's trophies, pictures of Thor in his rugby uniform, Thor who would one day be the new CEO, Thor whose mind was a mirror image of Father's, Thor Thor Thor Thor….

He had not been able to explain to his father that day. The congratulatory letter had simply slipped out of his numb fingers and drifted to the floor.

The adult Loki clenched a fist, trying to quell the seething resentment and compose himself before turning around.

"We need to decide what to do while Father gets well," he said, folding his arms across his chest and trying not to look at his father's weak, inert form. "With the company, I mean."

"Isn't he supposed to be out of here in a few days?" Thor asked, his blue eyes wide and startled.

"Yes, but I think…Father isn't as young as he used to be…and maybe this should be taken as a sign that he needs less stress in his life. Maybe he shouldn't run the company single-handedly anymore—perhaps he should start handing off some of his duties to…others. I don't mean anything immediate—just a smooth transition of power."

Thor nodded thoughtfully. "I am ready. He's been training me to be his replacement since I was old enough to read."

This irked Loki some, though it was not unexpected.

And what did it matter to him? Boxes bored him to tears, as did the inner workings of bloated corporations.

"Father has curiously old-fashioned notions about inheritance," he muttered, raising an eyebrow. Thor was the oldest, and so Thor was the default choice.

No, that wasn't all of it, Loki thought, swallowing hard. He remembered, two years ago, accompanying his father and brother on a factory inspection, and having a conversation that was as telling as it was frustrating.

Father had asked his firstborn, as if testing him, Now, Thor, if you were to take over the company today, what would you do?

Thor had shrugged, evidently satisfied with everything he had seen. Well, you just said everything's running smoothly. Stocks are up, production costs are down. I wouldn't change a thing.

Why are you giving that look, Loki? Father had asked, his eyes narrowed shrewdly. Would you do something differently?

Loki had been taken aback. It wasn't like his father to be so observant, let alone ask for his input, but he managed to stammer, The company is stagnant, Father. It's not in the red, but it isn't growing either. Personally, I would diversify our investments.

His father had nodded grimly, as if Loki's suggestion had proved a point he had been trying to make. Loki, this is why your brother is going to succeed me, not you. You take too many risks without giving thought to the consequences for other people. Your grandfather started this company from scratch, with less than a hundred dollars to his name—and you would gamble everything he built, because what he created isn't enough for you.

That's not quite what I—

This is why Thor is better suited for taking over, Loki. He understands the value of tradition. Progress for its own sake is not a virtue, like you seem to think.

It had never been quite so clear before why Loki was always found wanting in his father's eyes, but now it seemed terribly obvious. Thor had always been a miniature version of Father. He wasn't just the heir to the company, but to his machismo, his athletic prowess, his arrogance, his spontaneity, his boisterousness. He accepted everything Father said as divinely inspired Truth, and so when he took over, he would run things exactly as Father would have wanted.

Loki's thoughts spun in bitter circles, so much that he barely heard the rest of the conversation, just the thunder outside.

Their father did awake, but his stroke had lingering effects—his speech was slurred, the right side of his face was numb, and he could no longer see out of his right eye. With physical therapy, he was expected to recover, more or less, but he was a shadow of his former, intimidating self. He consented to handing over most day-to-day responsibilities to his firstborn. Drowsy from all his pain medications, he had fallen back asleep fairly quickly.

Thor kept wishing he had something constructive to do. He'd contented himself with texting Jane, his long-distance girlfriend, alerting her to the situation. Jane was probably in the middle of teaching a lecture. Or was she? He wasn't sure what the time difference was between here and Portland. She could be asleep, for all he knew.

Loki was still acting inexplicably sour, and Thor wished he would stop being so damn cryptic and tell him what was wrong. Mom had tried to keep conversation flowing, but the room was mostly silent except for the heart monitor and the soft clicking of the buttons on Thor's phone keyboard. Loki rolled his eyes at Thor's ancient cellphone—when their family had more than enough money to keep updating with whatever was the latest technological fad—but Thor ignored him. This phone had every function he needed, so why bother with fancy gadgets?

"Loki, honey," Mom said after a period of unbearably awkward small talk, "would you please do me a favor and get me a cup of coffee from the machine down the hall? I could really use the caffeine."

Loki hesitated. Mom put a hand fondly on his arm.

"Of course, Mother," he said, standing up. "Do you want cream and sugar?"

"Please." Her smile was soft and persuasive.

As soon as Loki had shut the door behind him, Thor saw the smile drop, and his mom became terrifyingly practical.

"Now what is going on between you and your brother?" she asked him sternly. "Talk fast, because Loki won't be gone long."

"I don't know, Mom, honestly," Thor sputtered. "I thought maybe he was just worried about Dad, but now I don't think so. Last time he was in town, I asked him to come out for drinks with me and my friends at least a million times, but he always said he was busy."

Mom sighed. "Your brother is a wee bit possessive over the people he loves, I'm afraid," she said wryly. "I think it bothers him that he can't have you all to himself. He gets jealous when you spend so much time with your friends."

"What does that mean?" Thor asked, nonplussed.

Mom cast a cautious glance over at the door, to make sure Loki was still sufficiently occupied. "You probably can't imagine feeling that way, because you've always been more confident," she explained patiently, "but Loki isn't as secure as you are when it comes to relationships. He needs a lot more reassurance than you do."

"Are you saying he doesn't know I love him?" Thor asked, frowning deeply. "That's ridiculous."

"I'm not saying that, exactly. I know your heart is in the right place, Thor, and you care about a lot of people. Loki only loves a few people, but he hangs onto them pretty tightly. And he's a man of words more than actions—he needs things spelled out verbally."

Thor thought it strange that his brother, who he always thought of as so smart, might be so obtuse when it came to other people. He couldn't imagine that his mom was right, but what other explanation was there? Before he could give it much more consideration, Loki returned with a cappuccino in hand for her. Thor and his mother immediately broke away from their conspiratorial huddle, Thor trying to keep the guilty look off his face so his brother wouldn't know they'd been discussing him.

Loki sat in the hospital room alone—well, not alone, as his father was still present, if dozing. Thor and Mother had gone out to stretch their legs and look through the gift shop, although Loki suspected this was Mother's sly way of speaking to her eldest in private. On his lap sat a sketchbook, where he carefully shaded an enormous tree, its labyrinthine roots twisting and curling across the earth. His thin lips curved briefly into a smile.

Daddy, I made you a picture! Will you put it up in your office?

Loki, what is this supposed to be?

It's a horse. Don't you like it?

It…it seems to have a few extra legs.

Oh.

See your brother's drawing up on the bulletin board? He practiced a lot and got better. I'm sure you can do the same.

He hadn't pinned the drawing up. Only four years old, and he had already been so discouraged, he remembered. It took all his strength not to break the pencil between his spindly fingers. He watched his father's chest rise and fall under the blankets.

Why don't you try out for a sport, Loki? Your brother's doing so well at rugby, I bet you could find something you're good at.

(Maybe I already am good at some things, and you just refuse to see that.)

Why don't you go to parties like your brother and make more friends? You'd be happier if you didn't spend so much time sulking alone in your room with all those books.

(Maybe I can't be Thor, maybe I've already tried and failed more times than I can count.)

Why do you waste your time getting an English degree, Loki? That's a soft option. Not much use for the real world. Go for business, like Thor did.

"Why is it so hard for you to love me, Father?"

Flushing, he realized he'd spoken aloud. But his father still slept obliviously.

He's been bottling this for God knows how long—perhaps some release would do him good.

"I know I was a disappointment, Father. And I know that won't change just because of one sentimental conversation, one epiphany, one near-death experience to make us all cry and hug and promise to never hurt each other again."

He swallowed hard, glancing at the door to reassure himself that he was alone. His father did not stir.

"Is it so unreasonable, for me to resent living in the shadows you and Thor cast? Am I supposed to bow down and worship him, like you and the rest of the world?"

The bitter words escaped through clenched teeth. He knew that his brother could return at any moment, or a night nurse could walk in to check on the patient, and he would have to retreat quickly behind his shield of sarcasm again. But right now, he needed to let out the poison in his mind.

"Is it because you and I could never speak the same language? That Thor is such a reflection of you, and you could never find anything of yourself in me? Sometimes I feel so different that I can hardly believe I'm a part of this family."

He paused for a moment, watching the rain hit the window. He buried his face in his hands—so unlike his father's wide, calloused hands—his voice sounding embarrassingly fragile. "I don't want the company, you know. I never did. I just want to prove that I could do it, if I wanted to. I just want to be…worthy, I guess."

His father remained as immovable as stone. Loki sighed. What had he been expecting, really?

Footsteps approached down the hall. Loki jumped when Thor burst into the room, Mother following close behind—luckily, Father was a sound sleeper, and one look at their faces made it clear neither had heard a word of the one-sided conversation. Loki took a deep breath and composed himself, praying his oblivious brother did not notice his red eyes.

Much to his surprise, Loki did not feel a surge of irritation at his brother's sudden appearance—in fact, Thor's lively presence and warm hand was inexplicably comforting after a few hours with their stony, unresponsive father.

"Has he woken at all?" Mother asked, returning to her chair.

"No change," Loki said curtly.

She sighed, taking her husband's hand.

"It's getting late. You boys must be starving," she said. "Why don't you go out and get something to eat? There are plenty of restaurants and diners around here."

"We can't leave now," Thor protested. "What if Dad wakes up again?"

"I'll be here," she reassured them. "There's no need for all three of us to be here, and there's no sense in starving yourselves."

Loki would have protested further, but he knew their mother was a talented wheedler, and would get her way eventually. She was gentle, but firm.

"Just bring me back a piece of pie, won't you?" she said with a knowing smile. Loki kissed her cheek before following his brother out the door.

After a short drive, they found themselves in a cheap diner, the name "Rosie's" spelled in cursive in neon lights out front. Thor's choice, naturally. Loki ran a finger along the linoleum table and felt its greasy texture with distaste. It was meant to have a quaint, small-town feel: the paper menus gave the hamburgers overly clever names, preferably using some kind of alliteration, and where some restaurants would have a wine list, Rosie's Diner had a list of fifteen varieties of pie. It was far from the seediest establishment Thor had dragged him into—at least there were no bullet holes in the yellow striped wallpaper, none of the other patrons looked like gang members, and the air was thick with the grease from the fries, which was better than tobacco smoke—so at least Loki did not fear for his life here. Only for his cholesterol.

A pretty waitress in a pink dress and apron took their drink orders, calling them both "hon."

Thor winked at her and grinned after she left. Loki rolled his eyes.

"What, is she not your type?" Thor asked, punching his brother's arm playfully.

In truth, she was too freckly and her smile too vacant for Loki's taste. "I thought you already had a lady friend," he remarked coolly. "Or have you moved on from that one already? What was her name again—Jessie? Jaimie?"

"Jane," Thor corrected. "I think you'd like her. She's a science teacher."

Loki made a noncommittal sound in his throat as he scrunched the straw wrapper into a tight ball, as if that somehow made it neater. When he glanced up, he noticed Thor was fidgeting too, twirling the ketchup bottle between his large hands. Something about this topic troubled him, apparently.

"Where does she live? Portland?" Loki asked. "I seem to recall this was a long-distance romance."

Thor nodded. "She got offered a position at the University of Portland. I should've said she was a professor, not a teacher. I'm always getting it wrong."

"What kind of science does she teach?"

"Er…the kind that has to do with planets and space…"

Loki snickered. "Do you even listen when she speaks, or are you too mesmerized by her charming smile?"

Thor chuckled along with him self-deprecatingly, running a hand through his gold hair. "Honestly, I do listen, it's just that sometimes she gets talking so fast and using so many big words that I just kind of lose track of what she's saying," he admitted.

Well, that sounded like his brother, Loki thought with a snort. Thor was probably used to just nodding and pretending he wasn't confused, after twenty-five years with him for a brother.

The waitress deposited their drinks in front of them. Loki looked from his own iced tea to Thor's tall Guinness.

"I take it I'm the designated driver tonight?" he sighed.

"I have a higher tolerance than you, Loki," Thor laughed, taking a sip.

They were silent for a few minutes, under the pretense of looking over the menu. Loki shifted uncomfortably, disliking the plastic texture of the booth seat beneath him. Thor, with his red flannel shirt and denim jacket, did not look out of place here. It was not as though his brother was incapable of cleaning up nicely, or enjoying the finer things, Loki thought fairly. But Thor was nothing if not adaptable. He could be equally at ease in an Armani suit at the Four Seasons as he was here, drinking beer in a diner. He could strike up conversations with complete strangers as if they were dear friends, and take a sincere interest in their lives. Loki, on the other hand—well, he felt incongruous almost anywhere.

Thor's phone on the tabletop lit up with a notification. He glanced at it, but then stowed it away in his coat pocket, looking guilty.

"Who was that?" Loki inquired casually.

"Sif. She's just wondering how Dad is. You remember her, right? She used to live next door when we were kids."

Loki raised his eyebrows. "Yes, I vividly remember Sif," he said dryly. How could he forget the day she'd stumbled across the brothers defending their play fort—their castle—from an imaginary ogre, and convinced Thor that playing pretend was for babies? How could he forget her shoving him into the mud in their backyard when Thor wasn't around, and mocking him for crying like a baby at age seven? How could he forget the girl with whom he had competed for his brother's attention all throughout grade school?

Loki shook himself. It was pathetic to long for the days when he and his brother had been united against an imaginary world of monsters. The days before school and girls and the real world had made things so much more complicated between them.

"Are you all set to order, hon?"

The waitress was back, smiling toothily at them. They both ordered breakfast, though neither had chosen appropriate beverages.

"And is the check going to be together or separate?" the waitress asked.

"Together—my brother's a starving writer," Thor told her in a conspiratorial stage-whisper. The waitress giggled as she left.

Loki glared at him. "I am not starving," he said stiffly, hardly even moving his lips. "As difficult as it may be for you to process, I am actually published, and some people do actually read my books."

"Come on, it was just a joke," said Thor heartily, taking another swig of beer. "I know you're an official author and all that."

"Have you even read a single one of my books?"

He already knew the answer, of course. Literature isn't practical, Father always said. Writing isn't a real job, it's a nice hobby, but it isn't decent, hard labor. Thor surely felt the same way.

"Well…" Thor smiled sheepishly. "You know, they're all full of fancy words and metaphors that I don't quite….you know….it all goes a bit above my head."

Loki clenched his hands under the tabletop. "Do you even know how many there are?"

Thor looked shocked. "Of course I do. There's three. The Misanthrope's Guide to Avoiding Social Situations—Mom said that one was really funny—The Splintered Man, and Ishmael."

The younger brother gaped at him, his clenched fists falling open. He had had no idea Thor was actually familiar with his fiction.

"I have no idea what the hell that last title means," Thor admitted, shrugging, "but whenever anybody sees it on my shelf, I try to impress them by telling them my brother's a famous author."

There was a hint of pride in Thor's voice. Loki could only think, numbly, Thor has my books on his shelf, even though he does not read them? Loki tried to only laugh at the mental image of his big brother, bragging to anyone who would listen—he tried not to admit how much his heart swelled at the thought of his brother's idiotic loyalty.

"Hardly famous," he mumbled finally, suppressing his smile. His face felt very warm. "I think you and Mother probably account for about ten percent of my sales, but any bit counts, so I thank you."

The waitress set a heap of waffles and bacon in front of Thor, and oatmeal and fruit for Loki. Thor teased him about eating like an old lady, and Loki teased him back for having a bottomless pit for a stomach, but by the end of their dinner, Loki was helping himself to a few forkfuls of his brother's waffles, deciding to ignore the maple syrup that dripped onto the table.

"Don't forget, we promised to bring some pie back for Mother," he reminded Thor. "Do they have pecan? That's her favorite."

"Will you leave for Chicago again, once Dad is on his feet?" Thor asked his brother.

It was the first time either of them had spoken in a few hours. Mom had fallen asleep in the armchair next to Dad's hospital bed, and Thor hadn't wanted to wake her up. She'd been through so much stress already, she needed the rest. They'd set the Styrofoam box with her slice of pecan pie on the table beside her. Loki, who had picked up his sketchpad from this afternoon, looked up from his almost-finished sketch and pursed his lips. "Why do you ask?"

"I just…" Thor looked down at his hands, clenching and unclenching them compulsively. On their drive back to the hospital, he had tried to plan out how to approach this conversation, but he was better at plunging into things without an elaborate strategy. He had hesitated when they re-entered the hospital room because Loki had looked upset—more worried about Dad than he'd let anyone see, Thor guessed—and it had unnerved him. At the diner, Loki seemed a little more like his old self, but their return to the hospital seemed to have caused a regression.

"I wondered if you might stay, that's all. If I asked you to."

"Why, has this brush with death made you anxious to keep the family close together?" Loki snorted. "You are so sentimental, Thor."

"Actually," he admitted, the words coming slowly and awkwardly—but you've got to say them, Mom said it was important, he reminded himself—"I was hoping you would stay and help me. I don't know whether I can do this without you. I know I don't like to say this often, but you are smarter than me, and I could really use your advice. Become a board member—my financial advisor—something."

Loki blinked. Thor had expected him to gloat at this humbling confession, but his expression was difficult to read. His silence made Thor wonder—is he surprised? But why should he be? I'm not saying anything he doesn't already know.

"You know I live in Chicago," Loki said carefully. "I already have a job. Writing isn't just a quaint hobby, you know."

"I'm not asking you to give up writing, Loki. You can still mail your manuscripts in, can't you?"

Loki bit his lip. Thor wondered what he could possibly be thinking.

"I'll think about it," he said finally.

Relief washed over him. It wasn't an outright refusal, like he'd been worried about. Thor beamed, and clasped his brother's shoulder gratefully. He expected Loki to shrug his hand off, as he usually did. But much to his surprise, a smile flickered across his face—not a smirk, but a real smile.

"You should go home now, Loki. Take Mom home. Get some sleep."

"I think I'll stay a little longer, if you don't mind."

They sat in companionable silence, drinking lattes from the vending machine in the hall far too late at night, Thor occasionally craning his neck to see what Loki had started drawing again.

From her place at her husband's beside, their mother opened her eyes just a crack, her lips twitching with satisfaction.

***Author's Note: I have no idea what possessed me to write this. It's probably been done a million times before but I just kind of had to get it out of my system. I guess I wanted to prove that these characters are so relatable because they're timeless, that their story still makes some kind of sense even in a modern context.

Anyway, thanks for reading.