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As Loki fell, fell, fell what felt like forever, his thoughts wandered.
The cosmos warped around him. Distorting. Disorienting. It hurt on more levels than physical. It seared through his body and mind, the burn of nearby stars ripping through his cold skin after he fell long enough to meet another universe. Freezing, too, beyond what mere ice and frost could do. The sort of cold that only what was beyond the universe could cultivate, enough to break even a Frost Giant. Whenever Loki glanced at his hands, he wholly expected to see buds of frost forming on his pale blue-toned fingertips. And he... oh, Loki always hated being sick. With every fiber of his wretched body, Loki hated nausea, he hated illness, he hated it. That's all he knew now, maybe all he'd ever know with time itself contorting around him. Yet all that torment amounted to nothing when Loki thought of him.
The pain, the sickness, Loki could take it. It was but a temporary nuisance that would leave eventually — even if, deep down, he wasn’t actually sure how long he would fall for until it eventually killed him. Colors swirled around him, a chaotic concoction of nebulae and stars, little lights dancing in the corners of his blurry eyes that never once distracted him from what was above. Always above him. This scream. Deafening. Cracking. At first, Loki thought it to be rage. That's what he knew of that man, after all — a warrior, reckless and bloodthirsty, always suffering from the need for battle. That man always had it out for someone, or something. An entire race, even. His race, unbeknownst to both of them for such a devastatingly long time.
...but Loki heard that plea.
"Brother, don't–!"
And damn every God above him, from the Allfather to the One Above All, Loki saw his face. What even was it? What could he call such an atrocity? Loki didn't feel there was a name for it. It was an expression that didn't suit the warrior, who struck with vengeance and boasted for every minor achievement. It was so unlike the sunny grins during moments of downtime, or thrilled cries of triumph, his noxious joy that was so iconic.
...no, Loki knew a name for it, he finally allowed the thought to come forth into his head.
Fear.
Fear... Fear?
No, surely not. That was a disgrace to that barbaric god, even on Loki's terms. The God of Thunder never felt fear. Loki thought so, anyway, but there it was, right before him. The realization that no, he couldn't save Loki if he did what he knew he would do. Helplessness, a feeling so laughably foreign to him. He, who was always ahead, always at the top, always on a pedestal. Tsk, not unknown to Loki. Loki had become intimately familiar with the feeling, and by all the Nine Realms did a festering, vile part of him yearn to see it on Thor's wretched face one day. He's waited centuries for this very moment, where he'd see the golden boy break.
It was a revoltingly ugly look on him. Outrageous. Loki didn't know if he'd hated anything from his brother more. Loki also didn't know if he'd ever hated himself as much as he did now, finally letting himself realize that. A twisted, moral part of himself wrenched itself out of the snake pit to make itself known. Its first action, to violently disobey his insistent detachment. The one, stupid part of him that didn’t want to disown itself from Thor. If Loki hadn't lost all feeling in his body, he might've just clawed out his heart right there and then. Maybe solidify a death he knew he deserved for centuries. What a Loki way to go out. Staining the skies in his ichor like a macabre constellation that only a handful would know the true nature of. Dramatic and leaving a filthy stain ruining everything he touched, even the great multiverse. It would be more meaningful than landing in a black hole one of these days and getting ripped apart from the outside weak flesh to every last morsel of magic sustain. Not any less agonizing either way.
Yet his mind kept coming back to that warrior, not giving him enough rest to re-convince himself this was the right choice. The way his lip twitched, the question that went unspoken, because Thor already knew the moment their eyes met. He knew it in his soul when Loki glanced away from him at the one thing, the one decision he couldn't sway. His incessantly bright, vibrant, lively eyes revealing a split second of shocked horror that his shadow would even consider doing such a thing — but the newfound knowledge he absolutely would. The plea. The plea. The plea. Loki hated it. Loki hated it. He fucking hated it. He hated it, he despised it, he was digging at his chest, nails scraping against plated armor. He needed it to stop. He needed it to stop. He should've just wrenched the weapon through himself instead. Damn him for choosing such a slow death.
That's why you never left your thoughts alone, he hissed to himself, venom spat through his mind. It only hurt himself. That's why you always listened to Thor's incessant fucking rambling. It was noise. Enough noise to shut it up. That’s all it ever was.
Liar.
His fingers loosened their grip. What Loki wouldn't give for one more conversation. Thor's voice was so irritating. Disgustingly filled with emotion and life and warmth and everything sunny in the world. Loki hated it, or maybe how much he missed it.
He just kept falling. Surely there was an end to it — everything ended eventually.
In what felt like slow motion, he watched the Allfather hoist the warrior up onto the bridge seemingly against his will. No, that was no warrior. Not anymore. Loki didn't recognize him at first. He sat on the edge of the bridge screaming, shrieking, wailing like a pitiful mortal child, down to being cradled in the arms of his father. Guttural, primal, visceral weeping in the single most over dramatic– no... truly devastated manner Loki has possibly ever seen, let alone from Thor. This was the type of reaction Loki had observed from mortals, never gods. That woman must have softened him up in more ways than just in battle, Loki reasoned. This was not even the reaction he had when he lied about his father's demise. It was mellow, silent grief, masked in silence and buried in the locked-down crevices of his mind. Was this another man? Surely.
...no. Loki stared — it was the only thing he could do. Loki recognized him, finally. It finally registered in his brain, anyway, a confirmation after such high tension.
That is his brother.
His fucking brother. Losing it over him.
All that hate, all that jealousy, for what? To be defeated by his brother again. He was the victor again, because of course he was. The rage that swelled in his chest felt empty. Soulless. It had nothing behind it, nothing that drove him to pull the strings the way he had since his exile. Loki didn't know how long that firecracker spent sobbing over the edge of the bridge, staring down like he considered following because where else would he be, if not with his brother? What he also didn't know, was when they had finally left. Maybe Odin got sick of his pathetic sobbing and ushered him away so he could finally leave his adopted war trophy in the past. Maybe Thor couldn't bear to watch and simply ran — he usually did that, the emotionally volatile bastard. He didn't want need to know the answer to either of those questions, because Loki had the one answer he needed this time.
Nobody truly won here today. Not even the sun, the fire that was his brother. Finally. Maybe he could rest easy now. This was the closest thing he'd ever come to a victory, Loki reasoned. He hurt Thor. He might not have earned his father's favor, but did that matter? Death was upon the horizon. Now, Thor knew helplessness. He knew fragility. He may have gained back his Godhood, but he lost enough for it.
Loki already missed his warmth.