Thor cannot truly say that he wouldn't simply fall apart without these arms around him, moored to this time and place only by the touch of the living, a familiar embrace that he's not felt nearly often enough and perhaps never will again, and that thought touches off a fresh wave of grief that closes his throat. Thor buries his face in Loki's shoulder, tears wetting his brother's shirt, his breath stuttering out in irregular gasps as he fails to compose himself as a king should.

"I didn't stop him," he croaks out, after a time. Not couldn't. Didn't. Such a small thing, yet it made all the difference in the universe.