The clothes fit perfectly, and still smell faintly of Loki and feel of his magic. Though wearing his brother's colors would ordinarily seem very strange, right now Thor finds a little solace in it, a tangible reminder that Loki is still here.

Still dead, his inner voice whispers, as if he could possibly forget clutching tight to his brother's leathers as the ship erupted into flames around them, laying his head on the corpse's chest and waiting to wake in Valhalla together.

There's a flicker of weary relief in his eye when he sees Loki again for himself, not just phantom sounds hidden just out of sight, and he grasps at his brother's shoulder - just to reassure himself, just in case - before settling heavily into the bed, feeling several thousand years older than he is. Thor has never cared for tea, but he picks up that cup first and drains it without a protest, and only wishes it was something stronger, something to deaden the memories that he has no doubt will haunt him when he inevitably gives in to the exhaustion that is pulling at him steadily now. He's less quick to down the broth, because the first taste reminds him of the Guardians' ship after his rescue, and how he'd thought that he had struck his lowest point. What more could I lose?

What an utter fool he'd been. There is always more to lose, and in this moment, he knows what he dreads losing again most.

"You'll be here when I wake, right?" Thor asks, trying not to sound desperate.