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One of the plants is dying.
He can’t figure out why. The leaves have gone yellow, the ends curling inwards and rotting into a brown coil, and no matter what he does, he cannot get it back to how it was before. And it’s a shame, really, that the pitiful thing is dying when there’s surely a solution to cure it. He’s tried watering it, withholding water, switching out the soils, and moving it to different areas of his apartment to see if it was something as fickle as the air flow that was killing it– but nothing has worked.
Loki stares at the dying thing and sighs. Lifting up one of its leaves gently, he watches as pieces of it disintegrate in his hand and fall to the floor. It’s a sad sight: decay. He should be used to the sight. He’s not.
Verity would know how to fix it. Or, well, she might. She would know better than he, all Earthly matters are better attuned to her than whatever he is. There’s a birthright to it, the way his hand cups the dead fragments of life. Maybe he should just throw the plant away. There was no saving it now.
Loki stands by the plant’s side for a long time. Long enough for the sun to set and cast murky blues into his apartment, a trick of the light that almost makes it seem as though the plant lives. A dull green, just fainter than the parts of itself that still struggle to capture enough sunlight to breathe another day. He could trick himself into believing it. The God of Tricks and Mischief and Lies could get anyone to believe anything. Including himself.
But that’s not who he is, is he?
Turning away, Loki walks to one of the still living plants; the one just under Thor’s poster. He likes this one best. A gift from his brother, actually. It was hardy and vibrant and didn’t ask much from him. He felt at peace when he was near it, knowing the ease it centered itself on. Looking up at the poster, Loki traces the cartoonish proportions of his brother’s face, so different from his own. Where Loki saw noble brow and righteousness in his brother’s figure, he himself thought of the scrappiness of his frame, the wickedness of his fingers.
He refrains from touching neither plant nor poster. Lately, it had felt as though he were cursed more than usual. There was death in his blood. More than one kind.
Looking around at his simple apartment, Loki felt that old stirring in his chest. A frantic, troubled thing that flapped its sharp wings against his heart, calling with its young voice to be heard through the lies he spoke. The truth is what he had wanted to dedicate himself to, a rebirth in a rebirth, a third chance at living somewhere off the beaten path. He was trying, Odin help him, he was trying. But it wasn’t real.
None of it was real.
What else would he tell them? What other lies might he spill forth in every effort to remain as he is? What more could he give them to only hurt them all in the end? When he thinks of their faces, eyes full of truth, mouths trembling with the weight of what he would force them to swallow– the very idea of it makes his stomach cramp, his head ache. How much longer will he be able to keep up this facade? Every day that passes is yet another tally on the long list of sins he’s committed.
They look at him like he’s good. Like he’s done something worthy to be seen by their gazes, greeted by their kindness. They look at this mimic of a God and think to smile. Isn’t that something? What kind of gluttonous evil is he, to take what they give him without hesitation? He’s sick with it, ill with the very thing he is. A disease, wrapped around each cell, strong enough to travel through time and bodies and souls.
The body he inhabits– not even his own. He was not meant to be, merely a byproduct of machinations unknown in their entirety to him, and yet here he stands. The hands of a murderer, the hands of a destroyer. There is no good these hands can do and still somehow he believes himself, convinces himself, that they must do something other than wreck. God of Tricks. God of Mischief. God of Lies.
His greatest trick of all, the feat of all lies ever told: Loki can be changed.
A day passes. The plant continues to die. With nothing to do, the God of Nothing Good sits idly, lost in past lives. What more is there? A culmination of all there ever was, all this body ever was. A corpse of perhaps the only good thing he could’ve been. But not him. A child never come to fruition, his fate sealed with blood and feathers and bone.
There was something there, to be consumed by what you are to become. Does a snake know it eats its own tail? Or is it merely so hungry, so blinded by its need to dominate, that it does not care?
Loki runs his tongue over his teeth. The very teeth that ripped into flesh and hollow bone. Hot blood between the gaps. A beak frozen open in a cry of pain. What pain was there to be felt? A child is dead, again, and it is he who stands atop its corpse. He has won.
Damn me.
There was hatred there. A hatred for all there ever was of Loki. How could one ever be satisfied knowing the fate you are to befall? There are no great heroes in this story. No beloved brothers. Only dead children. Dead Gods.
Damn you all.
A knock at his door rouses Loki. He knows it is Thor who knocks without moving from his spot on the couch.
“It’s unlocked,” he says, arranging himself so as to not look as if he has simply been staring at a wall for two days. “Enter.”
His brother’s footsteps are heavy, booted heels stamping into the thin wood like his namesake, and Loki tilts his head backwards to get a better look. As always, his brother is smiling.
“Loki,” Thor greets warmly, that godly glow about him as he enters the apartment. Already the place seems more alive. “It is good to see thee.”
“Hello, Thor,” Loki says, not quite finding it within himself to get up. “How goes the mighty Avengers?”
“Excellent! We have only just arrived back from a mission, though I am sorry to say I cannot disclose to thee what about.”
Loki shrugs his shoulders, turning to face the wall again. “So what brings you here?”
In his peripherals, he sees Thor’s bulky form draw closer to the couch. It is fortunate that the dead plant is further in its corner than usual. He would hate for that to draw attention. Another failure in a long list of them.
“Must I have cause to see how my brother fares?” Thor asks, hand on his hip as he comes to stand beside the couch. “It’s been near a fortnight since I saw thee last.”
“Oh, you know me,” Loki drawls. His gaze remains fixed on the cartoon version of his brother. “Nothing new there. Verity came by for dinner a few days ago.”
Thor moves to sit on the couch, and there is hardly a foot of space between them. Perhaps he should invest in a larger couch. He forgets exactly how big his brother is compared to everyone else.
“It went well?” Thor prods, seeking a story Loki is usually ready to give. “Verity Willis is a good friend of yours, yes?”
“We’re friends,” Loki says, frowning.
But are they? With whom is she friends with? Loki, surely, but he is not Loki. He lives in the body of Loki. He is a fragment of a soul of another Loki. But he remembers best what it felt like to be someone’s mirror. Not quite real but an almost perfect imitation of something that was. He remembers what it felt like to be someone’s magpie.
What it felt like to be eaten.
“Loki?”
Standing, Loki makes his way to the kitchen. “Would you like some tea? I have a new blend.”
He can feel his brother’s eyes on his back as he puts together their drinks, and even now the word ‘brother’ on his tongue tastes foul. The truth, he said, was what he wanted to strive for. There must be redemption somewhere along this long path, but only if he can behave. Only if he can be good. And being good means being truthful, but how could he ever look that man in the eye and tell him–
“Something troubles thee.” And Thor is in the kitchen with him now, his presence and armor a suffocating thing in his apartment. “Tell me. What are you thinking, Loki?”
“I’m thinking that the tea is ready.” He holds out a cup to his brother, who takes it and laughs quietly.
“Even tamed I see you use your tricks well. Then, tell me not what you are thinking, but what troubles you. Do not lie to me, though I know it to be your natural way.”
“There’s nothing wrong,” Loki dismisses, sliding past Thor and back into the wider space of his living room. “There are no great catastrophes for you to handle. The sky isn’t falling. I’ve been good, you know.”
He makes the mistake of looking at his brother as he speaks, witnessing the fond smile that blooms there.
“Yes,” Thor says, “I know.”
And damn it all, if that isn’t what he needed to hear. The look on his face must have been something telling, for it makes Thor’s smile drop and his brow furrow.
“What’s wrong, Loki? What troubles you?”
“Nothing. It’s nothing.”
Damn me.
“Speak truthfully, brother. Your trust is not misplaced with me.”
“Thor, I… I–”
Damn you all.
Loki swallows. “I-It’s the plant, Thor.”
“The plant?” His brother’s eyes go to the one he had gifted. “What’s wrong with it?”
“No, not that one. Nothing’s wrong with that one, it’s perfect. It’s this one.” Loki walks to the corner and gestures limply at it. “Don’t you see? It’s dying. I’ve– I’ve killed it.”
Thor observes the yellowed leaves, the pile of dead life in its pot. His fingers come to gently brush against its stem and Loki looks away.
“I did everything I could,” he mumbles, “but it died anyway. I killed it.”
Thor is quiet as he continues to observe the dead plant. Loki sighs and rubs at his face, wishing the day were over. There was another lie. Another half-truth. What troubles him? Oh, dearest brother, where to begin? What could he possibly say to explain it all and still make the man before him stay? It was a dream to call him brother with the same face of the one he had slain, knowing it was not Thor’s young brother that complained of dead plants but his murderer that did so.
To what end would he torment these people? Did his wickedness know no bounds? And still yet he seeks out their hearts, their kinship. In the lonely hours of every dawn, in the weakening dusks of every night, he is here in place of another so much more deserving, so much more worthy of the blessings he so savagely consumes.
The snake knows not that it eats its own tail. All it knows is that it is hungry and there is a feast before it. What bastard wouldn’t wish for a place at the table?
The sound of Thor’s laughter forces Loki to look at him. The huge man is still hunched over, fingers against the plant’s stems, and his cape shudders under the bulk of his chortle. His cheeks are rosy and his smile blinding, and as he turns around, Loki feels as if he stands in front of the sun.
“I thought there to be something truly terrible abound to make you so dour,” Thor says, mirth in his voice. “But I see now that it is merely your growing heart that makes you so!”
Loki frowns, not understanding. “What are you talking about?”
The question makes Thor laugh again and he reaches out to grasp at Loki’s shoulders. “The plant is not dead, brother.”
“But look at it! Its leaves are literally falling to the floor as we speak! I’ve killed it, Thor.”
“No, no, it is meant to do so. It is shedding to be reborn with new leaves. There is a plant like this in the Avengers’ Tower. Captain Rogers takes care of it and has explained its life cycle to me. There is nothing to fret about, I assure you.”
Unable to keep eye contact, Loki glances toward the plant instead. “Really? It’s not dead?”
“No, it is not.”
“I see. That’s– That’s good, then, that it lives.”
The force of Thor’s booming laugh startles Loki into looking at his brother again, and it shocks him even more to see a shimmer within his blue eyes.
“Do not mistake this for pain on my part, brother,” Thor says, squeezing Loki’s shoulders. “I am glad. Terribly so.”
“What for?” Loki asks incredulously.
“I am witnessing you with the weight of tenderness on your heart,” Thor says, as if it explains everything. “It is a sight I thought I would never get to see so clearly. Simple creature it may be for, Loki, I see your concern for this plant’s life. I see your good heart.” Thor pauses, patting the side of Loki’s face softly. “The one I knew to always be there.”
Unbidden, Loki feels a familiar sting in his eyes. “It’s just a plant, Thor.”
“Even so, in another life it may not have even deigned to exist in your world. Loki, it is a wonderful thing to feel so deeply. Do not think it a weakness, to love a life so much it brings you pain to see it end. It is proof of your goodness.”
His brother slowly wraps his arms around Loki’s smaller frame. The hesitation in the action kills him. He does not deserve it.
“And I have never doubted your goodness, Loki. Not once.”
But like the starving, wretched snake he is, Loki returns the embrace. Crushes his brother against him. The dampness in his eyes he refuses to let fall, but he is greedy. He is famished. He is so, so alone.
“Thank you,” Loki whispers, turning his face away from the plant, his guilt, “for believing in me.”
Thor hums. “Always. It is what brothers are for.”