Loki wanted to hate Thor. This entire mess was his fault, after all, and he knew he would have nightmares now about his own brother sewing his mouth shut. Anger burned in his chest, but it was a sick feeling, muted by pain.

When Thor sat next to him and put his arm around his shoulders, Loki sagged against his brother. Somehow the shaking of his shoulders and arms seemed less, now that he had someone more steady to lean on.

He hated himself for needing that.

After a moment he realized the charcoal was gone. He found it in the basin. It took two fumbling tries to pick it up; blood made it slippery in his hands. He took the piece of parchment back from Sif and crossed off the last thing he'd written with an unsteady scrawl. He wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand.

He only wrote one word on the paper as a message for both of them. It came out as a smeared mess: Leave.

The charcoal dropped from his fingers again.

They both needed to leave. He had to find a solution himself. But he couldn't stop himself from still leaning against his brother, from grasping at Sif's hand with his own, marring her skin with red and black smudges.

In the back of his mind, something horrible whispered: No wonder father thinks I'm unworthy.