He had been carried by Loki too many times already in this life. The slender man at his side wasn't built to shoulder this much weight—the unforgiving quarries of their district had seen to that. The other's injured leg surely wouldn't hold them a step further; why was it, then, that Thor was the only one who stumbled?
He had been to Loki's apartment countless times, but it still managed to feel trespassed the moment he entered; for a moment, he wasn't even sure it was the right place. But he trusted his brother. Loki led him into the bathroom, and Thor dropped heavily down onto the edge of the tub. He stared disdainfully at the vial pushed into his hand. Of course he knew what to do. He had seen more use for this than most, but never in a recreational setting. Loki's clever repurposing had been passed on to Thor's prep team somewhere down the road; his brother, of course, would neither confirm nor deny his involvement in the gifting of the knowledge.
For one night, let him be poisoned. He felt so much better the closer he was to blacking out, balanced with one foot out over that final ledge, never knowing if this plummet would be the one to finally finish him.
These were the thoughts of a very drunk man, and Thor was ashamed.
He had thought his own intoxication somehow made him a nobler figure, when in reality he and Stark were the same. Hadn't he watched the elder Victor's decline on television and promised himself that he would never fall for such trappings? Hadn't he promised a young Loki—in a tone of jest, even—as if it was a humorous eventuality of flawed people in foreign Districts, as if it would never touch them?
Thor felt a cool hand brush the hair from his neck and scowled. Arm propped on the toilet bowl, he emptied the contents of the vial down his throat; in the next instant, he was hurling all over his brother's bathroom floor. It seemed cruel that he should somehow manage to miss the toilet completely.
Later, they were in his brother's living room. Thor had an ice pack pressed to one eye; his hair was down now, and he looked more composed. At the very least he appeared sober enough to feel miserable.
"We will not speak of this to Frigga," he muttered, as if his shit show hadn't just aired all over national television.