Loki's grip on Thor loosened a little as he turned to face him, but it never left his shoulder. Not until Thor returned the gesture, his broad hands resting on Loki's shoulders. Friendship, Thor had said. Was it true? Had they really not been friends until now? Things had been strained between them for years now, since he'd come home to announce that he'd gotten his dream job at the Capitol. But had the really stopped being friends at that moment? All this time, had their rift really been so great?
Loki turned his gaze up, searching the lines of his brother's perfectly symmetrical face for any sign of doubt, of anger. And then Thor spoke. Usually, it was Loki who knew how to turn words back on themselves, how to sharpen them into barbs and throw them back. But in one sentence, Thor had taken the daggers Loki had pointed at himself and knocked them from his hand.
A soft, low sound escaped from Loki's throat then, half pain, half something else, something deeper than pain, and before he could think twice about it, he had rocked forward on his feet and embraced his brother, nestling close, his head tucked into his brother's chest as if the sheer mass of him could keep the whole world out. He hadn't done this in years. A decade, maybe, not since they were children. But he felt like a child now -- foolish and unequipped to deal with the world around him. "Not as great an honor as it is to be yours," he murmured. "There is no greater honor."