Loki's hand, gentle upon his cheek and smoothing through his hair, gives Thor cause to sigh, leaning rather helplessly into the touch. He is in no mood to be petted and cossetted back into an agreeable temper, yet somehow he takes comfort from the easy stroking nonetheless, even before he begins to listen to the words; Loki's murmuring paints a vivid picture, so that in spite of himself he can imagine that it might not be so bad, after all, to lie beneath those drifting boughs, perhaps with the happy warmth of a maiden on either side of him. And Freyr is a kindly, fatherly sort, often of a better temperament, Thor must guiltily admit to himself, than Odin.

He wants to turn from the sympathy in his brother's gaze, but Loki's touch coaxes and soothes and Thor meets his eyes with a yearning he is not quite able to hide away. There remains a piece of that picture incomplete, so that when Loki proposes to accompany him his eyes widen, and his expression changes swiftly: hope dawning like the sun across his golden features, and his hand coming up to grasp over Loki's where it rests against his prickly cheek.

"Will you?" Of course he will stop destroying his belongings, if it might only be true. He had not realized until now how much of the bitter hurt within him came at the prospect of being parted from family, friends, those who admire and love him and surround his days in a honey-warm glow of satisfaction: and how steadily he has missed and hungered for his brother's cool silvery presence at his side. That Loki belonged there was no question to Thor.