Old York, New Earth, 5512 A.D.
A few legendary triumphs and defeats of the mighty Thor are still mentioned in textbooks of the Military Academy. The god of thunder is a historical figure, his name is elemental knowledge. He himself is employed by S.H.I.E.L.D. during times of peace: he gives lectures on the Philosophy of War. A tall, bristly old man with sturdy shoulders and a constant frown, both eyes pale blue, one scarred, sight unadmittedly weakening; hair trimmed at the bottom and in a pigtail on top, its colour a mix of sandy and grey. Beard still yellow, kept short, missing in some subtle patches. Posture showing open disinterest towards the potential S.H.I.E.L.D. agents across him, all carefully selected, promising, healthy fledglings. He always sits on a human-sized chair half-facing the youngsters amounting to thirty or so, predominantly earthen inhabitants; and without using any of the equipment available, he speaks to himself. His job is to speak about his experience. In an even, deeply humming voice, at an unsteady pace, he tells stories that are already described in textbooks, though not caring to stick to the way they've altered the events during the course of history. For the umpteenth time, he relates occasions the way he remembers: sometimes it's the truth, sometimes just a guess to fill in the holes and avoid having to admit that his memory is starting to lapse. As required, he adds his personal reflection. Thanos was a self-righteous fool, like anyone under the age of two thousand, himself included. The Fourth World War could have passed as no more than a scam: humanity's gullible, petty nature was what triggered the actual chain of events. (He believed for a while that the semi-transparent attempt at making a ruckus was in fact Loki's initiation, which was proven to be untrue later. Loki is dead for real.) Surtur's second reawakening might have been Thor's own fault, just as the textbooks say: he sought to find-...
He falls silent today in the middle of this sentence because his look strays towards the figure that snuck in a few seconds ago and stood by the back wall, apparently not intent to disturb the lecture. Lanky, dark, elegant, soundless, motionless, young. The god of thunder is unable to pick up the thread of his thoughts and stop wondering who the newcomer is, even though it's not the first time (not even the hundredth) that he sees unignorable resemblance in a random figure passing through his life. His eyes narrow in an attempt to see details better from the opposite end of the room, and that looks like he frowns at the visitor.
The young man seems to be most interested in the row of chairs on his left, but sensing the intent look, he can't entirely suppress a smile to himself. He still waits patiently in his place.
However, Thor can't find the way back to his whispering audience, as long as the wordless question keeps growing in his mind, pushing out everything else. He stands up slowly , to get a better view, to invite the figure closer. But before he could wave or utter anything, the man sighs audibly and walks up to him on his own. It takes a mere six steps, but it feels like a thousand lifetimes to Thor, who is eager to detect his mistake already, to find the differences, the unfamiliarity in the facial features.
He finds none of those, and it unnerves him, hope and disbelief torment him in unison. His voice is cracked, dry, faint, with some embarrassment mixing in as he asks:
"Am I... hallucinating?"
The man's hand holds his upper arm in encouragement. Thor stares at him openly now; the teal eyes, shining shamefully bright and smiling, are the same as they were back then on the Statesman, telling him the same thing.
Thor's eyes are shining, too, but not resembling a midsummer's morning sky any more: more like a November afternoon. Well, he's kind of at a disadvantage without sorcery to dress him all peachy, right? This vain old trickster still has it in himself to make the effort, even though he hasn't had the guts to appear sooner-
"Where have you been?" Thor asks then, torn between reproach and plea.
The steady gaze on him never falters during the answer.
"I couldn't be here. I'm sorry."
"For this long? Why?"
He can't help it. It gushes out of him, the demanding question, the worthless tears, the weight of the years spent in tireless denial. He seeks words to convey the swirl in him, he shakes his head in an attempt to gather thoughts. But then he catches a glimpse of Loki mirroring his expression, a moment before arms embrace his neck tightly.
"I'm so sorry," the sorcerer whispers into his neck, his voice heavy, his body weightless. "I wanted… I wanted it so much-"
Wordlessly, Thor holds him like a body of glass, with surprised reverence, expecting it to disappear at any moment.
Before that could happen, however, the sorcerer lets go, only his hands tracing his brother's lower arms.
"But you're here now, finally," he notes, and Thor feels like each part of his body rejuvenates under the caressing gaze.
"I'm here," he repeats softly, thoughtfully.
Loki doesn't let him get lost in ponder; breathing in like it's a long missed act, his fingers intertwine with Thor's, his eyes laughing at the thunder god's surprise.
"Come, let's go," he says and pulls him along.
And Thor follows him without hesitation, because he knows now where they're heading.