Written to Family - Della Ding. Crosspost from AO3
After two long weeks, the doctors tell Thor that he can take Loki home. The psychiatrist he had met with before tells him in the hospital lobby that this is normal, that having psychotic relapses is normal for patients with schizophrenia, that he shouldn't be extremely worried about it.
"Sometimes it takes a while before we can figure out that person's particular biology and get them the appropriate dosage they need," the psychiatrist explains. "I'm going to suggest moving Loki to 6 mg of Risperdal from 4."
Thor wants to tell the doctor that he doesn't particularly care what he suggests, that he just wants his brother to feel better and not sick, when an orderly wheels Loki out the elevator.
Loki's face brightens when he sees Thor waiting for him. Against the orderly's instructions to remain in the wheelchair, he stands up and runs into Thor's waiting arms.
Loki smells like disinfectant and the sharp tang of rubbing alcohol, but as Thor presses his brother's head into his shoulder and feels his breath in hot puffs through the cloth, he thinks there has never been a more welcome scent.
While Loki is retaking his final examinations for that term, Thor stands in line at the grocery store to pick up his prescription.
The pharmacist who charges his card looks at him pityingly.
"You're a brave man," she says. "Not everyone can deal with people like this."
The pills shudder in the white paper bag as Thor takes them from her.
"It's hard," he admits. "But I have to. I love him very much."
The pharmacist nods at him, wishes him a nice day.
In the front seat of his car, Thor looks at the tiny orange bottle of pills, mouths the words "6 mg [1 capsule] to be administered daily" to himself. He presses the bottle to his mouth and silently begs the tiny capsules to work this time around.
That evening during dinner, Loki reaches across the dining table and puts his hand over Thor's.
"What?" Thor asks, looking at the stitches running across the tops of Loki's fingers before looking up at him.
"I didn't mean to do it," Loki says, his eyes bright with tears. "I didn't mean to."
"I know," Thor murmurs, turning his hand over and gently stroking Loki's fingers. "I know you didn't. I'm sorry I left you. I shouldn't have."
When Thor looks up again, he finds Loki crying into his rice, biting at the back of his other hand to stifle his sobs. Thor sighs, walks around the table and gently pulls Loki into a hug. Loki's arms cling tightly to him, and Thor can feel the shuddering of his brother's shoulders all throughout his bones.
When Loki's sobs have diminished into soft hiccups, Thor gently pulls back, cradles Loki's face in his hands, wipes away stray tears with his thumbs.
"Don't let go," Loki whispers, his voice catching.
"No," Thor promises. "Never."
That night as they lie in bed, Loki's head pillowed on Thor's chest, Loki voices something he'd been worrying about.
"How are we going to tell Mum and Dad?" he asks quietly. "About everything."
Thor runs a hand through Loki's hair, still slightly damp from his recent shower.
"I don't know," he says simply. "Maybe they don't need to know everything yet. We'll probably have to tell them about the schizophrenia, though."
The diagnosis, ugly and thick in the darkness, swells in the air over them. Thor watches the soft bright streaks of car headlights sweep over the opposite wall as he absentmindedly curls Loki's hair around his fingers. They do nothing to lighten the room.
"They've probably known this whole time," Loki murmurs. "Since I was ten. That this would happen."
"It doesn't really change anything, though," Thor points out. "Mum still loves you, Dad still loves you. So even if they did know about it, it wouldn't change how they feel about you. You're their son, too, you know. They'll understand."
Thor feels the soft tickle of Loki's eyelashes against his chest.
"And you?" Loki asks quietly. "Do you understand?"
Thor sighs a bit, tightens his fingers a little against Loki's scalp.
"I don't know if I do. I've never been good at this sciency stuff. I don't understand why this is happening to you or how scary it must be for you. I don't get how those little green pills are supposed to make you feel better. I don't really understand any of this," Thor admits.
Loki tenses a bit against him, before Thor continues, resuming his gentle stroking of Loki's hair.
"I do understand this, though," Thor murmurs, tugging soft, ebony strands so Loki looks up at him. "I understand that I love you. I love all of you. That's all I need to understand, isn't it? It's enough."
Loki drops his head back onto Thor's chest, the fingers of his left hand absentmindedly tracing patterns on Thor's skin.
"I love you too," he says quietly. "Always. Even when I'm...like that. I don't want to lose you."
Thor gently plays with Loki's hair until his brother falls asleep.
Odin and Frigga are waiting at the airport, waving big signs around with their names on them. Thor grins, grabs Loki's wrist, and runs over to them. He scoops his mother until a hug, spinning her around, greets his father heartily. Loki hangs back a little before cautiously hugging Frigga and greeting Odin with a shy nod.
"Loki," Frigga admonishes gently in the car on the way home, "you should try to eat more, sweetie. You're far too thin; I can count your ribs through your shirt."
Loki has the good graces to look embarrassed, and Thor chooses not to say anything about Loki's impromptu stay in the hospital.
He reaches out across the backseat and covers Loki's hand with his own, squeezing reassuringly.
Thor is drying dishes with Frigga one night four days after they come home when the words bubbling up in the back of his throat demand an exit; he starts to say, "Loki has -"
Frigga interrupts him, swatting him with a dishtowel.
"That is your brother's decision, when he wants to tell us," she says, looking at Thor sternly. "It is not your place to do it for him."
Thor looks suitably ashamed, and goes back to drying forks.
Frigga places a hand on his arm, and he looks back at her.
"I know you feel angry, upset, confused maybe, about why this is happening," she says, gentler this time.
Thor worries at the tines of a fork with his blue dishcloth. "I feel so helpless," he admits. "I don't know what to do, Mom."
Frigga gently pats his arm. "There isn't much you can do. It's not something you can touch, it's not something you can beat halfway to death on a school playground." Frigga smiles fondly at the memory. "You remember that, don't you? You were all of eight years old, and you thought it would be a good idea to fight some sixth graders much bigger than you because they'd been teasing Loki. My goodness, your father was fuming mad over that for quite a while."
She traces a scar just underneath Thor's left eyebrow.
"You've always been a good older brother, Thor," she says, smiling at him. "This is just one of those things you can't hope to protect him from. You just need to be there with him, keeping him safe, keeping him happy."
Thor stacks the last utensil in the drawer, and turns to leave. His mother's voice makes him stop at the kitchen doorway.
"Don't leave him behind, Thor," she calls out softly. "It's a big world out there, and people might not take the time to understand your brother. He'll never be like you, big and muscly and with a booming voice to tell everyone he's there, he's important. He's a brilliant young man, but even brilliant young men are blindsided by the unexpected."
On a warm Saturday evening in the middle of July, when they are all sitting outside drinking iced tea and lemonade, Loki finally decides it is time.
"Mum, Dad," he says, looking over at them shyly. Frigga looks up from her sewing, and Odin looks up from the baseball scores. Thor watches the exchange tensely.
"I'm...schizophrenic."
Thor watches Loki furiously scrub at his face with the heel of one hand, trying to stave off unwanted tears.
"I hurt a girl a few months ago. I cut her with some glass." The words catch in Loki's throat, and he looks down at his shoes for a few moments. Frigga reaches out and pats his arm gently.
"We know," she says quietly. "We know all about it."
Loki looks up at her, confused, his green eyes shimmering slightly in the dim porch light.
"We're still listed as emergency contacts on your health insurance, dear," Frigga says kindly. "The hospital contacted us after they admitted you. Told us everything."
Loki crosses and uncrosses his fingers, looking anywhere but at his parents. Frigga pats his arm encouragingly.
"You...aren't mad?" Loki asks finally, not meeting their eyes.
"No, of course not," Frigga says. "Perhaps a little upset that you didn't tell us sooner, but that is your choice. Nobody can fault you for that. We're just happy you're alive and here with us."
"Does this change anything?"
Odin clears his throat, finally speaks up. "No. This doesn't change anything. So you're schizophrenic. So what? You're still our son, you'll always be our son."
Frigga smiles at her husband approvingly, and he harrumphs a bit before burying his head back in the sports section of the newspaper. Loki smiles, a bit tearily.
"Thanks," he murmurs.
A passing car illuminates them for a moment, its headlights coating the porch with delicate yellow streaks, and Thor smiles at the silhouettes of his family.
It no longer seems so dark.