[ His smile is unbidden, cracking the last remnants of suspicion as hope floods through to take its place. Hope of this being a kinder Loki, more than anything, because while it's tempting to desire a better Loki there is almost no such thing that could exist (his brother was stubborn and angry and wounded but never stupid, never ignorant of how he had wronged others — there was good in him, in the end). The clouds brewing in Thor's chest clear to blue skies and he throws all his caution and awkward hesitance to the wind in draping an arm around Loki's shoulders to reel him in, nudging them into a walk through the trees. If Thor uses his swaggering weight, he doesn't apologise. ]

I was not about to ask you to tote Mjolnir, little brother. [ Wry as his humour is, a laugh levies it up. The Little is important, a distinction from the grown man he knew, a special seat in Thor's heart getting chipped away by the youth (on whom he accidentally-on-purpose offloads his weight) the longer they talk. ] I would have you prove yourself no less than Loki, likely infuriating in every turn you take after this. Ah, but the weightier question remains — will you take me and my sausage-fingers as we are? No paltry burden is this.