With every word, that stone that seems to be sitting in Thor's belly gets colder, and without the glass in his hands to keep them occupied he's fidgeting, worrying them against one another, a nervous wringing that he seems helpless to stop. Loki knows. He knows.

He knows that Thor is not capable of dealing with the kingship and the children and the waiting. He knows that Thor isn't getting better, not like he'd hoped, not like Eir thinks he is. He knows that Thor needs the drink as strongly as he needs water or air or sunshine. He knows that Thor is failing, that he doesn't know what to do, trapped in a cycle that seems to have no end.

"Help?" he repeats, attempting a laugh that comes out strangled and a little too high. "You're... you're mistaken. I'm fine. Maybe your numbers are wrong. These things happen, you know? I've always ordered this much." He hasn't. It's a terrible lie, a terrible excuse, but he's gripped by an anxiety that seems to seize his thoughts entirely. Loki knows. He knows.