All Thor can taste is iron. It floods his mouth, coats the back of his throat. Liquid runs down his cheeks but he knows it’s not tears. It’s too hot, too thick, dries oddly.

He opens his eyes and everything is just too bright.

He feels… better. A little chilly. Really gross, he feels sticky and crusty and can smell himself, fucking yuck.

He props himself up into a sitting position, his arms a little shaky. His head feels… lighter?

He brushes his hand through his… nonexistent hair. He pats at his scalp, irrational tears building in his eyes. What happened? Why? He liked his hair. He was trying to grow it out like Jack’s, not that he would ever tell him that…

This was stupid.

He brought his hands down, attempting to force the tears back… and stared at his hands.

Blood completely covers them. Wet in some spots, flaky and near black in others.

His hands go to his face, which feels exceptionally crack-y, feels dust come off his face. It flutters to his sheets in black, brown, and dark red.

His movements become more and more frantic, desperately trying to scratch off all the dried blood. His skin feels too tight, the scent of iron and salt is too strong, the bitter, rotting taste of blood on his tongue enough to make his stomach cramp in an attempt to puke for the umpteenth time in less than a week.

If that was even right. He doesn’t know what day it was…

Footsteps.

Thor looks up as the door creaks open.

Sean walks in and Thor feels the need to throw up all over again.

He looks gaunt, as if he hasn’t eaten in a while, and the skin under his eyes was purpled.

But the worst was the bandages over his arms, leaking crimson all over the place.

But when Sean saw Thor upright and conscious, a huge smile spread over his face.

“Oh thank god.” Sean rushes over to Thor and grabs him into a hug. Thor remained stiff in his arms.

“W-what happened?” He rasps.

“You’re ok, you’re ok…” Sean repeats it like a mantra, ignoring Thor.

“Sean.” He pushes weakly at his brother. “Sean, what happened?”

Sean pushes him back so suddenly that Thor's head spins. “Not enough time. They’re coming.”

“What? Who?”

Panic is rising in his chest, and he… he doesn’t know how to explain it. It’s like he is feeling taste and color. Thick, gray, flavorless stew that coats the back of his throat (fear, fear, panic, they’re coming) and bright, snapping electric-static-mint (ready, ready, get ready, protect). His hands start to tremble and his eyes burn. “Sean, there’s something really wrong–”

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Someone pounds at the front door.

Sean goes tighter than a violin string and slowly turns around towards the sound. For a split second, Thor swears that his pupils flicker, but everything else is flickering too, his head throbbing and his heart pumping and the distinct feeling of wrong, wrong, wrong.

“Stay here.” Each word is pronounced so sharply, so crisply, not like the easy, smiling, almost-slurring his older brother usually speaks in.

“Se–”

“Stay. Here.”

Thor only stays still for long enough for the door to slam behind Sean before he’s up and moving, stumbling all over the place.

He scratches at the dried blood, black rust fluttering off of him like macabre confetti and throws on a shirt and pants from his dresser before he’s thudding down the stairs and to the front door.

Two men crowd the doorway. One is in a crisp suit and the other one is in black fatigues. Thor’s stomach drops.

“Sean–”

He expects Sean to yell at him, to tell him to go back to his room. Instead, his body is hunched over slightly, and when he turns back to Thor his eyes are dim.

“Say your goodbyes.” Says the guy in the suit.

“Goodbyes?” His voice is small.

The picture of mom and dad stare down at the scene, and Thor remembers a similar scene from years ago, when he was still a toddler and Sean was just a kid.

Sean in the doorway, crumpled over, two policemen, and an “I’m sorry,” from their mouths.

“What do you mean goodbye?” He steps forwards. “Sean, what’s happ–”

“Your brother needs to be taken into quarantine, he’s been reported to be infected–”

“Infected? No, I–”

“Thor, don’t make this harder than it needs to be.” Sean’s voice is broken but some light is back in his eyes, one that says don’t you dare.

“I need to go,” he continues, “it’s not safe for you.”

(Protect, protect, pain, pain, I love you, I love you, IloveyouIloveyou–)

The man in the fatigues snaps out a pair of handcuffs. But not normal handcuffs, Huge, silver things that took up half of Sean’s forearms.

And Sean just crosses his arms behind him. And lets himself be cuffed.

Everything hurts. His tongue and skin feel numb with overstimulation and he wants to cry and yell and–

He’s moving before he realizes, screaming, begging them to not take his big brother away. The guy in the suit is stronger than he looks, and his arm is like an iron band against Thor’s body. Sean is led away, stumbling to one of two armored, tinted-window cars on their street.

The car starts and revs off, and that’s the only time Thor is released. He stumbles forwards, shouting and trying to run desperately after the car.

He stops when the cold air really starts to circulate through his weakened lungs, causing him to double over and cough painfully.

The muffled click of fancy leather shoes on the sidewalk make him turn back to the guy in the suit as he makes his way to his car.

“Hey!” It’s a raw sound, barely human.

The man looks up at him (bored, annoyed, annoyed, pity), and his eyes are just a boring, shitty brown.

RAge, raGe, RagE.

I hAtE yOU.

Y O u

toOk

My

BroTHer

A w A y.

He blanks out.

And then there’s a dead man laying next to his car, a hand clutched to his chest and his mouth and eyes open in terrible, terrible fear.

Thor pukes.