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The bottle on the table gleamed under the flickering kitchen light, catching Odin's eye again. His hand hovered near it, fingers curling slightly, as if the familiar weight of the glass might anchor him to this moment, might keep him from spiraling into the reality he wasn’t ready to face.
The reality that Balder was dying.
Odin squeezed his eyes shut. If he just sat here - if he just stayed here - he could keep pretending that everything was fine.
That Balder was fine.
The door to the kitchen creaked open, and Odin didn’t need to look up to know who it was.
Loki was long gone and Balder was... now, all that was left here was Odin and Tor.
"Are you coming?" Tor asked, his voice low, softer than usual. Odin could hear the exhaustion in it, the strain. The last few days had been brutal on all of them.
They knew what was coming.
Tor was preparing for it. Odin was ignoring it.
Odin shook his head, his jaw tight, words failing him.
Tor didn’t move at first. He lingered in the doorway, and Odin could feel the weight of his brother's gaze. Tor didn’t say anything, but Odin knew what he was thinking - that Odin should go, that Balder needed him, that avoiding it wouldn’t change anything.
But to Odin, it would.
Because as long as Odin didn’t see him - pale, gaunt, hooked up to those damn machines that beeped and clanked and reminded him of the fragility of life - then it wouldn’t be real. Then Balder wouldn’t be dying.
As long as Odin didn't see Balder as he was now, be could pretend that they could still be the same as they always were: the three of them, cracking jokes, writing songs, playing to packed bars until the early hours.
The seventh album was almost ready, and what would it be without their guitar? That didn't matter - because they would have it. Balder would be fine.
If Odin told himself that enough times, maybe it would come true.
"Odin..." Tor started, but he stopped himself, like he couldn’t find the right words. Eventually, he sighed, long and slow. He sounded frustrated, but above all, he sounded... sad. "Visiting hours end soon. If you change your mind."
Odin heard the quiet shuffle of Tor slipping into his jacket, heard the click of the door as he left, the rumble of an engine starting outside, and then... and then it was just him again.
Just him and the bottle.
Just him, his whiskey, and his fairytale that all was fine.
Odin reached out, picked up the bottle, and poured himself another glass.
The clock on the wall ticked, each second louder than the last, as if the world was trying to remind Odin that time was running out.
He should be at the hospital, sitting by Balder’s bedside, telling him stupid stories, making him laugh. Reminiscing on the good old days, or whatever. That’s what Balder would’ve wanted. That's what Tor wanted.
But Odin couldn’t.
Not like this.
He gripped the bottle, fingers tight around the neck, and poured himself another drink. The whiskey splashed into the glass, the amber liquid catching the kitchen light. He took a long, slow sip, feeling the burn as it slid down his throat.
And with each sip, it became just a little bit easier to pretend.
It was easier this way. To stay here, to drink until the edges blurred and the world didn’t seem so sharp.
As long as he didn’t go, as long as he didn’t see, he could keep pretending. He could pretend that Balder wasn’t wasting away in some sterile hospital bed, his skin stretched tight over his bones, his once boisterous laugh now barely a whisper.
He could pretend that the guitar that hadn't left its case in months would be heard soon, its player energetic and well and fine.
Odin lifted the glass to his lips again, but this time the burn wasn’t enough.
The whiskey tasted bitter and stale, like it couldn’t erase the gnawing ache in his chest. He set the glass down with a soft clink and leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling.
He dragged his hands down his face, exhaling slowly. He hated this - the helplessness, the way the world seemed to be slipping through his fingers, and he couldn’t do a damn thing to stop it.
Another drink would help.
He reached for the bottle again, but his hand stilled halfway there. His chest tightened, the familiar pang of guilt rising up, twisting his insides. Tor was at the hospital, sitting with Balder while Odin sat here, getting drunk, trying to drown the truth. Trying to hide from the truth.
Coward.
The word - the title - echoed in his head, sharper than anything Tor or Balder had ever said to him - sharper than anything even Loki had ever said. Odin clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms.
It hurt because it was true. He was a coward, hiding here and drinking away the truth instead of facing it.
But he couldn’t - he just couldn’t go. Because if he saw Balder like that, hooked up to tubes and wires, barely recognizable… it would be real.
And Odin wasn’t ready for that.
It couldn't be real.
The night stretched on. He lost track of how many drinks he’d had, how many times the clock had ticked another minute away. His head was swimming, but the ache in his chest hadn’t dulled. If anything, it had gotten worse, heavier, like an iron weight pressing down on him.
The bottle was empty.
And then the phone rang.
It cut through the quiet, jarring him from his haze. Odin stared at it for a moment, heart hammering in his chest.
Still, his hand moved on its own, picking up the phone, bringing it to his ear. The cord was tangled and awkward, knocking over the empty bottle as he yanked the phone up to his ear.
"Odin," Tor’s voice came through, rough and strained, like he had to force the words out. There was a long pause, and then... "he’s gone."
He's gone.
Odin’s breath caught in his throat. The room around him seemed to tilt, everything shifting out of focus.
I'm sorry, he wanted to say. Sorry for not being there, sorry for making Tor watch alone, sorry for making Balder go alone. Sorry for being a coward. But he couldn’t move. He couldn’t say anything. He could only hold the phone to his ear, static filling his mind as the inevitability he had so long denied came true.
The line went dead as Tor hung up.