Loki spared a second's glance away from the blossoming fight to look down at Wanda. A sad smile tugged at his lips as he watched her, recognizing that her well-placed mask of grief and, very probably, anger had slipped. She'd been disarmed, a little, and although Loki normally would've considered it a victory, but in this context... it was harder. Much harder.
Thor had volunteered, of course, and for the whole first week of the games, the training and the interviews, Loki hadn't managed to be anything but jealous. It wasn't until they were actually inside the arena that it occurred to him to be afraid for his brother. It wasn't until Thor had narrowly escaped one of the few imposing Careers that Loki experienced even a flicker of worry. Of doubt. But he'd made it out, just like he was supposed to. He'd gotten his brother back. In a way.
"He came out all right," Loki said, almost reassuring until his gaze realigned to where Thor was stumbling a little as a cameraman lost his grip on his equipment. "Well," he said, more softly now, an unmistakable note of sadness laced there, despite everything. "He came back alive."
To do what he did, Loki needed to believe that the Victors of the games really did come out all right in the end. He had to believe that, and to an extent, he did. Of course the Games were brutal and terrible, but the facts were the facts: they existed, and there was nothing that any of them could do except make the best of it. At least the Victor got something out of it. Some of them, like Natasha, even flourished. But it was harder to believe that the Games had been good for his brother. He'd seen what had happened to him in the years afterward. How he'd changed. What the Games had done to him. What Loki was doing to new children now, every year. Even the child beside him.