Loki had once hated sparring with his brother. It had been something he'd been required to do for most of his childhood - training for the princes; embarrassment for Loki, as the smaller and weaker of the pair. He had never really had much of a knack for hitting things (or people, or creatures) with heavy objects, nor had he greatly enjoyed swordplay very much. Not against opponents twice his size, at least, who insisted on trying to bash him over the head with the swords, rather than simply fighting properly, no footwork or style to the whole mess. Ranged attacks, with his knives, he could hold his own fairly well, and staff and spear weren't too terrible. Still, it had taken quite some time to get past the knee-jerk reaction of why must we do this?, and even longer before he'd come to almost enjoy it.
Once he was older, once their childhood camaraderie had faded a bit, and his brother had been consumed with his adventures with his friends - most of which Loki either was not invited to or chose to steer clear from (because for all that his brother, Sif, and the Warriors Three were worthy allies in almost any fight, they often found more fights than they honestly needed to, and Loki had other things to do that didn't involve being eaten by monsters, thank you very much), sparring had been ...better. It was an opportunity to spend a bit more time with Thor that did not involve actual threat of death, and that was definitely a plus. It was still occasionally frustrating, but now that it was not a requirement in his life, like lessons and family meals, he didn't mind it, on occasion.
He'd thought this would be like that. A good way to clear his mind, a harmless way to remove some of the aggression Laufey's constant presence had filled him with. Now it was different, though, because he had images flitting behind his eyes from a life yet unlived, and words floating through his mind, getting caught in his throat, that were his words, words he'd yet to say and had no desire to say - not like that, never like that - and somewhere he'd forgotten how tangled his relationship with his brother was, idealized it and pretended that the Loki on the screen was simply mad, that everything wasn't nearly as bad as that version of himself had thought, and now, here, he wasn't so sure...
...and this was the worst possible time to start thinking that way, wasn't it?
"I would suggest an alternate weapon," he said, tone light, not betraying the sinking feeling in his chest or the way he had to choke down words he knew would be blades to the other, "I have no desire for this to become a fatal encounter, and I'm afraid I seem to have left any weapons capable of facing off against Mjolnir in another reality by mistake."
As he spoke, Loki's shape stepped from the shadows, empty hands spread as if to make the point, smile on his face that was far too easy to paste on. Trickster. He pulled at his magic for a moment, and two wooden staffs shimmered into existence - pulled from spaces-in-between (sharp ice scraping down his spine, across the surface of his brain, no), and with another flicker of focus runes seemed to etch themselves into the sides of the dark wood, glowing green-gold for a second before fading away entirely. A spell to resist breaking - he was fairly sure that would be necessary.
"These might be more appropriate." Loki spun one of the weapons in his hand, then offered the end of it towards his brother.
Equal weapons, harmless weapons, and a lighter mood. He was trying. He would not allow this to turn bad. He wouldn't.