Luther calls him Viktor and the smaller man doesn't think much of it, not while he's squeezing his brother as tight as he can. His brain is an overclocked processor that feels dangerously close to frying.

"I-I don't think so," Viktor says. He slackens his arms in favor of swiping wetness away from his eyes. He takes a breath and looks back up at Luther.

"You're hurt." He feels so small and helpless against the wide world of whatever the fuck is happening in his brain. He ushers Luther to the kitchen, near the trash can, and offers up some paper towels.

A moment of inspection passes before finally lets himself ask, "how did you know?"