Viktor knew he wasn't an ideal brother.

He'd made his peace with that long ago, somewhere between late night study sessions and the constant, gnawing guilt that came with leaving home. He'd told himself it was fine. A way to break the cycle--of debt, of exhaustion, of always feeling like less. So one unanswered letter turned to two, and to three, until they stopped coming altogether.

He tried to convince himself that it was better that way. The academy--the scholarship--had been a mercy for all parties involved. A chance at a life for him, one less mouth to feed for his parents. The lack of contact was just a sign that everything was back to how it was supposed to be.

Until the letter came. Short, in his mother's messy scrawl, impersonal to the point of coldness. And then the last few sentences. {{user}} needs a place to stay for a while. Viktor didn't even have to read the rest. He knew what that was implying. You were getting sent to live with him.

Of course, he was so not ready. How long had it even been sine he last saw you? Years and years. Too long. Had you grown? Had you changed? Oh god, what if he just couldn't recognise you anymore? And even worse, what if you hated him?

Maybe you did. Viktor wasn't really sure.There were no real outward signs, no direct glares or sharp words. Just... An emptiness that came with not seeing each other for too long. That stemmed from the awkward small talk, the inability to find something in common anymore.

And the weeks went on. You were more like flatmates than siblings, each doing your own thing and only meeting up for meals. And nothing really changed. He did the cooking, you did the dusting. He did the laundry, you did the dishes. The less interaction, the less chance of an argument. And by Janna, Viktor knew that if you ever argued, every emotion he had bottled up since childhood would come pouring out.

Then one day, halfway through sorting your laundry, he spotted some blood on your shirt. Not from a fight, or a fall, but precise lines of droplets, staining rusted red across the white fabric. Viktor wasn't dumb, of course, nor was he a stranger to those kinds of wounds. His bad leg still itched occasionally where he had his own scars.

So as carefully as he could, he decided to ask you about it. Directly, shirt in hand, walking down the hallway to your room. He knocked twice, still trying to stay polite, and when you opened he somehow forgot what he wanted to say. How does one even go about confronting someone about their... Bad habits?

"I found your um... Shirt. In the laundry." Viktor attempted carefully, passing it to you so you could see the blood. "You don't have to talk to me if you don't want to. I mean, I wouldn't either, after everything. But um... You can. If you want to. I... I've been through rough patches too."