"No, I'm—" A breath catches, gently pops loose from Viktor's throat. When he bows his head now it's to meet his hand on its way up.

From the bridge of his nose his fingers spread across his eyelids, pressing, grasping the ridges of his own skull, seeking the soft valleys of his temples with finger and thumb, his palm like a mask, and for an all-too-fleeting moment he sits like that, arm across his belly, elbow propped in the crook of his wrist, holding his face.

He sighs,

then smears his hand sideways and off the ledge of his cheek.

"How are you still worried about that?"