And. Just like that. His expression and his self-control both shatter at once: normally Luther is in such iron-clad control over himself, terrible at concealing any of his emotions but he always bites down on them anyway, shuts down the conversation, refuses to engage whenever it skitters too close to something like this.

But now, finally, something splinters. His face is split right open and vulnerable, his composure immediately ruined. "Why wouldn't I be serious?" he demands, and his voice is louder than he likes it. More expressive than he likes it. "Why wouldn't I try?"

We never talk about it. We never talk about it.

"If there's a way— just a few weeks ago I was young again, like it never happened, and I was myself again last year too— if there's a way to fix it permanently, why the hell wouldn't I take that option?"