The anger is a slow-curdling thing: strangling Luther's throat, shuttering his facial expression. Even with Diego stepping up into his space, Luther still has enough self-control to not attack him, to not string that fury into clenched fist and the whip-crack of muscle. (Yet?) Too many years of mustering his strength and keeping it in check, too-aware of what it can do. How he might push too far, throw a hit that he can't take back.
But Diego can see that muscle stiffening in his jaw, and feel the waves of anger pulsing out from his brother, throbbing like an infected tooth.
"You were the first one," he says sharply, as if that explains everything. "Planted the idea in everyone's head. Started off the landslide that led to everyone else leaving after you, one by one. It's not all your fault," because Luther's aware enough to accept that, at least, and he knows how terrible The Monocle was, god how he knows it, and yet— "but you've got to admit it played a part."
A beat, and then Luther says the thing, the secret hurt he's been nursing for over a decade and had never dared voice: "You were the first one to give up on the team."
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But Diego can see that muscle stiffening in his jaw, and feel the waves of anger pulsing out from his brother, throbbing like an infected tooth.
"You were the first one," he says sharply, as if that explains everything. "Planted the idea in everyone's head. Started off the landslide that led to everyone else leaving after you, one by one. It's not all your fault," because Luther's aware enough to accept that, at least, and he knows how terrible The Monocle was, god how he knows it, and yet— "but you've got to admit it played a part."
A beat, and then Luther says the thing, the secret hurt he's been nursing for over a decade and had never dared voice: "You were the first one to give up on the team."