These two brothers -- the head and the fist, the twins -- are sheer opposites, and yet the paths their lives took have left them more similar than most. They've just never broached it yet; Luther isn't one to just ask about it outright, but he thinks he can see the effects of that long solitude, sometimes, in Five. How he jolts away from too much socialisation, but can't help but dart back eventually, on his own terms, wending his way to the family he professes to be irritated by. Like a feral stray cat, slowly winding its way closer.

"Fifty-eight," Luther repeats, still stunned by the thought, unable to really line it up with the boy in front of him. Twenty-eight years older than him. Almost twice his age. Five's gone and lapped them all, double over, and yet he looks like he's been cut straight out of that portrait in the hall.

"Well. Think on this. At least you're still taller than Vanya?"

It's the feeblest of reassurances, but he's trying.