He runs a hand through his own (likewise wet) hair, sending it into further disarray. The other man's naked exhaustion opens up something similar in William, a bone-deep weariness he'd kept at bay. He looks politely away. There's a game, he's played it—if only. If only he smoked and had a lighter. If only his shoulder didn't hurt so much. If only there were books here, some trace of intention. If only he'd had another month with COST, maybe he'd have been ready for this.

It's a treacherous game.

“I think it gets warmer closer to the mirrors.” William brings his eyes back to the stranger's fractured face—his gaze is untroubled by pain or sleeplessness, bright and steady. He glances to the bench and after a moment's consideration grips the mirror, rolls it across the floor. He takes a seat in front of it and blinks, leans forward. For a second he thinks he's looking at another room entirely, then he realizes the light's the same—only the perspective's skewed.

“Wherever you are, they're definitely having a party upstairs.” Dry, voice too preoccupied to carry any real bitterness. He tips the mirror back and forth, peering into it. “What's your name?”