Here William is: skinny, wet hair plastered to his scalp. Knife at his hip. Not particularly striking, as specimens go. He watches the other man struggle with some impulse, some prohibition. Dwells a little in the might-have-been, rather than the now. Tries to hear the question that never takes shape.

Then Will puts words in his mouth. “That isn't what I was gonna say,” he says, mouth twisting as he turns to switch off the radios. One, two, three, four. He's precise about it; once it's done he doesn't spare them another glance. After the handshake he takes a step back, wraps his arms around himself. He studies Will, not doing much to mask it.

Maybe it's good to have a sharp division this early.

“That was me,” he confirms, rubbing at his jaw and glancing away. He doesn't like imagining her in this. Swallowed up by a maze. “She's...” He arches an eyebrow, something his mom used to say coming to him. The memory a stone skipped across universes. “She's a funny kid.”

He shrugs. “You can call me Louis if it makes things easier.” Silent s, offered with a ghost of a smile.