The head duck, the quick look down—it reminds him of nothing so much as himself. Before William can decide how to feel about that Ben's already glanced up, will find his mirror companion raising an eyebrow. “Literal gloom and doom,” he says, smiling a little to himself. It has the cadence, the not-quite-fondness of a nickname.

William wonders what its source is, whether there's an optimist out there who's been left off-kilter. And he peels his finger from the mirror, gaze snapping from Ben to his own side of the glass. “A conduit,” he says, staring fixedly at the cracks, but—accurate as he thinks that is, it feels beside the point. Gravity doesn't apply here. Neither does time. Why should logic—why should they be able to reason and define their way out?

William hesitates, scratches at the back of his neck with the mirror still in hand. “Can I ask you a question you're probably not gonna like?” He sounds apologetic but not apologetic enough. Curious, his words in a tumble. “Why do you talk like that? Don't say, 'Like what.'”