He hadn't heard the quiet until Lawrence mentioned it, and now it's inescapable—in his cabin, their bedroom, like the aftermath of a fight. The hush in the library. On deck it's a sheer silence, broken by footfalls. William's in black, naturally, his jacket gone in concession to the hour. His shirt new and a little too clean. He has a bruise under one eye, blue paling into green, that mostly makes it look like he got sucker punched by insomnia.

“On behalf of humanity, welcome to three in the morning,” he says wryly. If the bottle in his hand ever had a label—doubtful—it's gone. William unscrews the cap, takes a pull. Passes it to Lawrence. He walks to the edge of the deck and leans forward, resting his forearms on the railing, then straightens with a grimace.

“Traditionally the hour of regret.”