Michael looks out at the mess surrounding them, then down at his hands. His fingers are steepled; he splays them out and then pulls their tips together again, back and forth. What Wolfgang says reminds him of some of the things he’d felt when he’d been both of them. There had been a darkness there, and he—or they, or the two of them—had been scared of it. It would be nice if he could immediately say everything was fine and that he wasn’t afraid—the way Wolfgang always does with him—but that might be a lie. They know him so much better than he knows them. In moments like this it becomes awkwardly obvious.
“Is it worse than me? Is that why you’re not afraid of me? Wait, no, don’t answer that, I know you hate that.” He waves a hand dismissively and shakes his head at himself, frustrated. “Look, I really like you too. You’re almost the only person I really like. I know there’s something, this thing you’re talking about, I know it’s there. But what can I say? I sort of already knew that much.”