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[He doesn’t feel much guilt for looking, for seeing something he was never meant to feel. It’s not like it was his choice to intrude on something that makes his stomach twist in an uncomfortable familiarity that isn’t quite familiar, but his gaze slides away from the reflection and the destroyed portrait, landing on Michel.

He’s quiet for a moment, head cocked to the side.]

You.

[He watches Michel for a reaction.

He wonders if he ever took a knife and lashed out at something that wasn’t canvas and wood. Has he hurt someone with all of that anger and emptiness…? Destruction will rarely stay contained neatly, so should Owen consider his own safety?

Despite thinking that, he doesn’t make an effort to pull free from Michel just yet, simply watching.]

[ Michel stares back, his eyes locked on Owen's as he tries to gauge that expression. The layers of meaning implicit and possible in that simple word. His chest is still heaving sharply, not unlike the way it had been in the memory, as he leans in. His voice is calmer and softer by the moment. Steadily colder. ]

Is that what you wanted? Were you entertained?

[Was he entertained? Yes, in a way he knows makes him awful and twisted. It's not every day you get to see what is best left forgotten, tied up and locked away, never to see the light of day until it withers away completely.

But it's not what he wanted. It's not like he wants to know all of Michel's deep, dark secrets. It's not like he cares, it's not like knowing this changes anything. Who people wanted Michel to be means nothing to Owen.]

What do you want me to say? That I'm sorry for looking? That I won't tell a soul?

[A beat.]

Do you want comfort, or do you want me to say the same things as them? What is it, Winter?

[ Does he want comfort? From a stranger? An apology, a promise with no weight, when he already knows full well the worthlessness of those? The outburst of emotion is ebbing away again, but a touch of contempt manages to reach his eyes. He has enough of that for himself and Owen both. ]

What I want? I want nothing from you, or anyone. I won't answer your questions, and I don't need your insincerity. Either say what you're thinking or leave me in peace.

[ His fingers loosen their grip on Owen's arm almost convulsively and he rolls his shoulders as he steps back, looking away again. Naturally now the mirror seems still. If he could shatter this place into dust piece by piece with his own hands, he would. ]

You think I have questions?

[He snorts, shaking his head. There's nothing to ask.]

There's nothing more I need to know. It is what it is, isn't it?

[Owen brushes himself off, smoothing out his clothing, and he just... keeps watching Michel. He's almost expecting him to lash out again, but he's curious about what Michel sees in their reflections. Is it the same memory Owen saw, or is it something else?]

Though I suppose I must know - are you looking to get any dirt on me?

[The reflection shifts, warps, and the first thing you notice is that it's cold. It’s so cold, a chill that cannot be chased away even with the blankets piled on your lap, threatening to swallow you whole. You’ve felt the chill since you woke up, but it’s distinctly different. It’s from the needle under your skin, connected to a plastic bag filled with clear fluid. You’re not sure what it’s for, but trying to pry the needle out gets people rushing into the cold, bright room. They scold you, so you’ve given it up, even if it bothers you that you can see it, just like you can see the bones underneath your skin, as obvious as if you had no skin at all.

How long have you been here? You don’t know. You don’t know much, right now, holes where your memories should be. You do know that it’s cold, and that you want more of that sweet juice one of the women in minty clothing gave you. You’ve never had anything like that before, that much you remember, but you wish you could get more. You can’t ask for it, though, because you don’t know how to ask.

The words are there, in your mind, but they get stopped in your throat and all you can do is stare and nod. You can gesture more, now, weakness no longer weighing on your bones, but you feel an icy grip around your chest whenever you open your mouth. You can’t complain - complaining is just grounds for punishment. You want to be good, which is why you…

Why you did something that you don’t remember. You’ve been asked so many times, by different people in different clothing, all during your stay here. What’s your name? Where are your parents? Do you know their names? When were you born? How old are you? All questions you’ve been asked many, many times since you woke up in this bright, white room, but none of them you’d be able to answer even if you could get the words out.

They note how you seem to understand them, but truthfully you only understand bits and pieces. You know enough to wonder if you’re in trouble, if they’re mad at you for being unable to answer, for not remembering, but the talks of records, of police, of custody…

It means nothing to you. Should it? Would you get something sweet and stop being so cold if it meant anything?

You hope you get the answers soon. You’re tired, and cold, and (still?) so alone…]

[ "It is what it is"? It's true. And also, almost laughable. Michel's eyes narrow as he watches the reflection of Owen watching him. He can't read the meaning in that gaze, but being looked at at all right now makes his skin crawl and his shoulders tense further. ]

To what purpose? Would--

[ He cuts off mid-sentence as the memory rolls over him like a wave. ]

[ It's dizzying. It's sickening. A child's confusion and lack of perspective, the tide of emotions and unfamiliar people all around. He feels himself buffeted about by it, caught up in something beyond his control and -- unfortunately -- not quite beyond his understanding. He knows some of those feelings entirely too well. The cold and endless fatigue that drags down a body more shadow than substance. The haze of emptiness, silence. Isolation.

Michel draws in a sharp, startled breath as the memory releases him again. This time, when he whips his head around to glance at Owen, the edge of anger is gone from his glare. But he can't seem to recall what he was in the middle of saying. ]

[The way Winter stops mid-sentence is - alarming isn't the right word, but it makes Owen tense. He can't see what he sees, which might be for the better.

The way he whips around unbalances Owen, shakes his confidence just a little. His brows knit together and he draws back, trying to make sense of the look on is face.]

Why are you looking at me like that?

["What did you see?" is what Owen really wants to ask, his skin crawling with the thought of Michel seeing something he shouldn't have. It would only be fair, but it still makes him feel faintly ill, wondering what secrets he has now.]

[ Looking at Owen like... what? Trying to get his expression under control at the same time as he gets his thoughts in order is one task too many. He tries to let his face lapse back into the icy impassivity he would swear takes no thought at all. ]

You didn't see...? No, sometimes it doesn't.

[ Like he'd experienced with Sinclair and Justy. If he had intended to threaten Owen for his silence it would have made an excellent bluff. Before he'd seen that memory, he would have assumed it was useless. And after seeing it, he's reluctant to. ]

It would be best if we both left this place.

[So he saw something. Undeniably, he saw a piece of Owen’s past- but what was it? Owen’s lived a chaotic, eventful life. It could be anything. There are some things he wouldn’t mind Michel seeing, things he cares less about the world knowing at large, but there are things nobody should know.

There are things Owen doesn’t even know, which is what compels him into grabbing Michel’s shirt and looking up at him with narrowed eyes.]

What did you see?

[He sounds almost… afraid.]

[ He knows, too well, the fearful uncertainty of guessing at what incredibly personal or incredibly painful thing a near-stranger might have seen. By contrast — the electric aura of potential violence on the air holds relatively little fear for him. He lets Owen grab his shirt without protest. For the moment.

Despite himself, there's sympathy in his eyes. ]

You were in the hospital, as a child. Emaciated. [ That doesn't do justice to his condition at all, but Owen likely doesn't need more details. Provided... ] ...Do you remember that much?

[The sympathy makes him feel worse.

His hands holding onto Michel’s shirt are shaking, but he can’t force himself to let go.

Does he remember that much?]

Do you think it’s funny, asking me something like that?

[It’s too targeted to be an innocent question, as far as Owen’s concerned.]

[ He knows full well he has no tact in situations like this... Michel's brow furrows quickly, and he lifts his hands halfway to Owen's arms, hovering uselessly. ]

No, that's not... no. It isn't 'funny' in the least. [ Ah. ] There were gaps in that memory, so I thought...

[ It might have happened again. For better or for worse, he knows very little about the conditions of memory loss. ]

[Well, things keep going from bad to worse. This sucks. Can't they go back to Michel's memory? That's far more interesting then this!]

What does it matter to you what I remember or not?

[They're not friends.]

[ Too late. Michel thought he would be happy to leave that one behind at any cost, but... he can't exactly be pleased about this outcome, either. ]

It was neither my intention nor my choice to see any of that. But given that I did, I don't intend to leave you guessing about what, exactly, I saw.

[Owen sags, like a puppet with its strings cut, letting go of Michel. He takes a breath, shoving all of his emotions as deep down as he possibly can, and lets that breath out solely.]

This place is a fucking nightmare.

[ Michel lifts his hands, startled — he isn't a touchy person, but for a second it almost looks as if he might reach for Owen to keep him from folding outright. ]

I won't disagree with that. [ And a touch acerbically, despite the worried crease between his eyebrows: ] I did tell you to leave. ...But I should have been more specific.

[This is all Michel's fault.]

Maybe you should have.

[All his fault!!]

Whatever. Just forget you saw anything.

[ Yes, yes. Everything is Michel's fault, such is his life. ]

I can't promise that's possible. But at the least, I'll keep it to myself. If you could do me the same courtesy...

Do you really think that lowly of me?

[If so, fair but also rude.]

I don't know you. But I find it's best to expect nothing from anyone.

[ That's him, rude! Although his flat and level voice is maybe a shade softer than usual. ]

[Again, he can't be mad because that's how Owen views the world and he's deliberately trying to come across as someone detestable but...

Hm.]

You don't have a lot of friends, do you?

And you don't have any tact.

[ Look at each of them, with their respective lacks. Michel begins to move towards the exit again, not looking at the mirrors this time. His pace is careful to not evoke the appearance of a retreat. ]

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2/2 cws for hospitalization, needles; implications of starvation, child abuse, abandonment

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