Initially, William experiences this act like he might key into a performance on the streetside, lured in without committing to March’s mystique. Not after that trace of irritation. He can vanish through people too -- cigarette hooked unimpressed back to his mouth in time to see this ghost fella rematerialize on the side of himself he has eyes on.

The ember flares a little brighter in the stir of air after his passing.

It’s the opening throat that sees his brow hooding down into something more unsettled, not quite a wince. Like he isn’t sure of what he’s seeing.

But he follows the tear all the way down to its termination in a pile of ash and a magician’s puff.

“Holy shit.”

Gross.

He still looks deeply constipated when his eyes trip back up to to the sound of March pouring. Also impressed, smoke spindling idle from a stack of ash at the tip of his cigarette.

In the nick of time to avoid ashing his boots, he plucks his smoke away, and flicks the tip off onto his fancy floor instead.

“You do birthday parties?”