For a while, he says nothing. He focuses on the task in his hands, internally debating the answer. He catches the whiskey’s scent before he sees it, and if he weren’t mired under a mountain of his own problems, he probably would have said something.

Miguel didn’t have much of anything in his room. All of the things that he cared to lock away were stored in his lab - a growing mass of assembled machinery all related to his research. He considers where he’d even put the box, when half-finished engineering projects were already starting to take up all the free space.

“I’d prefer blue and white.” he says, carving the wing feathers of the dove with three or four simple lines. He steals a glance at Dan, nostalgic and wistful.

“They were the colors of Gabriella’s school team. It was a sky blue.”

Their comparatively mundane life as ordinary people was still a nice thing to remember in pleasant dreams. Even if he had lived it as a half-truth.