For a while Eliot loses track of time, engrossed in the grain of the hardwood floor. Wood is safe, solid, not like whatever treacherous substance dreams form out of. He studies the whorls and lines, feeling very cold despite the comforter he's cocooned himself in, and tries not to think.

He doesn't hear Johnny come in, but then Johnny is there, in front of him, and the only thing Eliot can think is to apologize for not getting up to get the door.

"I'm sorry," he offers, and his voice is calm and far away. He can imagine it echoing, down deep in his chest, where it becomes something darker and hollower and more true, more afraid. He wants to apologize for dragging Johnny into the mess of his head, but for now all he can do is try to account for poor apartment etiquette. "I should have gotten the door, did you get in okay?" God, he sounds hysterical, manic. He'd kill for a drink, if only he could move.

There's pressure, Johnny's touching him but it doesn't register for a moment and when it does Eliot pulls away slightly, shivering.