[God, he can't even think of their game anymore. Of how much power he has right now, with Petre looking entirely small and sounding meek and subservient despite the words still being phrased as a demand rather than a request. The tone says everything that needs to be said, reshapes them into the question they really are.

No - the plea.

He turns around at the door, his expression more conflicted than angry now. It's no goddamn fun wielding power over anyone, not even Petre, when the very thought of what he'll have to do to use it causes a massive slippage of reality in his head. It's not even a cataclysmic shift like his manifestation, one he'll never be able to ignore; he can use a night on the common room couch to craft a brand new wall of denial and make himself safe again. But for how long? And who is he doing it for?]

I need to stop. [And there's his own plea in return, his throat working with another hard swallow at the way Petre's looking at him. He feels like everything in Petre's world right now and it's not at all as satisfying as such a thing should be.] I need to get my head together. I'm - not moving out or anything, just one night. Sober up. Then we can actually talk.

[He touches Petre's upper arm very gently, lets his hand fall again. A tiny whisper of comfort. One touch that won't bruise.]