[ That this might not be Utah.... is a concept that he feels with some horror, but it's muted, dulled. He's incapable of even reacting to that thought with the typical rise of panic. No, for now Peter remains only able to react to things so dimly, and any fright regarding just how displaced he is remains tempered down for the moment. He only gazes glossily at the strange man, staring for a long few moments, before the question pulls him out of his fog.
Stand...? The idea feels impossible, his body so heavy, limp. But he remains almost eerily obedient, head slowly tilting to the side for a moment before he slowly tries to move himself. Stand. Move— long legs sliding from the bench, arms trailing along to support himself by holding onto the side of it for a moment. He can stand, albeit it's stiff and strange for a moment, as if he's having to remember how to work his own body.
His body.... Everything feels wrong. Peter gives a quiet whimper under his breath and turns to reach for the man like a child, reaching out to hold onto his arm. His tongue brushes oddly within his mouth again, flops to the side and scrapes against the inside of his cheek, and his throat flutters with soft wet sounds as his mouth opens and closes and opens again; he finds the words, strained— ]
Can you hold my hand?
[ He's trying, it's hard, but— Maybe he can walk if he has a hand to hold onto. Admittedly, he also seeks the comfort of it, some small, childlike part of himself. (And beneath the surface of him, so many lost things whisper and wail, unsure, confused, yearning for guidance. Take care of me, take care of me, who—) ]
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Stand...? The idea feels impossible, his body so heavy, limp. But he remains almost eerily obedient, head slowly tilting to the side for a moment before he slowly tries to move himself. Stand. Move— long legs sliding from the bench, arms trailing along to support himself by holding onto the side of it for a moment. He can stand, albeit it's stiff and strange for a moment, as if he's having to remember how to work his own body.
His body.... Everything feels wrong. Peter gives a quiet whimper under his breath and turns to reach for the man like a child, reaching out to hold onto his arm. His tongue brushes oddly within his mouth again, flops to the side and scrapes against the inside of his cheek, and his throat flutters with soft wet sounds as his mouth opens and closes and opens again; he finds the words, strained— ]
Can you hold my hand?
[ He's trying, it's hard, but— Maybe he can walk if he has a hand to hold onto. Admittedly, he also seeks the comfort of it, some small, childlike part of himself. (And beneath the surface of him, so many lost things whisper and wail, unsure, confused, yearning for guidance. Take care of me, take care of me, who—) ]