The voice is soothing, and Alfred does his best to focus on just that, on the kind words, the hushing, the promises of safety in that accent that's familiar but not his own. His breath slows as that hand closes on his arm, and his fingers feel reassuringly real in the fabric of the other man's uniform. Slowly, he starts to see again, flashes of colour surrounding everything in the room, with halos of blue and red and pink and purple, and then the oppressive black around the edges of his vision as that preying exhaustion starts to bear home.

Finally, he focuses, his eyes locking on the eyes of the man in front of him, and his fingers loosen, his hand flattens against his chest, pressing there to feel the heat of his body.

Everything is fuzzy, his mouth is dry and feels as if it's stuffed with cotton, but he speaks, after a moment, voice rough with disuse.

"I dropped the pill, but I didn't tell them."