It seemed that Glibt had perfect timing. Paul had fallen asleep maybe ten minutes before Glibt had come in the door, the total exhaustion of trying to keep himself away so he wouldn't have to face the inevitable had finally turned against him and, not long after he collapsed on the bed in a mix of hopelessness and simple ache, it had covered him like a horrible double-edged blanket. There was a good reason why Paul couldn't sleep without Harvey there - though it wasn't so much Harvey specifically as it was someone he felt protected by - and that reason was slowly, very slowly, creeping up on him.
Thankfully, though, just as comforting darkness started to edge away into fear-drenched panic as the first few shaky images passed in front of his mind, the sound of a knock on the door startled him awake. It was like cold water, waking up from that, and Paul went upright on instinct - his heart beating wildly and his hands shaking a little as he brought them up to rub over his face and over his hair, forgetting that there was considerably less than there had been before and starting a little at the feel of dark fuzz instead of strands of blonde. He inhaled deeply and sighed, a tremble in his breath as he exhaled, and looked up at the door.
"It's fine," he answered, "come in. I'm... decent." Well, he was dressed at least. He actually felt like shit. Despite Tommy getting him stoned enough to eat and catching and hour or two of sleep on Bret's chest the night before, he didn't look rested or well in the least. Paul pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, still sitting slightly towards his side of the bed. He probably didn't look quite as bad as he felt like he did, but there was no doubt there were bags under his eyes and the usual playful glint was gone from them. And the hair, well... It seemed like he focused everything on that. It completed the look, even though he felt like by the end of the week "the look" would be prisoner of war.