Dietre came up from the floor with no resistance, sagging heavily against Mr. Drake, one hand still covering his face in a gesture of despair. When they sat, he stayed leaning against the man despite his aversion of physical contact. At this moment, having something solid and real and warm (the things his mind created had no temperature) there to steady him overrode his shyness.
"Real enough...It's real enough." Dietre's breathing became less ragged, he had reached the peak of his panic and was now beginning to snap out of it. He was able to respond somewhat coherently to a question, at least, acknowledging Francis'. "I don't know how!" His voice was thick from crying. "It's not the same as...I didn't what her here. How am I to make her leave the way she came, when I don't know how she came without me wanting her to?"
He wiped at his face, a useless act since he hadn't stopped crying. "If I could stop myself from seeing things like that, I would have. ...I've always seen....things, but now it's different, other people can see...They're becoming real." He made some miserable sound and raked a hand roughly through his hair in frustration, looking as though he'd like to claw his way into his skull at and take out the part of his brain that was doing all of this to him. The moment passed, and he sank against the couch and Mr. Drake as if withering.
"...I'm sorry you had to come home..." The apology was given in a tiny, almost childish voice.