Friendship. He's not sure what the word means, or whether everyone had the same understanding of it. They'd been friends, once, if nothing else because he didn't want Dr. Lecter to be the therapist to his own client. He's not sure anymore what they are. Struggling with drawing the line in his hyperreal world, Will Graham was not absolutely certain of anything - he wasn't even sure that he'd arrive back in the same room if he counted the same number of doors coming back as he did going to the elevator.
Help. Interesting word, that. How could Hannibal help him? And which way would Hannibal help him towards - on the path to recovery and the rediscovery of normalcy, or down the elevator to sights and scenes as yet unknown.
"I'm not ungrateful, Dr. Lecter. I just trust you about as much as I trust myself right now." Which was to say, trust was a fairly flimsy concept to be touting around for the moment.
Will paused outside what he thought was his door and took in a deep breath before glancing at Hannibal (from that angle, most likely his hand or his sleeve), who seemed to have followed despite his own best interests. When he got the door open and glanced around inside, there was a small measure of relief at the room being how he had left it earlier. He stuck his head through the doorway, just to make sure he wouldn't find a ghost standing at his wardrobe or a feathered stag trampling all over his clothes on the floor.
"I suppose this... says something reassuring about our predicament," he commented as he stepped inside. He didn't clarify whether he was referring to the room itself or the lack of hallucinations. The door was left open for Hannibal. Some would call the gesture friendship. Others might call it foolishness or madness. And perhaps one or two actual observers would likely be keen to point out that it might be Stockholm syndrome.
"The room hasn't moved and nothing in it has changed."