Human things: getting his mail, saying hello to a downstairs neighbor on her way to a bakery job, closing the door behind him, tossing his keys in a basket from muscle memory. Inhuman things: only turning a third of the lights on before he decides that's more than enough to see by, having unplugged the fridge the last time he was here, stopping his phone conversation downstairs from having sensed company already present in his apartment.

"Yeah," sounds like agreement from nowhere, as he moves to the kitchen and starts digging through the junk drawer for something. "That's in the top three spots for it."

Another minute before he walks over to the patch of floor Armand has pancaked himself on. Pause—

"You okay?"

Something. A feeling, the barest instinct towards something off-kilter, though he could be projecting. It's been a stressful 24 hours. Daniel has something in his hands, just some little thing that jangles slightly as he sits down cross-legged on the floor. He's passed hours here, more than bear thinking of, sometimes with a little alcohol and a joint, sometimes with prescription drugs, sometimes with nothing. You don't paint your ceiling this way then never lay there and stare at it. But he's not asking because of that.