Not once does he look up -- but he gives a quick bow of his head before he returns to the bedroom. His heart has climbed up into his throat successfully, its beat droning in on his brain. He stands, hands crossed over his head, fingertips splayed out. Leaving himself open, from head to toe.

He makes no assumptions about what's going to happen next. Whatever it is, it's going to be the right choice for him. His mind empties, is filled with the simple texture of the wall, his breath shallow but evening out again. This is good. Sickly sweet warmth fills his stomach, every cell, because this is as much giving up as it is giving in.

There's nothing to hide behind. No way to pretend later he wasn't sober, wasn't in a right state of mind. Fully awake and having spent hours thinking about the situation, and he's come to this conclusion.