He leans into him as he helps him with his jeans, but his expression doesn't change. He's like a dog with a bone now, he needs to work out what he felt in his thoughts, and he shakes his head slowly, slipping his fingers up into his hair as if spidering them along his scalp will help. "That's not what I'm talking about. Your thoughts feel -- wrong. Like someone went at them with a stick. Like a pinata."