"I wouldn't say, friends, exactly," Elliot answers dryly. But he doesn't pull away, however aware he is of the way his breath draws through his lungs when he's standing this close to someone, the shape of his hands, one still tingling psychosomaticly from that touch. His heartbeat. His tongue.

Shit, they probably look like such weirdos, standing like two kids at a high school dance who aren't sure where to put their hands. Peter at least has more physical ease, but this is so new and experimental for both of them, and they're too synapse-twined to be able to pretend otherwise. Elliot wonders if he's going to have to explain Mr Robot, though for now his other self is silent. "Sometimes I see stuff," he settles for, lamely. "People that aren't there. But you don't... I don't think I'd make you up." Even the brief touches of their interior worlds are enough to see that the sheer scope of another mind, an actual other mind, is beyond him. Hell, even his alternate personality wasn't a unique creation.