Elliot peels away and as for the memory that lingers along their connection, he hovers around it, feathering briefly against it. The impression of it is there, the start of pain that could be more if he wants to slip in deeper. Truth is, Peter's hands are prone to grabbing onto whatever it is he happens to pass by that catches his attention, but instead of snatching it up, he lets himself reflexively folding in the dark fabric of his jacket, still quite intact along with the rest of his clothing by contrast. He'll take a pass on the pain.

The grasp of their minds is firm, but small, just born and stubborn, and While Peter doesn't walk alongside him, he feels like he's being pulled along in a disembodied way. He tries to bat at it casually as if it were a physical thing like a fly or smoke - the same hand that still feels warm from the previous touch to his palm, as if to say Not now. Later, maybe. Again. When he's feeling just a bit less confused about the whole thing.

So for now he remains, waiting with a lax posture, a tall pillar dressed in black that seems rather loathe to just up and leave without him despite having just met. Whenever Elliot returns, he smiles, much wider this time and with a set of teeth. "Oh yes, that looks much better on you. Bullet holes can are a very unusual artistic choice, but don't always work out in the long run."