His knees want to give out, and the nausea that comes with the sudden portaling is intense in a way he can't differentiate from the nausea of his terror at first. Then he feels it, latching on to the sensation that locks him so firmly in his physical body that the terror in his mind can't solely have its way with him.

He manages to stand, having more trouble letting go of Five because of the claws his hands have turned into, clinging to the smaller framed young man, not leaning into him, but certainly holding on.

"Oh," he says after a moment, letting himself be pulled off but wide eyes still stuck in place, pupils blown, staring past Five and off the roof to where the wolves and the rest of their compatriots continue to fight. "That was fast."

The portaling, but his voice is smaller and he's still clearly not okay. His fingers twitch, and he reaches for the flute shoved into his waistband, clutching at it white knuckled when he finds it, breathing too hard.

"These, they're, ah, the wolves." He swallows. "They're... toothy." Swallows again, still clinging to that nauseated feeling. It's so grounding, familiar, and: he blinks.

"And only half dead."