He can walk just fine, if awkwardly, brokenly, in fumbling, wobbling paths. His unwitting partner in crime takes off with a rustle of leaves and batted twigs, and leaves Tim behind, groundbound and waiting for his return.

Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. It'd be so fucking perfect, wouldn't it, to just ditch him and go? To keep flying, so he doesn't have to be dragged down by all this fucking deadweight. As soon as the possibility reveals itself to him, Tim swears under his breath and starts moving with renewed fervor. If he's not coming back, then he has to move. He has to move fast. He has to get out of here before whatever it is - before whatever It is comes back and bleeds into his vision, his broken fucking brain.

He doesn't have a camera or a bag to worry about. Just a shit sense of direction, coupled with the unfortunate bottom line that he has no idea where he's going or which direction home is. How he's supposed to get out. Panic is a swarm of hornets threatening to choke him out; he only woke up here. He could die here. He could wander, forever, lost in some fogged-up void that presses up against his closed eyes and smothers him in his sleep -

That's roughly the point in time where something crackles overhead, raining fragments of bark and twig down over him.

He glances up and squints. Doesn't remember saying his name, but introductions weren't his priority. Maybe he's just recognizable enough by his neuroses, his frequent class absences, the obvious nature of just how fucked his neurochemistry is.

"Who's there?"

He never asked his name, did he? 'Course not. That'd require him to be halfway decent at baseline.