Cain held on. Literally and metaphorically, keeping whatever senses he could tuned to Gene and the crowd around them until they stepped into a building, slightly stuffy from the heat and the lack of proper cross-breeze, and it was only Gene's continued movement that kept him in motion. When they got to the table, he stared at it blankly before making a rather coordinated falling motion into the chair while letting go at the same time. It was quieter, more private, and he wasn't sure if he wanted to be thankful for that or not.

Seated, it changed some of his perspective. He could finally sit back and look at himself to try and dissuade the mental image that superimposed over his senses. He wasn't cut up, nor falling apart, nor in any kind of physical duress despite the signals his mind was sending out. His hand came to press protectively against his heart and he tried to simply sit and breathe. Sift through what he was feeling and what he was actually experiencing.