[He looks... normal. Quentin always looked relatively harmless and normal, at the school. Much more normal than Diarmuid ever did, not unless he was in his modern clothing — once or twice a week at most, while his robes were hung out to dry after a washing.
Quentin grabs him by the hair and forcefully yanks the child's head up to face him.
"Can't wake up now, kiddo."
Diarmuid's hands are shaking, so he tucks one under the table, out of sight. It doesn't exactly mask the quivering set of fingers peeking out of the cast, but it's all he can really think to do. It's confounding. It's hard to parse, when he thinks of that icy stare inches from his face. Every inch of him feels cold dread wash over, the hare that has taken over his way of thinking only amplifying the sickness in his stomach. But he has to remember why he's here. He has to fight the creature that tells him to run.
His uninjured hand moves to touch Quentin's face.
"G... God loves you... God forgives you. I forgive you—"
He forgave him, didn't he? He should see this through and not be a coward.]
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Quentin grabs him by the hair and forcefully yanks the child's head up to face him.
"Can't wake up now, kiddo."
Diarmuid's hands are shaking, so he tucks one under the table, out of sight. It doesn't exactly mask the quivering set of fingers peeking out of the cast, but it's all he can really think to do. It's confounding. It's hard to parse, when he thinks of that icy stare inches from his face. Every inch of him feels cold dread wash over, the hare that has taken over his way of thinking only amplifying the sickness in his stomach. But he has to remember why he's here. He has to fight the creature that tells him to run.
His uninjured hand moves to touch Quentin's face.
"G... God loves you... God forgives you. I forgive you—"
He forgave him, didn't he? He should see this through and not be a coward.]
It's okay —
[Too quiet. Too shaky. Speak up. Idiot.]
It's okay, you can get whatever you'd like.
... I do enjoy tea.