[ It's baseball, Quentin wants to say. Kind of boring. The physics behind it are awesome, but--well. That's not the point. The point is that they're talking to each other at least, and Diarmuid, he looks scared and skittish, but he's not straight up bolting. Once the curly-haired monk gives the nod, Quentin starts talking as he puts one hand on the table where it can be seen, the other digging into the bag. ]

So--uuh--so I guess... [ How do you explain things like depression to a monk from the 1600s? ]

Okay. So, I guess you can say I'm sick? Not--not the contagious kind, don't worry--but sometimes it's really hard for me to do stuff. One day I'm fine and then the next it's difficult for me to like get out of bed, or eat, or concentrate, or either I sleep too much or not at all--that's not the point--the point is that when that sort of stuff happens, I have a lot of time by myself and with my thoughts, like you might.

[ It's long winded. He's rambling, which is fucking pointless, but as he does so he slides a book over. It's old and well loved: Fillory and Further, Book One: The World in the Walls. One of Quentin's most treasured possessions. ]

This helped made me forget that I was hurting, for a little bit. So... It's yours if you want it. I just thought you might be bored.

[ He slides it over, busying himself with the tea, and what he says is soft. ]

I'm sorry.