[ Quentin figures a letter would be more comforting than a text. Voice or video seemed trite, texts seemed too cold. He's got nothing but time on his hands after his death, and he needs something to do to keep his mind off of the aches and pains.
Plus, after his little breakdown, he realized the only way to move forward was to try to fix things. Mend them, just a little. His handwriting is messy, the type of chickenscratch that hurried authors use. ]
Diarmuid,
I really hope I'm spelling that right. There's no way to put this gently, so I'm going to treat you like I would a peer. I don't think it's fair to you if I try to be an adult, full stop. I'm away from the dome for the first time in a month, which means I can think a little clearer.
Here's the thing: I fucked up. Really, really badly. I'm supposed to be a teacher. A person older than you that helps and mentors and makes sure you go your own way. I didn't do that. I tried to kill you.
I know my words probably don't mean anything, but I've never tried to kill another person before, let alone a kid. I'm sorry. I don't think saying I'm sorry in a letter is enough, though, so I want to apologize in person.
It's okay if you don't want to meet me. I get it. It's okay if you want someone to come with you, too, and we can choose a public place. For what it's worth Eliot wants to come, but I said maybe one person at a time. I don't want it to seem like we're ganging up on you.
It's cool if you ignore this, by the way. I won't be insulted. I'll transfer you to another math classroom, too, if that's what you want.
[To say Diarmuid isn't terrified when he realizes where the mail had come from would be a lie. He only has to read the name on the front before he stands frozen in his cabin, the envelope shaking in his hand. He's not sure how long he stands there, thinking about the crunching noise the bones in his arm made. His shoulder seems to throb in response. He's in the dome, Peter carefully leading him along the river. He's in the bathroom stalls, vomiting while Thom anxiously stands outside of it. He's in the diner booth, flinching from Frank's hand.
He's in Shades' car, accepting all the blame, even though the man adamantly refuses to let him have it.
He slowly opens the envelope without moving, expecting to read something horrible. It wouldn't make sense, would it? That the writing is cruel or threatening. Quentin seemed like a good man, someone who was just... swept away in the bloodlust. And yet it's still so possible — he could see it in his mind's eye, a note that says he's coming for Diarmuid. When I'm back on my feet, I'm going to break all the bones in your body.
Stupid. Stupid little rabbit. Letting this send you into such an anxious spiral.
He shakes his head, swallows, and sits down on his bed, bare feet settled next to the death statue beside it. He clumsily tears open the envelope — and reads.
'I fucked up.'
He clenches his eyes shut.
'I'm sorry.'
The boy wrings the letter in his hands against his chest, body crumpling forward until his curls brush his knees, and he weeps in earnest. It's hard to say if it's a sound of relief or misery, but it's a flood of feelings all the same. He crawls into his bed and stays there for most of the following day, the twisted paper left on his nightstand where he can see it.]
Edited (ignore me fixing typos a whole-ass day later) 2019-09-10 20:10 (UTC)
[ Three days in and Quentin assumes the little monk has chosen to ignore him, which is perfectly fine. He'll transfer him to avoid any potential awkwardness, and he completely understands. He's laying on the couch, curled up next to Eliot and re-reading a Fillory novel for the millionth time. He doesn't even answer the text right away, since he's at a really good part: Jane and Martin are discovering the Wandering Dunes for the first time, about to meet a talking camel. He almost feels like a normal person, save for how clammy he is. That changes when he gets the text. ]
I'm comfortable wherever you're comfortable. This is about whatever you'd like and whatever makes you feel safe. We can meet there, you can bring whoever you want.
They don't even have to watch from afar, they can sit with us, even.
[The pause that follows is long, careful. He has to think about it.]
It's ok. Afar is fine. It should be between us.
[And true to his word, he shall be there. Wolfwood had been his choice of defense, since he seemed a level-head, and... Frank certainly wasn't an option here. Thom is brought in by pure accident, really — as it turns out, the nerves had made Diarmuid sick at school, and the boy was kind enough to lend a hand and ear. Louis seemed eager to keep an eye out, too, and as they're all scattered in the cafe, Diarmuid thinks maybe it's a bit much. Quentin isn't a danger now, is he? (He is, his mind supplies, he's a threat, he could still kill you).
But regardless, he's in the booth, feeling pins and needles in his hands and feet. His cast is tucked against his ribs, covered in writing and illustrations and names of people around town, face much more healed than the day he limped back from the dome.
Swallowing the knot in his throat, he waits.
... Pay no mind to the giant cloth-wrapped cross outside. That's Wolfwood's.]
[ There's no way to slice this: it's going to be awkward. Probably painful, too--not for him, but for poor Diarmuid. He nearly chickens out when he remembers the other's words; very nearly turning back. Diarmuids voice, that panicked God forgives you, I forgive you has been rattling around his brain since reviving--it takes Eliot Waugh politely but firmly telling him to get the fuck out of the house for him to do so. With a pat on the head and a kiss on the cheek, he's off.
He's being an idiot, anyway. He's written it himself in the letter: this isn't about him. This is about Diarmuid feeling safe--the selfishness of Quentin Makepeace Coldwater will have to be put on hold. He's in his late 20s, for fucks sake, he's an adult. The least he can do is meet a 12 year old monk boy who he tried to murder. He hardly spares a glance at he cloth wrapped cross--he figures monk, religious shit, whatever--and braces himself as he walks into the cafe proper. Diarmuid is pretty easy to spot: his face is hidden underneath his curls but there's no mistaking him, and Quentin visibly winces as he notices the cast.
They did that. He did that. He makes a beeline to the other, navigating around the clutter of coffee shop tables. ]
Hey.
[ He doesn't sit, though, and he's very careful to keep his hands resting on the leather strap of his messenger bag as a gesture of good faith. 'See?' he wants it to say. 'My hands are where you can see them. I'm not going to cast.' His hair is down but tucked behind his ears, and he looks like shit--not as bad as Diarmuid, of course, courtesy of post-death mending--but his usually semi-tanned skin is just a bit paler, bags under his eyes pronounced due to his inability to sleep. He tries not to stare at Diarmuid's cast. It doesn't work. That's all he can stare at. ]
Uh--do you want anything? I was thinking a pot of tea, I could get you whatever...
[ It's a far cry from how he was in the dome, or even in Diarmuid's dream--he's just plain old Quentin now, depressed super nerd in all of his henley-and-button-up glory. ]
[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.]
[ He's working through it. Quentin can see--and he has a feeling even if he hadn't been checking himself in and out of mental hospitals since he was 16, he'd still be able to recognize the signs. Shaking hands, small voice, it's more than nerves--it's almost straight up paranoia, and it's all directed towards him.
Rabbit instincts or not, Quentin still deserves it. He twists his face into what he hopes is a relaxing smile, purposely leaning away. He doesn't want to crowd the other. ]
Tea it is.
[ He makes the purchase: chamomile and lavender, something soothing to relax the strange tension in the room--he swears people are watching him like a hawk here. Must be Diarmuid's friends. Once he's dithered around enough, he decides to stop prolonging the inevitable, and sets the pot down at the booth before sliding in opposite the monk. His hands stay on the table, palms down as he waits for the tea to steep. ]
How's your arm?
[ You know how it is, he chides himself mentally, you and Eliot fucking broke it. ]
[The 16-year-old winces as the man turns and goes, and probably exchanges glances with those who had come along to watch out for him— gives them a gentle gesture that everything is going fine, despite how he must look to anyone with common sense.
The question is offered, and they both know it’s a little ridiculous.
But it’s something other than anxiety-inducing quiet. His hand fidgets with the robe sleeve draped over the cast.]
It’s alright. I’m — I have pain medication, so it’s not as bad as it seems...
I — um. I should be able to take it off in a — a month or so. [The hole through his shoulder from an arrow is a little worse, honestly. But even with... all things considered, the monk doesn’t want to make Quentin feel worse.] This arm was already... a little stiff anyway; I was stabbed there a few months ago.
I doubt I’d be much of a baseball pitcher these days.
[A pause.]
You have “baseball” where you’re from, I hope, or that made little sense.
[He’s rambling, voice cracking, eyes passing over Quentin’s hands every to often.
[ A month. That's a long time--Quentin has broken his arm before, but he was young, fooling around the park with Julia. They'd pretended they were the Chatwins and they were in Fillory, with towels as caps as they fought imaginary creatures. Quentin can barely remember the pain when he slipped and fell, but that cast had been brutal. ]
Yeah--I'm a Yankees fan, for the record. [ His dad was, at least, so by proxy so was he. He never really got the sports-as-bonding, opting instead to sit and read while the crowd around him cheered. Speaking of--]
So, uh, a month is going to seem like forever. I got you something to try to pass the time. [ Quentin figured his shoulder was at least messed up, it makes sense the poor kid's arm is, too. He puts his hand on his bag, tugging at the strap: he's going to reach into his bag. Is that okay? ]
Can I grab it?
Edited (tfw you forget your character is from New York) 2019-09-16 15:53 (UTC)
[He huffs, a quiet little thing that could've been a laugh.]
I'm afraid I only just learned what baseball is this year. I'm woefully uneducated on the teams.
[Ah, but he's distracted from that line of thought by the strap on the man's shoulder.]
To pass the time...?
[Shifting a little, his stare moves to the bag — much like his own, which he's left next to him; it's been hard to wear his leather satchel as he is, especially with his textbooks in there, though he makes do. Something to pass the time...? He tries to ignore the little voice in his head saying to get away from whatever this is, that it'll be some sort of trap too fast for his friends to interrupt before it hurts him.
He swallows, the fingers of his uninjured arm curling on the edge of the table.
[ 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. ]
[Diarmuid looks for a long moment at the book's cover.
And really, it's a strange thing. Everything Quentin says sinks into him like a pin in a cushion. And he thinks of the days he couldn't get out of bed. The days he fasted with a number of excuses for it, or the days he failed to hear the lessons in school, even though he was right there in the front of the class room. He thinks about the days he's laying in bed, scared to dream, staring at the walls and feeling like God may have really abandoned him. That hopelessness that coils around him even today —
"It feels so... endless.
I feel like I have little left to give of myself, to make it better. For anyone..."
So many dead people, so many times to be hurt, tricked, mentally exhausted... So little hope for what awaits him at home, his brothers' bodies not even buried — won't ever be buried.
"It's just getting harder and harder to believe that. That it won't last forever."
Perhaps Quentin is ill in a way Diarmuid cannot really understand. He's spent so much of his life feeling carefree, happy, oblivious to the way of the world. But the 16-year-old cannot help but feel some strange camaraderie in the way the man speaks of his sickness. He slides a hand over the cover carefully, along the indentations of illustration and coarse material, not able to look at Quentin.
"It hurts."
His voice is shrunken, like all the air's been let out of him.]
You feel that way sometimes, too?
[His eyes fill with tears, drip miserably down his cheeks. He hates what a child he is, always crying, always so emotional, especially as of late. Some days he wishes he could rip the feeling from himself like a long, ugly root. Then, he could be stronger. Someone who could actually defend others and not get himself hurt, worry everyone else.
His fingers tremble on the book.]
... I'm sorry if I made those feelings any worse.
I'm sorry I'm afraid of you. But I — I did... mean it. When I forgave you. I still mean it.
[ Diamuid's paranoia has stopped, Quentin thinks, watching the other go into a slightly pensive state. He's glad, and his shoulders round out a little more, expelling the tension he had no idea was there.
Diarmuid still forgives him. After all this, just easy-peasy, 'hey, pal, you tried to kill me but I hope you're not suffering because of little old me,' but what Quentin's really astounded by is that there's no hint of the kid playing the martyr. He really, truly believes it. Diarmuid, Quentin realizes, is exactly who he used to think he was. He wasn't--he was selfish, self-centered, arrogant and smug and thought just because he was sad for no reason the world owed him--but the kid in front of him? That's the real deal.
Fuck, that makes it hurt even worse. Quentin pours the tea. ]
When I broke something around the house when I was little, my dad used to say 'I'm not mad, I'm disappointed.' That's kind of the vibe I'm getting with this.
[ There's an almost smile on his face, though. ]
I know you've got people looking after you, but if you need anything, anything at all, let me know, okay? Even if it's just homework help.
[Diarmuid feverishly wipes his eyes, looking embarrassed and shamed by himself. It is what it is, and he had always been an open person emotionally at the monastery and during his stay here, but for some reason... it just feels a little ugly, too discomforting in such a pleasant little cafe (and really, he doesn't want any of the people here with him to feel like they have something to worry about.
With a slightly calmer, softer air, he says sheepishly:]
When I broke things, Brother Oisín usually just sent me to bed fasting.
... I don't think it ever stopped me from getting into trouble later, though.
But — thank you. I will remember... especially when it comes to the difficulties of math. [He smiles weakly, looking to the book again, moving to open it and inspect the interior.] What is it about? These writings?
[ Quentin nods--he knows that feeling too well. His dad's model airplane, broken. His mother's ashtray, accidentally smashed. His general lack of awareness about the world around him while he was daydreaming was a nightmare for his folks, of course he'd been told to head to his room without breakfast a couple of times.
He notices it though, the lack of panic in the little monk's voice. At the very least, it seems like it's evened out a bit. Quentin, in turn, relaxes as well, but for a different reason.
Diarmuid has made the fatalistic mistake of asking Quentin goddamn Coldwater about the Fillory and Further series. He wrote his entrance essay to Yale about the stupid books. ]
It's actually--it's really fascinating, uh, especially when you consider the time it was written in and everything, like, just from am author standpoint? So it's about this family, the Chatwins, and there's a big war so they have to live in the countryside, and they hate it, but they find a magical world inside a clock called Fillory, and there's--I mean I don't want to spoil it--but there's goblins and talking animals and Elves and Dwarves and Dryads and Humbledrum, he's my favourite, he's this like, uuuh, talking bear that nurses Jane back to health after she gets--no no, wait, no spoilers--anyway they have to run around to try to flee from the Watcherwoman, who plans clocks in trees and it's just--it's just, like--it's so--it's just so dynamic, you know? You know. Oh! And there are these Gods, uh, twin rams, Ember and Umber, and they send the children on all of these amazing quests--actually a really clever deus ex machina, except for the part where it's all real.
[Diarmuid stares through the whole lecture, eyes slightly widened, lips thinned, nary a word offered to interrupt Quentin as he gets going.
It's only toward the end (if it even is the end) of the talking that his head dips forward a little, wild curls in his eyes briefly as he hunches up a little—]
[The shuddering of shoulders makes way for the slow crescendo of laughter, high and boyish and full of surprisingly earnest mirth. More tears spring into his eyes, in part from humor but mostly from pain — a hand moves to his aching, jolting shoulder, but he continues to laugh. If you'd have seen the track marks of tears, you would have never thought they were from a terrible sadness earlier.]
Ow — ow, ow, ow...! Y-you — ha —
Ow, ow.
Such a love for stories...! You would have been banned from the oratory by the abbot, too; it's like looking into a mirror. [He leans in a little more, rubbing the edge of his palm over the corners of his eyes. Fear may be a deep ugly wound in him right now, but there's some sort of salve in just how harmless the eager rambling is, and it almost helps confirm Quentin's repaired demeanor more than the apology did.] How many books are there? Do you have them all?
[ Oh. Quentin blinks rapidly, absolutely caught off guard the way Diarmuid laughs. At first he thinks it's at him, and he can feel the flush of embarrassment creep up on the back of his neck.
Okay. Okay, this isn't so bad. He'll take the little monk dude laughing at him over being scared of him any day. It's not the first time, and so Quentin tentatively smiles back, tainted with only a little bit of confusion. Just a bit. Until, of course, the other reveals that he was essentially blocked from telling stories. All that embarrassment and confusion is gone, and it's instantly replaced with familiarity. If he hadn't hated himself as much as he did when he was that age, if he wasn't constantly checking himself into hospitals, he would have probably been banned from whatever an Oratorium was, too. Or the modern Earth equivalent. Or the non-religious equivalent. Whatever.
He doesn't feel as bad now. Probably because not only has Diarmuid forgiven him (hadn't he done that as he was being attacked?) but because they found a little bit of common ground. He leans forward, far less nervous, and starts pouring more tea for the both of them. ]
There are five, yeah, and a sixth one that was never actually published. [ And that had been a mess. ] Hey--speaking of Fillory, I know this is going to sound crazy, but how good are you with animals?
[He blinks at that, eyes red-rimmed but somewhat less guarded.]
I — Well enough, I suppose. I helped with the livestock on the monastery grounds.
In Kilmannán. Chickens and goats... horses... creatures of that kind. Brother Darragh was a farrier before he was a monk, so he taught me how to file hooves and... things of that nature...
[He trails off, feeling a little foolish in his ramblings.
Quentin probably isn't asking about that sort of skill in animal care.]
[ It's an impulse. Something left over from the Cottage in Fillory, he thinks--Quentin grabs an extra napkin and wordlessly slides it to Diarmuid, just in case he wants to wipe his face or compose himself. His eyes had looked pretty red, probably with emotion. Now that things have eased between them, Quentin's guilt is slow being eclipsed by his Dad instincts. Sure, Diarmuid's not a little kid, but he is significantly younger than him. ]
What about rabbits? Eliot and I were thinking that if something like this happens again and you need help, we want to be there for you. There's a way you can call us for help no matter what, but it means you'd get a pet. A magical one. You don't have to answer right away or anything, and I can explain more, but... no rush, okay? Let's just drink some tea.
... I do like rabbits. I'm rarely ever close enough to a wild hare to pet it, but...
[He looks a little confused, though, for plenty good reason. Normal folks usually don't offer magical pets to people — and with that in mind, he can't even imagine that a rabbit is interwoven with calling for help. He reaches for his tea, brow still furrowed, sips, considers-]
[ He opens his mouth and he really is about to explain the technical details--the Neitherlands, the properties of Fillorian rabbits (if they even are Fillorian), maybe even delve really deep into the source of all magic when he decides very quickly not to.
The last thing he needs is to overwhelm him, so he treads it like he does when someone's having problems in math: simple first, then build up. ]
Well, it's pretty much a normal bunny. For some reason, rabbits have a better time traveling between worlds. These ones can find whoever you want, and repeat a short sentence or phrase. Sort of like your Fluid, but, uh. Alive. You just tell them who to find, give them the message, set them down, and they hop to it. Literally.
Scared the shit out of me when I first got a message by bunny, I'm gonna be honest.
Where I hail from, we use birds to deliver messages, sometimes. A rabbit between worlds is just... a more intricate version of it, is it not? [He frowns, moving to sip on his tea.] The... rabbit talks?
Oh, man, that's a way better analogy. Yeah. Carrier pigeons, but with fluffy tails.
I mean it, though. I know you might not trust me and that's--I'm not asking you to change your opinion. But if you're in a bind, I mean... you've seen it. I'm a Magician. I want to be there for you.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
A handwritten letter;
Plus, after his little breakdown, he realized the only way to move forward was to try to fix things. Mend them, just a little. His handwriting is messy, the type of chickenscratch that hurried authors use. ]
Diarmuid,
I really hope I'm spelling that right. There's no way to put this gently, so I'm going to treat you like I would a peer. I don't think it's fair to you if I try to be an adult, full stop. I'm away from the dome for the first time in a month, which means I can think a little clearer.
Here's the thing: I fucked up. Really, really badly. I'm supposed to be a teacher. A person older than you that helps and mentors and makes sure you go your own way. I didn't do that. I tried to kill you.
I know my words probably don't mean anything, but I've never tried to kill another person before, let alone a kid. I'm sorry. I don't think saying I'm sorry in a letter is enough, though, so I want to apologize in person.
It's okay if you don't want to meet me. I get it. It's okay if you want someone to come with you, too, and we can choose a public place. For what it's worth Eliot wants to come, but I said maybe one person at a time. I don't want it to seem like we're ganging up on you.
It's cool if you ignore this, by the way. I won't be insulted. I'll transfer you to another math classroom, too, if that's what you want.
I do hope you're well,
-Quentin Coldwater
nothing; 1/2
He's in Shades' car, accepting all the blame, even though the man adamantly refuses to let him have it.
He slowly opens the envelope without moving, expecting to read something horrible. It wouldn't make sense, would it? That the writing is cruel or threatening. Quentin seemed like a good man, someone who was just... swept away in the bloodlust. And yet it's still so possible — he could see it in his mind's eye, a note that says he's coming for Diarmuid. When I'm back on my feet, I'm going to break all the bones in your body.
Stupid. Stupid little rabbit. Letting this send you into such an anxious spiral.
He shakes his head, swallows, and sits down on his bed, bare feet settled next to the death statue beside it. He clumsily tears open the envelope — and reads.
'I fucked up.'
He clenches his eyes shut.
'I'm sorry.'
The boy wrings the letter in his hands against his chest, body crumpling forward until his curls brush his knees, and he weeps in earnest. It's hard to say if it's a sound of relief or misery, but it's a flood of feelings all the same. He crawls into his bed and stays there for most of the following day, the twisted paper left on his nightstand where he can see it.]
Text;
Not handwritten. Sent through the network.
His penmanship has not been well, as of recent.]
Quentin,
If you are comfortible with the cafe, we can meet there.
Tomorow, after school hours.
I may ask for someone to wach from afar. If that is okay.
Diarmuid
Text; hey that broke my heart
I'm comfortable wherever you're comfortable. This is about whatever you'd like and whatever makes you feel safe. We can meet there, you can bring whoever you want.
They don't even have to watch from afar, they can sit with us, even.
Text; > Action;
It's ok. Afar is fine.
It should be between us.
[And true to his word, he shall be there. Wolfwood had been his choice of defense, since he seemed a level-head, and... Frank certainly wasn't an option here. Thom is brought in by pure accident, really — as it turns out, the nerves had made Diarmuid sick at school, and the boy was kind enough to lend a hand and ear. Louis seemed eager to keep an eye out, too, and as they're all scattered in the cafe, Diarmuid thinks maybe it's a bit much. Quentin isn't a danger now, is he? (He is, his mind supplies, he's a threat, he could still kill you).
But regardless, he's in the booth, feeling pins and needles in his hands and feet. His cast is tucked against his ribs, covered in writing and illustrations and names of people around town, face much more healed than the day he limped back from the dome.
Swallowing the knot in his throat, he waits.
... Pay no mind to the giant cloth-wrapped cross outside. That's Wolfwood's.]
no subject
He's being an idiot, anyway. He's written it himself in the letter: this isn't about him. This is about Diarmuid feeling safe--the selfishness of Quentin Makepeace Coldwater will have to be put on hold. He's in his late 20s, for fucks sake, he's an adult. The least he can do is meet a 12 year old monk boy who he tried to murder. He hardly spares a glance at he cloth wrapped cross--he figures monk, religious shit, whatever--and braces himself as he walks into the cafe proper. Diarmuid is pretty easy to spot: his face is hidden underneath his curls but there's no mistaking him, and Quentin visibly winces as he notices the cast.
They did that. He did that. He makes a beeline to the other, navigating around the clutter of coffee shop tables. ]
Hey.
[ He doesn't sit, though, and he's very careful to keep his hands resting on the leather strap of his messenger bag as a gesture of good faith. 'See?' he wants it to say. 'My hands are where you can see them. I'm not going to cast.' His hair is down but tucked behind his ears, and he looks like shit--not as bad as Diarmuid, of course, courtesy of post-death mending--but his usually semi-tanned skin is just a bit paler, bags under his eyes pronounced due to his inability to sleep. He tries not to stare at Diarmuid's cast. It doesn't work. That's all he can stare at. ]
Uh--do you want anything? I was thinking a pot of tea, I could get you whatever...
[ It's a far cry from how he was in the dome, or even in Diarmuid's dream--he's just plain old Quentin now, depressed super nerd in all of his henley-and-button-up glory. ]
no subject
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.
tw institutionalization
Rabbit instincts or not, Quentin still deserves it. He twists his face into what he hopes is a relaxing smile, purposely leaning away. He doesn't want to crowd the other. ]
Tea it is.
[ He makes the purchase: chamomile and lavender, something soothing to relax the strange tension in the room--he swears people are watching him like a hawk here. Must be Diarmuid's friends. Once he's dithered around enough, he decides to stop prolonging the inevitable, and sets the pot down at the booth before sliding in opposite the monk. His hands stay on the table, palms down as he waits for the tea to steep. ]
How's your arm?
[ You know how it is, he chides himself mentally, you and Eliot fucking broke it. ]
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The question is offered, and they both know it’s a little ridiculous.
But it’s something other than anxiety-inducing quiet. His hand fidgets with the robe sleeve draped over the cast.]
It’s alright. I’m — I have pain medication, so it’s not as bad as it seems...
I — um. I should be able to take it off in a — a month or so. [The hole through his shoulder from an arrow is a little worse, honestly. But even with... all things considered, the monk doesn’t want to make Quentin feel worse.] This arm was already... a little stiff anyway; I was stabbed there a few months ago.
I doubt I’d be much of a baseball pitcher these days.
[A pause.]
You have “baseball” where you’re from, I hope, or that made little sense.
[He’s rambling, voice cracking, eyes passing over Quentin’s hands every to often.
you’re fine you’re fine you’re fine ]
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Yeah--I'm a Yankees fan, for the record. [ His dad was, at least, so by proxy so was he. He never really got the sports-as-bonding, opting instead to sit and read while the crowd around him cheered. Speaking of--]
So, uh, a month is going to seem like forever. I got you something to try to pass the time. [ Quentin figured his shoulder was at least messed up, it makes sense the poor kid's arm is, too. He puts his hand on his bag, tugging at the strap: he's going to reach into his bag. Is that okay? ]
Can I grab it?
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I'm afraid I only just learned what baseball is this year. I'm woefully uneducated on the teams.
[Ah, but he's distracted from that line of thought by the strap on the man's shoulder.]
To pass the time...?
[Shifting a little, his stare moves to the bag — much like his own, which he's left next to him; it's been hard to wear his leather satchel as he is, especially with his textbooks in there, though he makes do. Something to pass the time...? He tries to ignore the little voice in his head saying to get away from whatever this is, that it'll be some sort of trap too fast for his friends to interrupt before it hurts him.
He swallows, the fingers of his uninjured arm curling on the edge of the table.
Diarmuid, after a moment, nods his approval.]
tw depression, vague hints of suicidal ideation
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.
cw: depressive everything ever cont'd
And really, it's a strange thing. Everything Quentin says sinks into him like a pin in a cushion. And he thinks of the days he couldn't get out of bed. The days he fasted with a number of excuses for it, or the days he failed to hear the lessons in school, even though he was right there in the front of the class room. He thinks about the days he's laying in bed, scared to dream, staring at the walls and feeling like God may have really abandoned him. That hopelessness that coils around him even today —
"It feels so... endless.
I feel like I have little left to give of myself, to make it better. For anyone..."
So many dead people, so many times to be hurt, tricked, mentally exhausted... So little hope for what awaits him at home, his brothers' bodies not even buried — won't ever be buried.
"It's just getting harder and harder to believe that. That it won't last forever."
Perhaps Quentin is ill in a way Diarmuid cannot really understand. He's spent so much of his life feeling carefree, happy, oblivious to the way of the world. But the 16-year-old cannot help but feel some strange camaraderie in the way the man speaks of his sickness. He slides a hand over the cover carefully, along the indentations of illustration and coarse material, not able to look at Quentin.
"It hurts."
His voice is shrunken, like all the air's been let out of him.]
You feel that way sometimes, too?
[His eyes fill with tears, drip miserably down his cheeks. He hates what a child he is, always crying, always so emotional, especially as of late. Some days he wishes he could rip the feeling from himself like a long, ugly root. Then, he could be stronger. Someone who could actually defend others and not get himself hurt, worry everyone else.
His fingers tremble on the book.]
... I'm sorry if I made those feelings any worse.
I'm sorry I'm afraid of you. But I — I did... mean it. When I forgave you. I still mean it.
That's — what I wanted to say, most of all.
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Diarmuid still forgives him. After all this, just easy-peasy, 'hey, pal, you tried to kill me but I hope you're not suffering because of little old me,' but what Quentin's really astounded by is that there's no hint of the kid playing the martyr. He really, truly believes it. Diarmuid, Quentin realizes, is exactly who he used to think he was. He wasn't--he was selfish, self-centered, arrogant and smug and thought just because he was sad for no reason the world owed him--but the kid in front of him? That's the real deal.
Fuck, that makes it hurt even worse. Quentin pours the tea. ]
When I broke something around the house when I was little, my dad used to say 'I'm not mad, I'm disappointed.' That's kind of the vibe I'm getting with this.
[ There's an almost smile on his face, though. ]
I know you've got people looking after you, but if you need anything, anything at all, let me know, okay? Even if it's just homework help.
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With a slightly calmer, softer air, he says sheepishly:]
When I broke things, Brother Oisín usually just sent me to bed fasting.
... I don't think it ever stopped me from getting into trouble later, though.
But — thank you. I will remember... especially when it comes to the difficulties of math. [He smiles weakly, looking to the book again, moving to open it and inspect the interior.] What is it about? These writings?
i'm so sorry
He notices it though, the lack of panic in the little monk's voice. At the very least, it seems like it's evened out a bit. Quentin, in turn, relaxes as well, but for a different reason.
Diarmuid has made the fatalistic mistake of asking Quentin goddamn Coldwater about the Fillory and Further series. He wrote his entrance essay to Yale about the stupid books. ]
It's actually--it's really fascinating, uh, especially when you consider the time it was written in and everything, like, just from am author standpoint? So it's about this family, the Chatwins, and there's a big war so they have to live in the countryside, and they hate it, but they find a magical world inside a clock called Fillory, and there's--I mean I don't want to spoil it--but there's goblins and talking animals and Elves and Dwarves and Dryads and Humbledrum, he's my favourite, he's this like, uuuh, talking bear that nurses Jane back to health after she gets--no no, wait, no spoilers--anyway they have to run around to try to flee from the Watcherwoman, who plans clocks in trees and it's just--it's just, like--it's so--it's just so dynamic, you know? You know. Oh! And there are these Gods, uh, twin rams, Ember and Umber, and they send the children on all of these amazing quests--actually a really clever deus ex machina, except for the part where it's all real.
1/2
It's only toward the end (if it even is the end) of the talking that his head dips forward a little, wild curls in his eyes briefly as he hunches up a little—]
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Ow — ow, ow, ow...! Y-you — ha —
Ow, ow.
Such a love for stories...! You would have been banned from the oratory by the abbot, too; it's like looking into a mirror. [He leans in a little more, rubbing the edge of his palm over the corners of his eyes. Fear may be a deep ugly wound in him right now, but there's some sort of salve in just how harmless the eager rambling is, and it almost helps confirm Quentin's repaired demeanor more than the apology did.] How many books are there? Do you have them all?
tw institutionalization, depression
Okay. Okay, this isn't so bad. He'll take the little monk dude laughing at him over being scared of him any day. It's not the first time, and so Quentin tentatively smiles back, tainted with only a little bit of confusion. Just a bit. Until, of course, the other reveals that he was essentially blocked from telling stories. All that embarrassment and confusion is gone, and it's instantly replaced with familiarity. If he hadn't hated himself as much as he did when he was that age, if he wasn't constantly checking himself into hospitals, he would have probably been banned from whatever an Oratorium was, too. Or the modern Earth equivalent. Or the non-religious equivalent. Whatever.
He doesn't feel as bad now. Probably because not only has Diarmuid forgiven him (hadn't he done that as he was being attacked?) but because they found a little bit of common ground. He leans forward, far less nervous, and starts pouring more tea for the both of them. ]
There are five, yeah, and a sixth one that was never actually published. [ And that had been a mess. ] Hey--speaking of Fillory, I know this is going to sound crazy, but how good are you with animals?
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I — Well enough, I suppose. I helped with the livestock on the monastery grounds.
In Kilmannán. Chickens and goats... horses... creatures of that kind. Brother Darragh was a farrier before he was a monk, so he taught me how to file hooves and... things of that nature...
[He trails off, feeling a little foolish in his ramblings.
Quentin probably isn't asking about that sort of skill in animal care.]
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What about rabbits? Eliot and I were thinking that if something like this happens again and you need help, we want to be there for you. There's a way you can call us for help no matter what, but it means you'd get a pet. A magical one. You don't have to answer right away or anything, and I can explain more, but... no rush, okay? Let's just drink some tea.
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[He looks a little confused, though, for plenty good reason. Normal folks usually don't offer magical pets to people — and with that in mind, he can't even imagine that a rabbit is interwoven with calling for help. He reaches for his tea, brow still furrowed, sips, considers-]
How does such a thing work...?
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The last thing he needs is to overwhelm him, so he treads it like he does when someone's having problems in math: simple first, then build up. ]
Well, it's pretty much a normal bunny. For some reason, rabbits have a better time traveling between worlds. These ones can find whoever you want, and repeat a short sentence or phrase. Sort of like your Fluid, but, uh. Alive. You just tell them who to find, give them the message, set them down, and they hop to it. Literally.
Scared the shit out of me when I first got a message by bunny, I'm gonna be honest.
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Where I hail from, we use birds to deliver messages, sometimes. A rabbit between worlds is just... a more intricate version of it, is it not? [He frowns, moving to sip on his tea.] The... rabbit talks?
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I mean it, though. I know you might not trust me and that's--I'm not asking you to change your opinion. But if you're in a bind, I mean... you've seen it. I'm a Magician. I want to be there for you.
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