[ 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.
[Diarmuid's quiet for a long moment, looking at his tea and considering the man's words with careful, earnest attention. Honestly, his stomach is in knots — relieved ones, in some strange way, like someone who has just finished a roller coaster ride at that park. It's not hard to imagine the man in front of him uses his power for good, even after seeing what he'd seen, but he also thinks if he saw that power blossom in front of him again he might hide in a panic.
But perhaps it will not always be that way. And perhaps it is a fear he can learn... to force himself to overcome. He's had to do it here before; he'll have to do it again. After a moment and a deep breath through his nose, he nods.]
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no subject
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.
no subject
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—]
no subject
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?
no subject
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.]
no subject
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.
no subject
[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...?
no subject
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.
no subject
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?
no subject
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.
no subject
But perhaps it will not always be that way. And perhaps it is a fear he can learn... to force himself to overcome. He's had to do it here before; he'll have to do it again. After a moment and a deep breath through his nose, he nods.]
... I'll remember.