Norman endures the tirade, earnestly listening. As he suspected, Quentin is still making broad generalizations: accusing Norman of not knowing him when he's just as guilty of the same. He's trying to work out a way to calmly word a response when the other man pales and leans over the table.

"Wh-"

Norman's eyes widen in genuine surprise and any semblance of a calm facade he may have been presenting vanish. He's up from his chair in an instant, but keeps his distance, watching his eyes to see if they're dilating, his chest to monitor his breathing.

"No - no, it was a brand new bottle... talk to me. What's going on?"

In a show of solidarity, he drinks from his own glass to see what happens. His nerves already have his own stomach in knots, so ... this might get interesting.