Quentin presses his forehead to the table again, completely missing the opening for some schadenfreude because he despises the thought of Norman being able to see his face. He doesn't need to show his underbelly just to get metaphorically cut open again. Quentin's got that covered on his own at the moment.

The laugh that spills out is sharp and abrupt, disbelieving. "No wonder I liked him, then. And I know, I know it's pathetic, but-" Quentin sinks in on himself, still not looking up. It's easier to talk if he's not looking someone in the face, easier to lie, but it's like there's someone, something else pulling his strings at the moment.

"I believed him. I thought it was real. What a laugh. Me, getting something real." He scoffs, the last word dripping with derision. "It's what I deserve though, isn't it?"