Quentin grimaces, leaning back in his chair. He feels more exhausted than anything else. Unsure of how to even phrase the shit coiling in his chest at the moment. His tongue is still loose enough the inclination to cough something up is- there.

It's unsettling. If he tries to ignore it he'll be back where he started, though.

"...It's not the death that gets me." Quentin begins slowly, trying to unwind things in a way that could make sense to Osborn. Cuts to the point as cleanly as he can without spilling too much. "I lived with that what-if for five years. I also lived with... Mysterio for that long, but that's not like- him. All I had was my work and that role, for that period. Neither apply anymore."

It's on the tip of his tongue to say something like I just want to go home, but that's too much. Nothing Norman needs to hear, as he glances at the other man. He doesn't need pity. "They were everything I had. Now I can't have either, even if I'm stuck in this goddamn costume the rest of my life. What if nothing ever comes, and I'm just- this?"

Just the bug that'll get squashed, again and again, because everything he's ever hid behind is gone. Just... a washed up has-been, and that's being generous.