He helps settle him on his back on the bed, reaches to stroke his face, once, with the palm of one hand, then to press, four points, his forearms, his calves, adhering them down to the mattress with impossible force. He could pull hard enough that the bed should break, but he'll remain right where he is in space.

Quentin's eyes are black, where the iris should be, to the whites, everything dark and inky and all the more startling because he has white eyelashes. He spins his fingertips in the air, hands forming complex vortices.

"Show me the hand gesture." He says, and his voice is odd too, vibrates a little, comes from somewhere off and deeper. "You can make it from this angle? Your arm isn't too tight."