That laugh earns him a little glower, but if it loses some of it's potency it's only because listening to Kyle's laugh get away from him like that feels like there's plenty he could clapback about if he had to.

And apparently he doesn't have to. Or at least not as viciously as is his reflex. "It's a little fucking ivy league for my taste," he grumbles and peels himself off the stage floor.

"Quentin. Or Quire. Whichever you want." The lingering dizziness is unexpected and leaves him grabbing for the table and catching sight again of the last thing he touched before he lost himself. That mask. "Hey, don't touch that thing. I think that's what tried to break my brain," he warns.