His brain's not so soaked with beer that he misses the quiet war waged in Rhy's body language. It's a war Wilhelm has fought with himself, doubts and insecurities rising up to overthrow him. Though he doesn't know what shape Rhy's takes yet, he senses that there's something of himself shadowing that advice.

Anyway, it's too late to retract his words now. Suddenly, it seems silly that he ever wasted so much stress on keeping so inconsequential a secret. Rhy doesn't care. Nobody cares.

"No, no, no," he insists, shaking his head and concluding with a clang of his cup against the table. Not hard — he's making a point, not throwing a tantrum. "I'm not a prince here, am I? I'm nobody, and I like it that way."

His expression is halfway to manic — and again, the booze can only be blamed so much. It's the expression of someone who, having lit a fire, finds beauty in the devouring flames.

"The only power I want is the power to live a normal life. To be responsible for nobody but myself."