It's not what he wants to hear. The but. The gentle weight of Rhy's hand covering his, bringing it away from his mug and back to the table, pushes down the protest that lurches onto his tongue.

That and the way Rhy, in this moment, reminds him so much of Erik. His brother, kind and considerate, poised and perspicacious, was everything a future king is supposed to be — and Wilhelm could only stumble around in the enormous shoes he left for him to fill. After so much has unraveled, Erik's memory holds as the last tether he has to any sense of duty.

So he can't scorn Rhy for clutching at what his brother carried so seriously. Maybe he finds a sense of self in his title, a title in which Wilhelm feels totally lost.

"Fuck, what are the odds?" he mumbles. A daze of amazement, a bite of irony. His other hand leaves his cup behind, finding Rhy's, idly tracing the ridges and dips of his knuckles.

"But you don't have to be any of that here. You can just...put it down."

Likewise, this probably isn't what Rhy wants to hear. But it's just as much the truth.