[Wilhelm nods, as if he's agreed to any of this. He says nothing else, not trusting his voice to hold steady, or his words to stay above the bitterness that's so tempting to dip into. Leaving the tea unfinished, and all this mess for Rhy to clean up by himself, he makes his unceremonious exit from the table. He doesn't know where he's going, but he's in a hurry to get there.
He's not mad at Rhy. He's mad that his heart had to hang itself on someone he can't have. He's mad that his daydreams gathered too much weight and made him want them to be real. Most of all, he's mad that he's only seventeen, instead of something more sophisticated or self-assured or whatever else might make Rhy want him.]
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He's not mad at Rhy. He's mad that his heart had to hang itself on someone he can't have. He's mad that his daydreams gathered too much weight and made him want them to be real. Most of all, he's mad that he's only seventeen, instead of something more sophisticated or self-assured or whatever else might make Rhy want him.]