He keeps his eyes closed for a long time, his face braced in his hands, and for a moment it's like he didn't even hear, he's so still. Then he stirs abruptly, his eyes opening, briefly unfocused. He tries to smile again and it's not quite there, but something in his face is less panicked. "Thank you."

Wolfgang shifts subtly, focusing again on where he is instead of wherever he just went inside his head. "There are an awful lot of nice people in our cohort, yes." He puts his hands down on the table, takes a breath, lets it out. He's okay. He'll make himself be okay, if he has to. "It's... hard to remember sometimes. How much good there is in the world."

He thinks about saying it. I'm sick. Shrieky doesn't have the context most other people here do -- there's none of the stigma that would come with it. Even the thought of it makes him nauseated, as if giving voice to it will finally make it real. Like if he just keeps denying it, it will go away on its own.

He doesn't.