He is still suspicious, but the immediate welling of tears undercuts the potency of it. Lukas' hand presses against his shoulder, right where it feels soft and disconnected; Matthias chokes, sucks in a big breath. The crying also comes from the pain and the pressure, entirely involuntary. He still feels ashamed.

"Do it," he says, tightly, "if you're going to do something, do it."

He keeps his head down. Under Lukas' hand, under the swathes of wool and linen and furs, the shoulder feels squarer than it should. Placed wrong.