Strangely perhaps, the mention of sex doesn't get any more reaction than a faint furrow between the brows, an expression that might be confusion. But at the words something you want bad enough, Andrew's face starts to crumple and he starts to shake his head, the movement tiny but continuous.

Slowly he sags down the wall until he's sitting on the floor, knees drawn up, hands coming up to cover his face.

"I can't," he whispers, choked almost to inaudibility, "I can't --"

(The sleeves of the plain linen shirt he's wearing don't have a lot of stretch, and ride up his arms a little with the movement. Max may or may not notice: there's a band of slightly sunken flesh visible under the cuff of each sleeve, pale even against Andrew's pale hands.)