To hear it stated so bluntly reopens a wound that hadn't closed quite right, that Benedict wasn't even fully aware was still there until it gives a jolt of pain; his eyes well up, and he's rapidly blinking away the damp, because he's not a crier. Or at least doesn't want to be.

"I'm not good at," he begins, but is now all too aware of where they're sitting, and that anyone around them might spot him-- he's never had a good poker face-- and take a shot. "...I don't want to talk about it here."