Yeah. Trust me, I got that already.

[ there's a bitter, foul irritation in his throat, almost like neptune's black bile. the lights in the corners of his eyes are stronger than ever, their pull away from the lighthouse almost hypnotic; he feels hands tugging at him, away from this promised heroism and towards something more comfortable. they urge him to speak, to expel the tar, to relax into that touch and look more directly.

so he does, for a moment. ]

But He is perfect. That's the whole problem, right? [ he stands straighter, and for a single moment someone else shows through in his body language. someone sharper and softer. someone more sweet and more vile. ] If he says they deserve something, then they deserve it. Doesn't matter what they've done to get there. If he points at your best friend and says "cast out the devil," then you're supposed to start casting, right?

[ there's a light in his eyes, something almost tangible - shining through those bright cyan irises. they're almost painful to look at, like this. ]

I don't want him to call me a hero. It sounds like the shittiest job imaginable.