The distinct feeling of somehow screwing it up again was an ugly one, and he was so tired lately of acquainting himself with it. It wasn't a Good Burn as Syn had once put it, the pain of moving yourself past your limitations and shedding the weakness that had once held you back. It was like a dog being repeatedly swatted with a newspaper roll when he did something wrong, except he was the dog and the newspaper was a lead weight that hit his gut rather than his nose.

Swat. The dead don't always move to heaven or hell; if only life was so binary and simple. Some of them linger as shadows or get sucked into an entirely different realm or even come back mutilated and mutated by normal words with capital letters. Swat. Not everyone wants what you think is right, not everyone believes the flatline that is comfort and safety and the assumed promise of having each other's backs is enough. For some, hell is the job they pursue or fear or accept, heaven exists only in fleeting and raw spectrum of moments that comprised human interaction, and purgatory is where the monotony slowly kills and the soul screams for something to thrash it back to life. Swat. There are so many worlds and possibilities beyond your comprehension, so many philosophies and beliefs, so many new people and things and challenges and worries. You are but one small thing with one small mind struggling to understand the colors through old lenses that doesn't work anymore. (But bless your heart.)

im not ready anyway i know that
@starringchance: What makes you think that?
i just do man
havent done angthin sayin im ready
@starringchance: Well, there's no rush, you can take your time. You're Shaggy, after all : )

And what did that mean exactly? That he was a cowardly man, comedic relief, best friends with an animal who could talk? Because he knew he was all these things already. They weren't fulfilled criteria for a promotion, and they certainly weren't a good reason for why he wasn't excelling as fast as he should to get one.

He was scared. He was starting to grow hyper-aware of the fact that the niche he thought he could settle in, this hero trying to do the right thing role, might not be as welcomed as he thought, or worse, that he was never any good at it to begin with. He could fill Twitter with all the stupid jokes and puns and uplifting messages he wanted, but in the end it didn't seem to change anything, not really. Maybe that was why he went on diatribes on and off the net, maybe that was why he'd rant and spout his opinion off passionately about any God damn thing that struck him: the more noise he made, the more of an impact he made, right? You are a good person, Maebe. You don't need to hurt to feel loved, Horace. This is what friends do, Chance. Trust me, Chris.

@KeepShip2gether: Your schedule revolves around others. Ever done more for yourself at times?

Of course it did. Of course he chastised himself for thinking about them too much, but he might as well have tried shaving his head to scare his hair into changing color: it was an innate part of him, as natural as his need to move and tap and fidget and fiddle. He would always worry about his friends, even the ones who didn't need reassurances, because he always had even before Deus. Concern gave him purpose, someone else to focus on and try to help. He was a simple person with simple pleasures and what he had been taught was that it was one of two things: cute or boring. God, he drank in the compliments on Twitter like it was all that mattered sometimes. He was a man who could connect the dots and form the skeleton of a picture, but he always gave the colors to fill it to someone else.

You're a good Moon, America had said after her story. But he still didn't believe it. Every day he felt himself discredit the title just a little more, in fact. A Good Moon protected others and prevented problems and followed orders. A Good Moon didn't lay his opinion out like it was moral law, a Good Moon didn't cry when his vulnerable friend told a story, a Good Moon didn't keep trying to apply a hammer and nail to every issue he heard, and a Good Moon, a Good Anything, didn't fall to the ground and cower under his shield during a mission while his charge started to bleed out.

But he could do more for himself and start taking measures to fix that, and it started with a trip to the library.

@MaebeBaeby: Doesn't it get tiring?
@MaebeBaeby: I would tell you to try not worrying a little, but I don't want you to change. I think you're fine the way you are.

But he wasn't. Even rocks started to wear down with the tide with time. He cracked open book after book, trying to remember the title Chris had mentioned. Heracles, Heracles...The strongest mortal turned into almost the strongest god, he who slew the Nemean lion and wore its pelt, on one hand a proud brute and on the other a soldier of fortitude. A man that caused as many problems as he did solve them. Sounded about right.

He turned Twitter on for a distraction, unable to concentrate for very long when he hit lengthy passages.

@SailorKousagi: Congrats to the happy couple @goodonesargon and @IAmMegaGay !!! heart heart heart Its about time you two were official! heart heart heart

It quickly became almost impossible to concentrate at all. He sat back and made scant comments, on and off sneaking a nibble of his protein snack bar as he prodded Horace and Maebe through DMs. Distractions, distractions. He kept having to read and reread and reread the same sentences in the book for the meaning to stick, but the frustration was good for once: he could be angry with the book for its vocabulary and its timing to fall into his lap rather than his own inability to stop multitasking, stop joking around, stop adding haha like it somehow made everything better, stop pretending he felt half as good as his tweets came across.

@MaebeBaeby: You're perfect.

He put the phone down, took his hat off, and ran a hand through his hair, as though the actions could alleviate the twist in his chest.

"You are perfect." Chel's voice is filled with several layers of distress. "Perfect, Dawson. I wanted to tell you but with China and Jack- and then Chris I just-"

Yeah, he knew. He understood. He hated that he understood for just a moment, though, that they both had to use that word and not something softer and familiar and without expectations. Cute. Adorable. Something. Because if he failed someone again, he swore...he didn't know.

@nokoni_island: You're gonna protect what's important. I've got faith in you.
@nokoni_island: You'll get so shieldy our enemies won't even see what you're protecting

He had to. In the end that was the simple reason that forced Dawson to go through the last textbook on the Temple of Heracles' Endeavours, even though the details were lost on him and the dangers listed barely made a blip on his very healthy sense of fear and he could remember the sound of his tapping fingers and feet more than he could the summaries of the artifacts themselves. Because if he couldn't do any of that, if he couldn't properly help his friends, if he couldn't even do his God damn job at the end of the day, then what the hell was he even good for?