[ jack lifts his chin, the air of pride and dignity he holds so aggressively to there, alongside the anger, for all that Erik's talking about, and all that he'd sacrificed back home for the world's problems with what he never chose to be. how much of his life was a lie for the sake of keeping his nature a secret? and what did he ever get from it, aside from a grave and too much blood on his hands? ]

Then they can hate me. I'm done apologizing for it.

[ his jaw tightens, hand on his coffee having turned to a thumbnail dragging a scratch across the cardboard cuff to ward off the heat. he's heard that before - your difference are not wrong, but from people either like him, or burying someone like him. the reverend, standing over joseph's coffin, and looking over to where jack stood, separated from it. he's told himself that, before, and wanted to believe it. and yet, there stands his father and mother, at the seat of power bestowed to them by god, disgusted with him. with all of the city's voice behind them. so how much can his little mantra really mean in comparison? ]

You don't know my differences. I could be completely abhorrent to you. [ there's a kind of hollowness in Jack's tone, and when he looks back up to Erik, it's without the guise of charming smiles and easy nonchalance. ] Everyone has something they hate - being persecuted doesn't exempt you from persecuting.