Admitting this isn't anything he wants to do — he's been avoiding it and dodging it every time someone has tried to get him to talk about it... sometimes even getting angry about it. But he's been sitting on it for a month now. Busied himself with checking in on others, being there for them... things he doesn't normally do or have much emotional bandwidth for.

Dragging his teeth over his bottom lip, he stares to the bed still, conflicted with himself.

"Being killed by something like that... something that people made because they'd rather see me dead than try and live with me or someone like me." Mutants, he means. A shake of his head, he looks off, away from Jesus. "That's fucked up."