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"No." Sweeney's shoulders ease a touch as his attention slips down to the ashtray for a moment. There's no need for defense on his side, he's just quietly frustrated by the overarching situation.

"They don't all know." And that's the fucking problem. He's surprised that in a place like this, with all the oddities and cultures but still so many humans, that folk have no place to start with something that feels so logical and natural.

Humans did this. Humans made trade. Bartering millennia before the first coin. But he's the one that's asking too much for wanting to make deals for fucking favors.

He pulls another cigarette from behind the same ear, pressing it between his lips while he answers around it so he can fetch his lighter from his pocket. Sweeney decides to take a different course towards the solution.

"When ya sold yer soul, was that a bribe?" The lighter flicks open, and he breathes life into the cigarette with a long drag before snapping it shut, his gaze settling casually on Dorian. Surely this example would be more familiar.

Dorian shakes his head. "If anything, it was an accident. But if you asked me to describe what it was, I'd describe it as a transaction."

So maybe Sweeney thinks of all of this in the same way? A transaction.

His expression eases a touch, and he takes a drag.

"It's like that. I don't deal in souls. But it's the balance. Offerin's." He tips his head one way, then the other. "Favors."

Sweeney's attention slips behind Dorian for a moment.

"It's what Leprechaun do."

There's a frown on Dorian's face as he thinks things over for a moment.

"But you can still do something for someone without a transaction, right? Every meaningful action doesn't have to be a deal."

Sweeney considers the question. There's the truth, and then there's the Truth.

"I can." Discomfort is wrapped in the words, though he's clearly trying to minimize it with a brief tightening of his jaw.

"As much as you can become a monk." The explanation is presented with intent. He's still thinking as he works his way through it.

"Yer capable," he admits with a faint nod while his gaze lingers on the fabric concealing Dorian's chest. "Ya could make the choice ta give up e'erythin' that makes ya you." He's clearly implying Dorian, not people in general. Though really, it's still accurate for most people too.

"You can go through the motions. Live yer life ta the standards others insist are how ya should. Tell yerself it's the right thing ta do. That ya'll be better fer doin' it, fer not bein' who ya are." His tongue pauses to wet his lips.

"An' people will admire ya fer all the things that ya do while yer busy not bein' yourself."

There's a pause as Dorian mulls things over. He thinks he gets what Sweeney is saying. He could do something without a transaction. But then, would he be Sweeney anymore?

"There's a book about me," he says. His tone of voice implies that he's got more to say and he gives Sweeney a 'hold your questions' look as he continues talking. "The Picture of Dorian Gray—it's quite popular back home. The Dorian Gray in that book is selfish and cruel. I could try to be the best person in the world—a perfect example of temperance and charity, completely unlike that Dorian Gray. But that won't change the fact that when people hear the name 'Dorian Gray', they expect certain behaviors. Some times it's easiest to give the people what they want."

He gives Sweeney a little shrug at that. Dorian's the sort to not give up all the things that make himself him.

YEAH. EXACTLY.

He smokes casually as he listens. Sweeney takes the time to reflect; to sort through the similarities and the overwhelming differences. Some things are conjecture though, so he figures he should get things clarified before continuing.

When the man is done, he takes a slow drag and holds it a moment longer.

"Was the book written 'bout you as a biography sorta thing, or did ya come from the book because it had been written?" Sweeney taps his ash. "Originally, course. I understand that it's still definin' ya.

"A biography sort of thing," Dorian explains, with a little nod. "There was a dear friend of mine—a man named Oscar Wilde. I told him about my life story and he thought that was interesting enough to make into a book."

Dorian can't help but let out a small chuckle. "He immortalized me in a way that I never could do myself."

Sweeney, however, does not chuckle. While not in a foul mood about it, his demeanor is dry.

"Yeah." He takes an idle drag. He has the feeling that there is an inherent disconnect on one of the main points.

"I came after the stories."

Dorian takes a drink of his gin, more to kill time than to do anything else. He's mulling this all over in his head, trying to decide what to say next and how to say it.

"There are always new stories," he points out. "The current stories might be about Sweeney, the miserable drunk, but give it enough time and things might shift to Sweeney, still drunk but less miserable. It's still you. It's still your nature. Just...shifted, somewhat."

Sweeney takes umbrage with being called a miserable drunk. While he is both of those things, they're not mutually inclusive. Besides, before the last few days and this fucking conversation, he had been getting better on both fronts.

Also, he hates that fucking name. Adding insult to fucking injury. Fucking English cunts.

"An' that's my fuckin' point." He rolls his eyes shut and taps his ash.

"Seems if things keep on course, I'll have at least three new stories e'ery year. More if the Floods have anythin' else ta say 'bout it." Like the last one and that fucking Frenchie.

"So what? You're more than your stories," Dorian points out, with a little shake of his head. "If you were entirely dependent on your stories, if you were always something that someone else had made you, the Admiral wouldn't bring you here to begin with."

Now that convinces Sweeney in absolutely no capacity. The Admiral's a cunt, just like any other god.

He takes a drag, his eyes fixed on Dorian.

"That so then?" Are you fucking kidding me? "Then why does he keep shovin' more stories in, if he just wants me ta make my own?"

Sweeney's very curious about his thoughts on the matter.

"Oh, I'm certain that part is because he's an idiot," Dorian says, without any hesitation.

"I mean, think about it. Why the hell would you put someone through all this nonsense if you want them to change themselves? I know the Admiral won't outright say so, but I suspect the man simply can't drive."

Sweeney's got a lung full of smoke when Dorian proposes his question, and he holds it a while into his answer.

"'Cause he's a cunt, like any other god." He releases the rest of his smoke with a roll of his eyes.

"Kid with an ant farm, lettin' us build 'til he gets bored an' shakes the fuckin' thing."

"Never attribute to malice what stupidity can perfectly solve on it's own," Dorian points out, with an annoyed little sigh. "Very few people in the universe are out and out cunts. A grand majority of them are goddamn idiots. Also, he's not a god."

His brow lifts at the audacity of the man's words. It's immediate announces that this prick has clearly not spent his extended life in service, specifically to one such cunt god. Sweeney's not gonna argue that a grand majority of folk are idiots. He knows that damn well; he's staring at one.

"How ya know he ain't a god? He tell ya on that intro pamphlet?"

"Gods have much better things to do with their time than worry exclusively about fifty or so people," Dorian says, with a cavalier little shrug. Because they do! Worrying exclusively about fifty or so people, at least in Dorian's mind, is an entirely human thing. Or, at least, a not-god-like thing. He's not going to outright assume the Admiral's human.

Sweeney can't suppress a laugh, short and sharp. He rolls his eyes and takes a drag.

"Met a lotta gods then, have ya?" Clearly, he hasn't.

"Lots are starvin' fer whate'er they can come by in the way of belief. They run diners an' factories an' fuckin' mortuaries. It doesn't take many folk if they believe hard 'nough. Like say, a boat fulla folk that turn ta him fer every fuckin' scrap they need."

"They run diners and factories and mortuaries in your world," Dorian points out. "It seems a bit silly to assume that everything here runs on the same sort of logic as where you're from."

He offers the tip of his head and a lazy blink, something like the echo of a shrug.

"Sure. But yer bein' the same sorta shit ta assume that it doesn't." Sweeney takes a drag, his eyes lingering on Dorian.

"You tell me what ya think he is then."

"A regular person," Dorian says, as if it's the most obvious thing ever. "A regular person with too much power and too much altruism, but not a god."

Sweeney arches a brow.

"When ya say 'a person', whad'ya mean? A human?" Lots of folk around here would classify as 'people'. No reason to assume.

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