This is shorter than I would have liked, but oh well.
"No, you're not, you're so far from fine that you're coming back round the other side."
"Listen-"
"No, no, you listen. Just accept that you're not always Superman."
Cal liked to think he was invincible.
Ethan wished he'd realise he was very much breakable.
Cal liked to think he was powerful.
Ethan wished he'd realise he was actually controlling.
Cal liked to think he was a hero.
Ethan wished he'd realise he was playing a dangerous game.
Cal liked to think he was always the only hero.
Ethan wished he'd realise there were others.
It's hard to tell the man who ventured into a precariously placed limo and saved a girls life that he wasn't some kind of hero.
It's hard to tell the man who - as a boy - pushed away bullies from his little brother that he wasn't some kind of hero.
It's hard to tell the man who is your brother that he wasn't some kind of hero, when he was yours.
It's hard to tell Cal almost anything.
"He's got a hero's thick skull.
He's got a hero's thick skin.
He's got a hero's thick eyelids.
He's got a hero's thick mind.
He's got a hero's will to die."
Cal liked to think he was Superman.
Ethan wished he'd realise he wasn't; always anyway.
Because he'd always be Superman to Ethan, but sometimes he had to let it be the other way round.
He had to let Ethan play Superman, and let him win.
There you go.
P.S. The italicised piece in the middle is from a poem I wrote a few years ago, so no copying please. Thanks.