To have his efforts acknowledged feels like a weight lifting from his chest. It was hard as hell, but that's okay. Little by little, he got there — he broke the surface, and now instead of thrashing, he can float. Ducking his head as a smile splits his face, Wilhelm busies himself with replacing the lid on the jar of healing stuff and slipping it into his messenger bag.

"Thanks." For validating his struggle, and complimenting his tattoo. "I guess it just felt right, and I finally thought of something I want on me for the rest of my life. If I'm going to do something my mom would kill me for, I needed to make it worth it."

This last part is only half joke.