S doesn't know if that will still be true once the newness of this, the rush of being reunited, has worn off. He doesn't know if they'll have any kind of future at all, a thought that makes his breath catch once more, though at least he doesn't start gasping again. Still, all of that aside, right now, it sounds like something he's been wishing he could hear for years, something that was always true for him, that he long ago stopped thinking was true for J, too. And he was fine with that. He can't fault J for being ambitious, even if he never really understood the extent of it, just like he doesn't think J understood his lack of it. He doesn't need the rest not to matter as long as he matters, too. After everything, though, to have wound up here, wanting the same things, regardless of how out of reach they might be, it's deeply moving, and he's far too tired, all his emotions too close to the surface already, to pretend otherwise.
"That's all that matters to me, too," he says, his voice still soft, at least in part to try to mask the way it wavers. It's nice, dreaming about a house with a yard and trees, a future he would like for himself and to be able to give them, but he would be happy with J even in a studio the size of their last one, or some ridiculous, pointless tiny house. Where doesn't matter as long as it's them. That they could somehow find each other across worlds and lifetimes and start again in a place as insane as this seems like proof of that, an oddly comforting thought when he's still so rattled, something to cling to, to hope for. Whatever the future holds, he doesn't care, as long as J is still in it.
Saying that seems too close to what had him so upset only just a few minutes ago, though, what he's still trying to shake off. Focusing on this imaginary future feels much better. "No kids, though," he agrees. "And probably no pets." He wants to add that they at least shouldn't get one that would climb on a piano, but decides against it. All of this is theoretical anyway; there's no need. "Just us. A yard. Somewhere quiet."
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"That's all that matters to me, too," he says, his voice still soft, at least in part to try to mask the way it wavers. It's nice, dreaming about a house with a yard and trees, a future he would like for himself and to be able to give them, but he would be happy with J even in a studio the size of their last one, or some ridiculous, pointless tiny house. Where doesn't matter as long as it's them. That they could somehow find each other across worlds and lifetimes and start again in a place as insane as this seems like proof of that, an oddly comforting thought when he's still so rattled, something to cling to, to hope for. Whatever the future holds, he doesn't care, as long as J is still in it.
Saying that seems too close to what had him so upset only just a few minutes ago, though, what he's still trying to shake off. Focusing on this imaginary future feels much better. "No kids, though," he agrees. "And probably no pets." He wants to add that they at least shouldn't get one that would climb on a piano, but decides against it. All of this is theoretical anyway; there's no need. "Just us. A yard. Somewhere quiet."