Even as he says it, S knows it sounds stupid. If anything, somewhere under all the panic and worry, he's a little relieved that J hasn't responded more poorly, remembering too well what he said the other day about not wanting to need to be looked after like a child, an obligation. It isn't that S thinks he can't take care of himself; he would say so, if it were easier to get words out, if there weren't more pressing subjects at hand, if part of him weren't back in that hospital room, sound turning to static as he found out J was already gone. He doesn't know how to explain where this fear came from, why he feels like this; he barely even knows what like this is, unable to find words for a feeling so unfamiliar. What he does know, what he keeps trying to tell himself, as if repeating it in his head again and again might make this stop, is that J is alright now, safe and holding him, and that his presence has to matter more than any possible absence.
Whatever happens, at least they've had this, a chance to be together again, to say all the things they should have said months — years — ago, something more than that awful last meeting that left him closer to dead than not on J's floor. That was never going to be enough for him, though. Losing J once ruined him, left him a hollow, empty shell. He doesn't know how he could possibly bear losing J again, being this close but still too late.
"I know," he says, wincing guiltily against J's shoulder. "I know I can't." He didn't even consider, really, what the particular endgame for this would be. It isn't as if he could just never sleep; if anything, it's probably fortunate that he managed to stay awake as long as he did, especially with as exhausting, though good, the last few days have been. At some point, though, he figured he'd feel more settled, the danger less imminent, once J was a bit more removed from having just killed himself once and talking like he wanted to do so again. Either way, it makes no real difference when this is what's happened instead. Waking up alone shouldn't scare him this badly, but it has, and even J's reassurances only chip away at that a little. If J really wanted to be dead, after all, if it reached that point, why should he bother waking up someone who would only try to interfere with that?
It's a start, though, something to respond to when he can't begin to get his own thoughts in order, the same things looping endlessly and bouncing around in his head. So he nods, a slight, unsteady little movement between shaky breaths. "Please," he all but gasps, hating how he sounds, as lost and frightened as he feels. He should be able to keep it together better than this, but it's far too late for that now. "Even if... you don't want me to stop you. Even if —" Even if it's to say good-bye. These past minutes, or however long it's been, time seeming at once too slow and too fast, he's felt too panicked to cry, his throat and chest too tight, his breaths too shallow. That thought, though, nearly does him in, though he knows he would never just let go as easily as that, despite having meant what he said before, that he couldn't ask J to stay.
There's no easy answer here, nothing that makes sense, not even to him, never mind that he could put into words. There's just one truth he keeps coming back to, coming out of him now half-unbidden in choked little syllables. "I don't want to be too late again."
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Whatever happens, at least they've had this, a chance to be together again, to say all the things they should have said months — years — ago, something more than that awful last meeting that left him closer to dead than not on J's floor. That was never going to be enough for him, though. Losing J once ruined him, left him a hollow, empty shell. He doesn't know how he could possibly bear losing J again, being this close but still too late.
"I know," he says, wincing guiltily against J's shoulder. "I know I can't." He didn't even consider, really, what the particular endgame for this would be. It isn't as if he could just never sleep; if anything, it's probably fortunate that he managed to stay awake as long as he did, especially with as exhausting, though good, the last few days have been. At some point, though, he figured he'd feel more settled, the danger less imminent, once J was a bit more removed from having just killed himself once and talking like he wanted to do so again. Either way, it makes no real difference when this is what's happened instead. Waking up alone shouldn't scare him this badly, but it has, and even J's reassurances only chip away at that a little. If J really wanted to be dead, after all, if it reached that point, why should he bother waking up someone who would only try to interfere with that?
It's a start, though, something to respond to when he can't begin to get his own thoughts in order, the same things looping endlessly and bouncing around in his head. So he nods, a slight, unsteady little movement between shaky breaths. "Please," he all but gasps, hating how he sounds, as lost and frightened as he feels. He should be able to keep it together better than this, but it's far too late for that now. "Even if... you don't want me to stop you. Even if —" Even if it's to say good-bye. These past minutes, or however long it's been, time seeming at once too slow and too fast, he's felt too panicked to cry, his throat and chest too tight, his breaths too shallow. That thought, though, nearly does him in, though he knows he would never just let go as easily as that, despite having meant what he said before, that he couldn't ask J to stay.
There's no easy answer here, nothing that makes sense, not even to him, never mind that he could put into words. There's just one truth he keeps coming back to, coming out of him now half-unbidden in choked little syllables. "I don't want to be too late again."