hismelody | I'm on waves, out being tossed

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I'm on waves, out being tossed

Eventually, the lack of sleep was always going to catch up to him. Through three sleepless nights, or at least mostly sleepless, S knew it, exhaustion increasing, though easy enough to push past with so much else to focus on. Still, it was only ever a temporary solution at best, nothing that could have lasted much longer than it did. With that being the case, it shouldn't be such a surprise when, after that third night, on their third full day together, he hits a wall, no longer able to keep his eyes open, drifting off while sitting on the couch. He isn't expecting it all the same, though even that, he barely registers, just as he's only half-aware of J ushering him back to bed, too tired to protest or to focus on why he should.

It's different when he wakes up. S grew accustomed a long time ago to sleeping and waking up alone, though it was one of the most difficult things about all that solitude, no longer having a warm body beside him at such times. He and J shared a bed for years, even before their relationship became more than platonic, cuddling together for warmth in the one bed in their small studio when the weather began to change. Of course, he felt it then, the beginning of something more, and it wasn't all that long after that they admitted their feelings for each other, but they spent ages like that. Even when they fought, even when J would barely speak to him, he still had the anchor of J's presence at his side, the distance sometimes easier to breach that way. It was comforting, always, but like so much else, he never thought he would lose it until he did.

He had months, though, after J left, after J died. At some point, following the former, it just became routine, as sad and empty as everything else about his life, J's absence as tangible as it ever was to be with him. It shouldn't, then, have taken only three nights to change that. They've hardly been apart in that time, though, save for brief moments of one going into another room for something or other. He's spent every night holding J as he slept, so overwhelmingly grateful to be able to do so, determined to do anything in his power to keep him safe.

So, when S wakes up distinctly alone, disoriented and unaware even of how long he's been asleep, the first thing he feels is cold, sheer terror.

For moments — sometimes hours, even — at a time, he's managed not to dwell on it. It's always been there, though, never too far from his thoughts, always ready to creep back in, the memory of how J sounded that first day on his couch, what S was so fucking scared he might do, J's promise not to stay, but to try. Even that was more than S could have asked for, and yet he knows it's not a guarantee, either. And while the past couple of days have been good more often than not, there's no telling what might happen with J alone, left to his own thoughts. Believing that a couple of decent days would be enough to override all that darkness would be entirely too naïve, even for S; it isn't as if he ever stood a chance against it before, and things are far worse now than they ever were then, even if, in some ways, they're better, too. He doesn't know how long it's been, he doesn't know what might have happened, and it's too much, his chest so tight that it feels like he can't breathe. Despite still being tired and out of sorts, it takes him only moments to pull himself out of bed, trying not to move quite as frantically as he feels but unable to take his time about it.

Not so very long ago at all, he woke up to find out, not very long after, that J was already gone. Now, as he moves out of the bedroom and down the hall, he silently prays to whatever deities might exist that he won't be too late again. He only just got J back. He isn't at all ready to lose him again.

He's dimly aware of a few things — muffled noise that he can't distinguish, the fact that the bathroom door is still open and the light off, which is something of a relief in its own right, though he doesn't really feel it until he rounds the corner and sees J sitting on the couch, watching TV. Overwhelmed and breathless, trembling with worry, he presses his free hand to his chest, the other resting against the wall for support he's surprised to realize how much he needs. "You're alright," he finally manages to say, though it's more to himself than anything else, his voice so small he's not even sure it will be fully audible over the sound of whatever J is watching. He doesn't care, just taking in the sight of him, mercifully alive and alright, relief mingling with the panic he can't yet shake off.

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"Are there really so many of them?" S asks, pulling a face in largely feigned displeasure. Before J got here, he hadn't used the TV at all, even though it occurred to him that it might be useful when he's so far removed from the English classes he took in school, even though he's had plenty of time on his hands. He doesn't know who would be watching shows like these, about people forcing their families into such small houses or anything else equally ridiculous, but then, J does make a good point. If he needs to be angry at something, that seems like it might not be a terrible option, though S doesn't know if it would actually provide enough of an outlet. Still, while he doesn't want to say so outright, it sounds preferable to J turning that anger towards him instead, like he so often used to.

Dishes retrieved, he pauses for a moment, taking a breath, trying to figure out if there's anything else he can get done while they're up. He turns toward J as he does, though, with another little ghost of a smile. "I can't believe you've been here two whole days and you've already used the phone and the TV more than I have."

J huffs out a laugh, stepping in closer as S turns toward him, reaching out to curl his fingers in S's shirt. "The phone barely," he says. Tipping his head up, he brushes a kiss against S's cheek. "And I only turned on the TV for something to do."

For something to occupy him, really, to keep his head busy while S slept. He doesn't think he was in danger tonight of doing any harm to himself, but it's unpredictable, and he could feel himself getting restless, thoughts starting to circle. It was better, he figured, to distract himself by any means than to try and face all of that head on by himself. Maybe it didn't shut anything out completely, but it helped to have the background noise. None of that feels like something he should tell S now, though. He just smiles a little wider, wrinkling up his nose. "You're not missing out on much."

"It doesn't sound like it," S says with a quiet laugh of his own, staying close when J reaches for his shirt. It's hard to mind that, really, when it did make for a good distraction as he was first coming down from all that panic, but it still doesn't exactly sound good. J having been so frustrated by it is cute though, really, incredibly endearing. Watching some of these terrible shows just to see J get invested in them doesn't sound like a bad way to spend an hour or two. Then again, inseparable though they've been since J first got here, he wouldn't mind anything that involves just the two of them spending time together.

Leaning in, he presses a soft kiss to the corner of J's mouth. "I think the tea should be almost ready." As much as he finds it helps, at least in an obviously temporary way, to keep himself busy, to find little tasks to focus on, he really just wants to curl up for a while until their food gets here, exhausted from both lack of sleep and from the intensity of what he felt when he woke up.

J tips his head instinctively after S's, seeking out another kiss, smiling as he draws back again. "Probably," he agrees. He hasn't really kept any track of time, more focused on S than on any drink, but he's probably right. It smells good, anyway, and J's ready to get back to the couch. The food won't take too long, but it'll be long enough they can cuddle for a while, at least, and talk a bit if S feels up to it.

He nudges gently at S's chest, directing him toward the counter, though he maintains his hold on S's shirt until he can't reasonably continue. Finally, reluctantly, he lets go, stepping away to find the sugar for his tea and a spoon. He's ready to take care of adjusting it to their tastes, but thinks better of it. Better to give S something to do, he decides, holding out the spoon. "I remember yours," he says playfully. "Do you remember mine?" He's sure S does, but it's better than S just standing around while he messes with sugar and discarding tea bags and such.

At that, S shoots J a look, equal parts incredulous and fond, as if it ought to be obvious even as he clearly doesn't mind answering. "Of course I do," he says with a slight shake of his head, voice warm. All those months he was alone, it was like living with a ghost, even before J was actually dead. That little studio was the place they started really building a life together, and memories of J were everywhere, even in the most mundane of tasks. When they'd once done everything together, there wasn't anything he could do that didn't make him think of J. Put like that, of course he never moved on. Pathetic as he may so often have felt for it, he never wanted to. He knows now that he was right about that, too.

Taking the spoon from J, he pulls the tea bags from the cups, then sets about fixing J's tea the way he remembers him liking it, glancing up a moment later, as he starts on his own. "Well?" he asks, though he's fairly confident that he's right about this. Some things — so many things — are just too deeply ingrained in him to forget. "How did I do?"

Even if S had gotten it completely wrong somehow, J would have considered the effort a success. It's a good distraction, at least, enough to keep S occupied. He looks so cute like this, focused and sure. J doesn't really have to taste it to know it's right — he didn't even need to watch, though he did — but he reaches for his mug anyway. Blowing gently, he takes a tiny sip, careful in case it's still too hot.

It is, a bit, though not enough to scald, but the sip is mostly for show anyway. "Perfect," he says, his smile softening. He sets the cup down again so he can slip his arms around S's waist, stepping in close to kiss his cheek. Even though he set the challenge, so to speak, with the certainty that S would know, there's something really very soothing about that being the case. He gets it now, he thinks, why S was moved by it before. Even having had some expectation of it, he's touched. "Just as I like it."

Although he was reasonably confident that would be the case, S is still pleased and relieved both to have confirmation that he got it right. If nothing else, it would have been embarrassing to be wrong after having said that he knew, and given how much it's meant to him to have J remember such things, it's nice to be able to do the same in turn. Besides, there was always a chance that J started drinking it differently in the time he was gone, though S doesn't really think that he would have presented the challenge the way he did, setting him up to fall short of it, if that were the case.

He smiles, faint but visible, as he wraps his arms around J in turn, leaving his own cup on the counter for the moment. Ready as he is to go sit down until their food gets here, he doesn't want to be the one to pull away, too reassured by being able to hold onto J when he still feels somewhat adrift. "Good," he says, leaning in to kiss him gently. "I was hoping it would be."

That smile is as comforting as the kiss, as how sweet it is to be remembered and known. J wants to curl into him, to nestle close. He only just holds himself back. It'll be better on the couch where they can really relax. Still, he lingers a moment more, tugging S in for another kiss first.

"I knew it would be," he murmurs as he eases back. He's ready to take S's hands in his own and lead him back to the couch, but then he remembers there's still tea to carry and settles for reaching for just one of S's hands. "Let's go sit, okay?" He tucks his phone under his arm and picks up his mug again, waiting for S to grab his, too, before he starts for the couch. "Come cuddle up with me, Hyunie."

He's not quite used to having to juggle so many things. Unwilling as he is to let go of S's hand, it takes some maneuvering to get his tea safely on the table without dropping his phone. Once he's managed it, he sits before putting his phone on the table too, so he won't have to pull away if he needs it for the delivery.

S doesn't need any more encouragement than that, nodding in agreement, his fingers curling around J's as he reaches for his cup with his free hand. Even though they're hardly going far, just that slight contact is still grounding, an anchor when he still feels unsteady, or like he could too easily be. It's better than it was by far, for which he's more grateful than he knows how to say, but it isn't as easy as just putting it all behind him. Whatever it was that just happened to him was more lasting, more intense, than that. He may not understand it, really, but that much, he can tell, apparent in the way he still has to focus to keep his breathing steady, a lingering tightness in his chest, his nerves still frayed.

He feels almost guilty for it, when he knows he's already worried J more than he should have and doesn't want to make it worse by being too obviously unable to shake this off completely, but he remembers J saying that the same thing has happened to him before. That whole conversation, though only a few minutes ago, is hazy now; that much, though, stands out. S is sure he's seen J in similar states before, never knowing what to do about it, how to help. No matter how much it ever worried him, though, he had no idea it felt like that, so terrifying and inescapable that he might have thought he was dying if he weren't too aware of what dying feels like. Though it hurts badly to think of J feeling that way, there's an odd sort of reassurance in knowing that he might understand even what S wouldn't know how to understand.

Saying any of that, though, feels like too much, as if bringing it up again could risk sending him back into that panic. He has no doubt that they'll have to talk about it, that it isn't something they'll just let go of, no matter how much he wishes they could, but all the same, he can't bring himself to mention it. He stays close, though, as he takes a seat on the couch, tucked against J's side, grateful for this, too. "This is nice," he says, soft and absent.

J leans back against the couch, draping his arm around S, pulling him close. "It is," he says, reaching for S's hand with his free one, idly weaving their fingers together. Not very long ago, though, it was awful. Now that things have settled again, he's more acutely aware of it. As much as he hates when that happens to him, as horrible as it feels, it's unsettling to have seen S experience something similar. He never wanted that. There was so much he wished S understood, but he never wanted it like this.

He brushes a kiss against S's hair, closing his eyes for a moment. "I'm glad you woke up," he admits. "But if you're still tired, you can go back to sleep soon, if you want. After we eat, I can come sit in there with you."

Since he arrived, S has been unflagging, always there, and J has been grateful for that. He's needed that more than he once did. But, though he's sometimes seemed a bit tired, he's also seemed okay, sleeping curled up together. Today hasn't exactly been more than usually strenuous, but it's also been a long few days, and maybe that explains the way exhaustion seemed to overcome him earlier. J doesn't think it can have been more than a few hours, though, maybe less, and if S is really that tired, he should get more rest. As badly as he wants to take care of S, seeing him like that earlier has only amplified that desire, as if, if he tries hard enough, he could protect S from feeling like that. "You were so cute, though," he murmurs, "just nodding off like that."

Head ducking a little, S smiles self-consciously at that, faint but visible. He feels somewhat guilty for it now, of all things, though it isn't as if he could have helped it or as if there's anything wrong with falling asleep. He's the one who wound up so shaken as a result. Still, J wouldn't have had to worry about him if not for that, and he's sure it would only be worse if he admitted the truth of it, that he hasn't slept since J got here for fear of something happening if he did. At least now, he doesn't think that will be as much of a problem. It was only ever going to be a short-term solution anyway, and all he can do is take J's word for it that he'd wake him up if things got that bad. He'll drive himself crazy otherwise, wear himself out even more than he has already, and it wouldn't be fair to either one of them. He remembers too well what J said the other day about not wanting to need to be taken care of, and S doesn't want to make it seem like he thinks J needs to be constantly monitored, like he can't be left alone. It isn't like that at all. S's own fear is the reason for it, and that's something he knows he has to learn to live with.

"I must've been more tired than I thought," he says, soft and sheepish. It's true, if not exactly the whole truth. He knew he would have to sleep eventually, but he hadn't expected just to start dozing off the way he did. He probably should go back to bed after they eat, but he's not sure now if he could, no matter how exhausted he is, and he wouldn't want J to be stuck just sitting in the bedroom for however long anyway. "I'll see how I feel after we eat, I guess. Right now, it's..." He pulls a slight face, nose crinkling. "It's like it wore me out but woke me up at the same time."

He doesn't want to talk about it, hesitates to say something even so vague. They both know what happened, though, at least inasmuch as he understands what happened to him at all, and there's only so much talking around it he can do. His expression softens a moment later, something uncertain in his eyes as he looks at J. "Is that normal?"

It's strange to be on this side of things. J really never expected it, never would have considered any of the things he feels to be normal. Maybe other people experience that kind of thing, but he doesn't really know. He's never had anyone to talk to about it, and he's certainly never known anyone else who knew how it felt, or at least who admitted to it. Like so much else, he just assumed it wasn't something wrong with him. To have S look at him like this, asking this — maybe it is normal. Maybe it's more so than J knew. If S felt it, too, then it is, at least, not something specific to himself.

He can't see S look to him like this and not want to reassure him. For once, it feels almost like a good thing to have had these attacks. Nodding, he leans close to kiss S's cheek. "It is for me," he says. "I don't know if other people feel that too. It's exhausting, but..." He hesitates only to try and figure out how to put it into words, glancing around as if he might be able to pull them out of the air. It isn't long, though, before he looks back to S again. He can't look away from him for long. Squeezing S's hand gently, he frowns. "Ah, it's like getting ready to fight something. Even if I know it's okay, it's like my body doesn't know that. Like I have to be ready. Even after it mostly stops. It takes a while to go away."

He shakes his head, rueful. "I wish you didn't have to know that," he murmurs. It's a terrible thing to live with, something he never really gets used to, the terror fresh every time, and somehow harder to stop for his knowing that it's almost always irrational. It hurts to know that S understands that firsthand, when J would give anything to be able to protect him from things like that.

Whether it's how other people feel or not, S doesn't particularly care. It's enough to know that J understands what he means, even as it hurts, too, to think about him in such a state. Before, it was bad enough to see, to know that something was happening but not what, to be so helpless in the face of what J was going through. Now that he's felt what's apparently something similar, though, it's that much worse — less frightening, for having had someone to talk him through it and help him with it now, but more upsetting. With a slight frown, he nods in agreement, giving J's hand a gentle squeeze in turn.

"I wish you didn't, either," he says, soft and apologetic, letting his head rest against J's shoulder again. "I never knew that's what it was like. I knew... it was bad, but..." But it was so much worse than he could have imagined. He can't say that, though, not in so many words. Already he must have worried J more than enough, too much. Emphasizing just how awful it felt — feels still, really, though in a far more distant way, no longer half as present and overwhelming but the effects of it lingering all the same — wouldn't do either of them any good. If he thought it were remotely possible, he wouldn't want to talk about any of it at all, but since he's sure that's not an option, he might as well do all he can not to make it worse than it already is.

Most of what else he could say, then, he decides against. He doubts an apology would go over all that well, anyway, though it would be entirely genuine. J has more than enough to deal with as it is without having to worry about him, too. Instead, he exhales slowly, thumb brushing the back of J's hand. "Having you here helps, though."

He used to wonder a lot why he has to live like this and just what's wrong with him that he feels this way. After the last few months, though, it's mattered less than the other things he did, and felt more like a punishment for being someone he didn't even know he was, still awful but somehow justified. It's been so long that not feeling that way doesn't seem like an option anymore or something to wish away, a flicker of hurt stirring when S does it for him. It isn't fair for him to feel it either, he thinks. It's been a while since he thought as much.

Lifting their entwined hands, he presses a kiss to S's, then turns his head to brush one against his hair. "I'm not going anywhere," he murmurs. "I'm right here." If all he can do is be at S's side, then that's what he'll do. Not being able to do much else hurts, too, but he knows how helpless he is to fight his own panic. If he had a way of doing so, he'd teach S or do it for him, something, anything to put this right. But this is it, all he can do, holding him close. "I love you. I..."

He sighs, uncertain. It is bad, worse than he ever knew how to describe, not least given how foolish he always feels during and after, unable to explain how he can be entirely paralyzed by a fear that he knows is extreme. Even when it's warranted, it's often so much more than it needs to be, and that only makes it harder to push through. It's always felt easier to try and brush it off afterwards or just not to talk about it. That isn't really an option now. "It is bad. It stays bad. The only helpful part is that now I know what's happening when it starts. Still feels like..."

Like he's dying, he means to say, and swallows it back, shaking his head. It won't help to use those words.

"Like that," S finishes for him, nodding slightly. He's not sure if that's what J meant to say, but it isn't as if he knows how to describe that feeling. At least he doesn't have to try. As much as he hates that this is something J is so familiar with, he would have been so much more lost without someone to talk him through it, someone who understands. He hadn't known what was happening to him at first. He can only imagine how much more terrifying that would have been if he'd been on his own, or if J hadn't experienced the same thing too. It feels a little strange to think about something so awful and consider that it could have been worse, but it's true. At least if this had to happen at all, it did so in the best way it could. At least J was and is still here, despite how terrified he was in those first minutes after waking up.

Exhaling slowly, he nestles just a little closer to J, still clasping his hand. Even now, it's hard to know what to say and what to hold back. He could tell J that was the first time that happened to him, but it wouldn't be quite true, and he doesn't want to talk about the others, to risk saying more than he already has about finding out that J died. He could apologize again, and it would feel warranted to him, but he doubts J would agree. He could try to dismiss his reaction as irrational, but it isn't as if that fear is going anywhere just because J was alright this time around. It's something he has to learn to handle instead, if he does get that chance.

"I don't know if that makes sense," he settles on instead, "to wish you didn't know what it feels like but be glad you were there to help. But I guess sense doesn't have all that much to do with it anyway."

"No, it makes sense," J says, quick but still soft, thumb brushing gently along S's side where his hand rests. "I... I wish I didn't know either. But... if you have to know too... at least you don't have to go through it alone." He doesn't want it, and he could never say he does, but it helps, a little, to have this. It almost feels like there's a point to something he knows is entirely pointless even so. He would never have wished this on S, but he would have done anything not to feel so alone with it himself, trying to understand what was happening to him, then living by himself with it. If he can spare S that much, it's worth something at least.

And still part of him wants to apologize. He knows it can't be true, but still some tiny, irrational voice in his head suggests it's his fault, that his madness is somehow catching. That can't be true. He knows it can't be true. It wouldn't make any sense. If such things were contagious, he wouldn't have had to figure it out by himself, and S would have caught it long ago. That isn't how it works. It still takes a moment for him to be able to swallow back the apology.

"Sense has almost nothing to do with it," he adds, still quiet. "Sometimes nothing at all." It's hard to know just what he wants to say. Instinctively he knows this isn't S's fault, that he can't be blamed for feeling what he feels or for what his body does. That's just how these things work. But it's difficult to put that into words when it's not what he would say to himself, almost entirely the opposite. "Even when it does, even when you have a reason to be afraid, it's just... overpowering. It eats away at everything." He hesitates, worrying at his lower lip, glancing over at S. He looks so sweet like this, tucked into J's side, and all J wants is to protect him, to find some way to undo this. "You were scared something happened to me?" He frowns at himself, shakes his head slightly. "Scared I did something."

Even just that much, unspecific though it is, is more than S wants to say, to acknowledge. If he thought he could pretend that wasn't the case, he might just do so, or would at least be tempted. He's already alluded to it, though, and at the time, he couldn't not, still too caught up in that overwhelming panic, even if he couldn't bring himself to state it outright then, either. Now, all he can do is nod, frowning as he does, unable to hide how guilty he feels just for the fact of that. It feels painfully unfair, having to lay this on J's shoulders, too, to make J worry about the effect that his unhappiness might have. S has known from the start that this might not last, after all. J's promise wasn't to stay, but to try, and it would be painfully naïve to assume that those things will be one and the same. He wants it more than he thinks he's ever wanted anything, and he means to do whatever he can to help J, but no matter how good the past few days have been, the things that happened still happened. J couldn't live with it before. S spent too long mourning him — was too terrified the other day — not to be distinctly aware of that.

"It sounds stupid now," he says, quiet and a little self-deprecating. It's mostly true. Warranted as that fear, the awareness of that possibility, might be, there wasn't any reason for it to overtake him the way it did, for him to have so quickly snapped to worrying about that. "It's not like anything happened to make me think you were about to... But I woke up and suddenly that was all I could think, was what if you had. I don't know."

Somewhat removed from it now, still shaken but no longer caught up in being so afraid, he doesn't know how to explain it in any way that makes sense when it hardly makes sense even to him. He knows where the feeling comes from, but not the intensity of it and not just what happened, his reaction to it as unnerving as anything else. And though just saying this seems like too much, he suspects it would be worse if he held it all back. They've spent too much time not talking as it is, and for him to stay silent about it seems like it could be even more worrying.

It hurts to think about, as if his entire self is aching with the knowledge that this isn't something he can fix. As badly as J wants to make it so S never feels that way again, he can't. He doesn't know if it was some strange, one-off occurrence or something that will happen again, and he has no way of stopping it. Even if he could tell S honestly that he isn't in any danger, it might not stop the fear. It's not something he can say truthfully now anyway. As much as he doesn't want S to be scared, he promised to be honest about this.

He spent a long time keeping that kind of thing from S — how bad the anxiety was, how often he felt both helpless and hopeless, how many times he caught himself thinking that he just wanted to be done or even dead. There were a lot of reasons for that, complicated and not all entirely rational, but this was one of them. He didn't want S to have to take on that burden. It helped drive them apart though, and he intends to keep his promise, as hard as it is to do.

"It's not stupid," he says, quiet, a little ashamed to have to say so. "It happens like that sometimes. Sudden, so you can't think about anything else. And... I've given you a lot of reason to worry." He's been so much happier these last few days than he knew he could be, but that doesn't make all of it go away. He was a mess for a long time before he killed anyone, and the crimes he committed aren't something he can forget or pretend away. He hasn't talked about it very much at all, but it's still there. If he sleeps better now, it's because he doesn't have to do so alone, and because he's been able to exhaust himself enough not to leave much room for spirits he knows can't possibly be real. Trying to push it all to the side can only work for so long, and he has no idea what he'll do once that stops being enough. "I wish I could tell you not to."

There's no simple fix for this, no magic cure for the panic that overcomes him sometimes, or for the pain or numbness. If he hasn't found one yet, he doubts he ever will. "I really do feel a lot better," he says. "Being with you... it helps so much. And I don't... I don't want that. I don't want to hurt myself. I promise, when it hurts like that, if I think I might, if I even think I want to, I'll tell you. Even if you're asleep or not here, I'll tell you. I... I really want this. More than anything."

As before, it's more than S could ask for, as much of a comfort as it's probably possible to get. They've talked about it enough — he's spent time enough with J — to know that whatever is inside him that makes him feel the way he does isn't just going to get better, and especially given some of what they've said these past few days, he doesn't want even to make it seem like he might believe otherwise. Of course he wants J to be happy, but happiness is hardly a condition of his wanting to be here. He's known since they decided to get back together that it wouldn't be easy and it might not last, and still there's nowhere else he would be. Whatever happens, he has to try. For the most part, since that first day, when he was so afraid that he might be about to lose J all over again, he's felt like it might just work, too, that they might actually stand a chance. He's not sure how he so suddenly wound up in such a panic over it instead, except that he's not sure that fear ever actually went anywhere. It just got pushed to the background while he focused on other, better things.

"I do, too," he murmurs, nodding a little without pulling away. "More than anything. I think... that's why it scared me so much. At least in part." Even as he says it, he feels a little guilty again. It's the most disingenuous thing he's said so far — not an outright lie, but not entirely true, either. That fear doesn't belong in the past tense at all. What J says helps quite a bit, but it's still there, too present to dismiss, a possibility that still terrifies him. It's worth it, though. Everything they've ever had to face to be together always has been, from hiding to J's moods to this. Nothing, he is absolutely certain, could ever change that.

And maybe J wishes he could tell him not to worry — maybe S wishes he could, too — but it has to be better that he doesn't. It means so much to be able to talk like this again, and if J really didn't want to be here anymore, if he were thinking about ending it again, he could just tell S there's no cause for concern and let that be that. In a strange way, for J to acknowledge it instead is promising even as it hurts, too, S's chest aching from more than just his earlier breathlessness.

"Anytime, you can tell me," he adds, just as soft, almost a question. "I don't know if I'll be able to help, but... at least I can be there. I want to be." J shut him out for so long. It means the world to be let back in again. "Even though I got so scared just now. I would still rather know than not."

All his life, J thinks, it's been that way to some extent, the persistent pain of knowing what he wants, of not knowing if he can ever have it. To know so young what he wanted from his life seemed like a good thing at first, something that gave him an edge. It meant he could start sooner, pursue his dreamer harder, get better at it than anyone else. In the end, he thinks, it might have broken him, too, or pushed him further than he could handle. Not even the dream itself, really, or knowing as a child what he dreamed of, but the knowledge that he would have to work twice as hard as anyone else for what he wanted, even if he was already twice as talented. And then even that confidence was gone.

Holding S like this, he knows what he wants. Maybe more than he's ever wanted anything, he wants this, just to be with the man he loves for as long as he can get. If he has to suffer, if the pain and the fear come back in full, he'll bear it. He was an idiot to think he could ever give up on S, on them. It was easier to cut into his own flesh than to cut S out of his heart. And he still hopes, more than he has in years; he's optimistic to a degree he no longer believed he could be. That still comes with worry and nerves, but it's there all the same. He feels better now than he can remember feeling in a long time, and even if that stops being true, it has to be better to be miserable alongside S than to be without him — than to abandon him again.

"I know, darling," he murmurs, leaning his head against S's. He wants again to apologize for the way he was before, but he bites it back. They both know he was terrible. Repeating apologies every time he's reminded of it won't make a difference. He has to do better, that's all. "I..." He takes a slow, deep breath and lets it out again, steadying himself. "I don't like it. Knowing it hurts you. It's hard to do that. But... I don't want to hide things from you either. And I know you'd rather know, so... But even if all you can do is be with me... I didn't know how much that would help."

He should have tried sooner. As much as he's trying not to get dragged down by guilt and regret, he can't pretend that isn't true either. It's not a mistake he intends to repeat. "I want to help you too," he adds softly. "If you'll let me. I know it's hard to talk about, but... I'd rather know too."

Although he has no doubt that J means it — that he wouldn't be saying such things if he didn't — S still has a hard time believing it could be true that he could help that much, even just by being here. He never could before, after all, and no matter how different things may be this time around, he doesn't really see how he can stand a chance when there's so much more for J to try to contend with now. That won't stop him from doing all he can, but it's still a daunting thought. Right now, though, he doesn't want to say that. He's said enough that's come close to that the past few days, and when he still feels so unsettled, much calmer now but left rattled by this whole turn of events, he would rather try to take what J's said as the comfort it seems intended to be. They'll have more time later for him to convey anything of the sort, if it even seems necessary to do so at all.

Maybe it isn't fair to hold that back when J has just said that he wants to help him too, but it's all that makes sense. To have needed to be held and soothed through that awful panic, to be so unsteady still, curled close as if needing the continued physical reminder of J's safety, is more than enough to ask for now. It still doesn't sit well with him anyway, for him to need to be comforted because of J's unhappiness. Over and over again, this keeps happening, or so it seems. This time, though, there really wasn't anything else he could have done. Logic made little difference, his reaction too visceral, too impossible to control. At least J seems to understand that, though S still hates that it's something with which he has to be so familiar. It always seemed bad enough before, seeing J in a similar state, but now that he's experienced something comparable himself, S knows how much worse it is than he ever thought. Probably ridiculously, he wants to apologize for that now, but he bites it back. There's enough else for him to respond to, and chances are, they'd just wind up talking themselves in circles anyway.

"I want to let you," he says instead, after weighing his words for a moment. Even that — choosing the extent of his honesty — makes him feel a little guilty again, but it is true. As much as it means for J to be letting him in again, he wants to do the same in turn. There was a time when he told J everything. He missed that as much as anything else when things started to change between them, when J grew increasingly distant and then left. It's just hard to feel like he can say some of it now, to let himself be taken care of while he's trying to take care of J. "It is hard. To talk about. I don't... want you to have to worry about me on top of everything else." A lot has happened in the past year, though. J isn't the only one of them who's changed, both of them, S thinks, scarred beyond the marks on their bodies. "I missed it, though. Being able to talk to you."

J shakes his head, hugging S just a little tighter. "That's what I thought too," he points out, faster than he means to. When it's about his own feelings, it's harder just to say things, even if he's working on that. But when it's S's wellbeing at stake, it's hard not to say it, and he doesn't see a reason to, once he's blurted it out.

"It was hard, it's still hard," he says. "Telling you things that will make you worry. I always told myself, ah, it's not important enough, or 'He has so much to handle, I can't do that to him,' or 'I don't want him to worry, I can handle it,' and I couldn't. And you worried anyway." Now he hesitates, drawing in a deep breath. Now that he's said it, he's not sure he likes it, true though it is. Even if he's right, he doesn't want S to think that this bout of panic means he's crazy too or that J thinks he'll be like he is. "I don't — I know it isn't the same. But if it's like this or if it's like what's wrong with me or if it's something else..."

Again he leans his head against S's and sighs. "I'd rather worry about you," he says, "than you do things alone. I can handle it, please. Worrying about myself is exhausting. Let me have something else to think about." He should have known better back then. He can't stop thinking about that, how he should have known S would feel this way, too, that he'd want to be there for him, no matter how much they both had to deal with already. In the same way he doesn't want to make that mistake again, he doesn't want to let S make it either. Even if it's just this one time that S feels this way, there will be more problems, more pain, in their future, and it hurts to think of S trying to carry that by himself.

Put like that, S knows that J is right, that he has to be. He could so easily say the same thing himself, and it isn't any kind of fair for him to ask something of J that he isn't willing to give in turn. He can't help, though, the part of him that remains convinced that it's different. They've both been through so much, but it has been, in his opinion, far worse for J, who's also the one of them who died, who has all that guilt to shoulder now. Adding to that feels as awful as secrecy would, maybe even worse. He should be able to handle this on his own. Aware though he is that it doesn't really work like that, it's hard to get that thought out of his head, not least because he's been handling it on his own. Granted, he's not sure he was doing so very well, and it was strictly out of necessity, having no one left he could turn to even if he wanted to, but he still was, and would have continued doing so if not for this place.

Quiet a moment, he weighs his words, trying to figure out how to say what he wants to, breathing in deep. It still takes more effort than it should to do so, or perhaps he's just overly conscious of it when it felt so difficult to breathe at all just a short while ago, but he manages both with at least a middling degree of success. "I don't want you to have to worry about me... worrying about you," he says slowly, an amendment to his earlier statement, wincing at how awkward it sounds. He can't think of any better way to put it, though. It's one thing for J to worry about him, too, to be here for him as he has in the past, like after his parents died. It's another, S thinks, for his own concerns to feed into J's, when he knew perfectly well that he would have them and accepted that without a second thought.

Still curled close, he huffs out a little sigh — not a protest or a disagreement, exactly, when he knows that he can't argue J's point, just thoughtful. "I love you," he murmurs, and then, in the interest of honesty, adds, "and I am... so fucking terrified of losing you again." Even as he speaks, mostly calm though he sounds, he holds J a little more tightly in turn, as if doing so might keep him here. "But I chose this. I choose it still. And I don't want what I feel about what you might be feeling just to add to that weight for you."

As impatient as J can be, as much as silence sometimes worries him, he waits, making himself stay quiet while S figures out his response. Once he does, all J can do at first is hold him close, nodding against S's hair. "Darling," he murmurs, low and fond and a little sad all at once. He squeezes S's hand gently and kisses his hair, sighing quietly. There's a lot he could say to that — so much that he isn't entirely sure where to begin. He already worries about everything, he wants to say. He'd rather worry about what he knows than what he doesn't.

That, though, important though it is, doesn't feel like the thing he most needs to address. "I love you," he says quietly. "And I'm scared of that too. I'm scared." He means to say more, but for a moment, that's all that comes out, his breath catching at saying it aloud. It's hardly a confession when S has to know it already, but when S has already been so upset, it feels almost as unfair to say it as to hold it back. It's only been a few days, hardly even that, and he's still trying to come to terms with so much. That S loves him this much, self-evident as that might be, still awes him, even as it makes his heart ache. It's a good ache mostly, but there's a weight to it, too, so maybe S isn't entirely wrong. He wants so badly to be able to give S whatever he wants, to live at his side for decades to come. It's hard to know how badly S must hurt, too, and not be able to give an honest answer that will put his fears to rest.

"I'll worry anyway," he says. "Whatever you tell me or don't tell me. I don't want to leave you." Try as he might to be the calm one here, to stay collected and strong for S's sake, he can't help it if his voice shakes a little. "I get scared I won't be strong enough. When I've messed up in so many ways..." Even as he says it, he's trying to find the words to express what he's only felt and hasn't yet articulated even for himself. "The things I did... the things I feel... they won't just go away. You can't just shield me from how you feel for the rest of our lives. I'm choosing you too, aren't I?"

It's strange, or it should be, how much calmer S becomes when he feels J's breath hitch, hears the waver in his voice. It hurts for him to sound like this and to be saying such things, but it's far easier for S to try to pull himself together on J's behalf than on his own, even if he isn't sure at first which part to respond to. J is once again right, and he knows it. They both chose this, not just him, and no matter how much he wants to protect J from as much as he can, especially when there's so much he can't shield him from, they're both aware of what happened before and what might happen still. S can't pretend that isn't so any more than he can pretend to be unaffected by it. He can try, at least, to temper that fear somewhat and hopefully avoid any more incidents like this one, but it's all still there.

He should say that, maybe, but it's something else he seizes on instead, drawing back only just enough to meet J's eyes, one hand coming to rest gently against his cheek. "You're so much stronger than you think you are," he murmurs, at once both affectionate and melancholy, deeply earnest, perhaps even the slightest bit awed. It may be a different sort of strength than most people would expect, but S sees it all the same; he always has, since the first day they met, with J fighting back against his childhood bullies in the schoolyard. The things he's had to contend with since then, S may not understand, but he does know, is absolutely certain, that it takes strength to face them.

He knows, too, that if J can't do it after all, it won't be for any lack thereof. With all he has to bear, it would be understandable, no matter how heartbreaking, no matter how desperately S means to try to prevent it from coming to that. None of it is anything he knows how to put into words, not least when he's still unsteady and exhausted, and when he doesn't want to risk it coming out wrong. That's happened to him far too often with J, and it would probably be counterproductive as far as trying to help him stay is concerned.

"I know you're choosing me too," he says instead, sighing as he does, a little apologetic. "And I know... I can't ask you to talk to me and not do the same. I don't want to not talk to you. I just... have to keep telling myself it won't make things worse, I guess."

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