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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It isn't that S doesn't know that, at least on some level. It's just that it's strange to hear it, especially coming from J. He's gotten through it all because he had to, too aware of the weight of all of it and how awful the last few months have been, but persisting because there was nothing else to do. Given that, he didn't spend a lot of time thinking about it in those terms, as going through a lot, even when he's considered his lingering grief. Or maybe he's just gotten too used to loss. Either way, having it put like that now gives it an unexpected perspective, his brow furrowing slightly, though he doesn't lift his head yet. He almost wants to protest — that he's the one who lived, that while he might have been alone for months, at least he wasn't carrying the guilt and deep-rooted unhappiness that J is, that at least he got closure that didn't end in fire and ash. At least he got to know he was loved, even if it came too late. He's not sure if, at the end, J would have known the same, that S loved him still, not even a knife in his chest able to make him stop.

But it is a lot. New grief built on old grief, an empty life made even emptier, trying to process having been almost murdered, and then why, a slow, painful recovery from his near-death, attempting to see some meager shred of justice done — none of that was easy in the slightest, and that's all without getting into the events of the last few days. Those have been better, but still incredibly draining, all the more so for his not having slept. It's no wonder, really, that he's such a fucking mess, as if all of it has caught up to him now that he has a chance to breathe and feel anything resembling content. It doesn't seem entirely fair, especially when he doesn't really want to say any more than he already has about how awful things have been, but it does make sense.

Coming from J, it's just hard to accept. S has no doubt that he means it, but while he meant what he said a few minutes ago about it not being a contest, J has had it so much worse. It was one thing to lean on him after his parents died, when he had no one else. He shouldn't need to be held together like this now.

"You've been through a lot, too," he murmurs, the closest he can get to saying that, fingers curling in J's shirt again. "If I don't cry too much, then neither do you."

J inhales, sharp, cutting off a protest of his own. He's already tried to make his point on that front, and he's trying hard to take in what S has to say about it. It might be a while before he can see it that way, if he ever can, because it's hard to get around the fact that he caused most of his own problems. It feels like that should invalidate all the pain and terror he endured in so doing, but he tries, keeping quiet, telling himself it still happened regardless. Even if he's at fault, it wasn't easy. And even if he doesn't think he deserves sympathy, he knows perfectly well he won't be able to keep S from extending it all the same.

It's territory they've already been over tonight anyway. There's no point in going in circles over it. S isn't wrong — not entirely, at least — and J will just have to sit with that and try to see if he'll ever be able to believe that.

For now, taking care of S is more important by far. That kind of existential agony can wait. When S has clearly been afraid he might kill himself, J figures waxing on about his guilt isn't likely to help right now. "Fine," he sighs, leaning his head against S's. "I'll just keep crying then." He hopes not to, really. If nothing else, he wants to pull himself together before the food arrives, because one of them will have to answer the door. He's barely spoken to anyone but S since he got here, but he's not about to make S handle it. He has enough to deal with now as it is.

"Is that why you were so tired?" he asks as it occurs to him. "Not sleeping well because you're worried about me?"

Given all they've just talked about, the question probably shouldn't be surprising. S isn't expecting it anyway, his stomach twisting with guilt even as he nods against J's shoulder. Really, it was probably going to have to come out eventually anyway. Even he isn't sure what he expected his endgame to be here. There's only so long he could have gone without sleep, and it's not like there could have been some moment where a switch flipped and he suddenly felt sure that J would be alright. He didn't want to have to say so, though. He made his own choice in this matter. Already he feels worse for knowing that his agreement isn't the truth, or isn't the whole truth. It isn't that he hasn't been sleeping well, he could say. It's just that he hasn't been sleeping.

He doesn't want to make J feel worse than he already does, though, and those semantics don't really make much difference. The cause and the effect are both the same. Worrying about J kept him from sleeping; several days without sleep wore him out, until, apparently, he just couldn't keep his eyes open anymore. He's still exhausted, for that matter, though it's like he said a few minutes ago. All that panic somehow drained him even further while also leaving him too awake, as if still on guard, his body not yet having caught up to what his mind has been assured of — that, at least for the time being, J is safe, that J will come to him if that ever seems like it could change.

"I just kept thinking," he murmurs, apologetic even as he does, "that if you woke up upset, or... couldn't sleep either, or had a nightmare or something..." He remembers what J said to him that first day, after all, that he hadn't been sleeping, that he sees and hears the people he killed. At least staying awake, he can be sure that J has slept now, but there's no telling what could happen during the night or how rattled he might wake up. "I didn't want you to have to be alone with it. In case..."

It's heartrending to hear, and all the worse because J can't tell him that was unnecessary. Ultimately it was, but that doesn't mean it wasn't a real danger to consider. When that's unlikely to change any time soon, though, it won't help either of them if S doesn't get more sleep.

"Darling," he murmurs, sad and fond, turning his head to kiss S's cheek. "I'll wake you up if I need to." He's not sure he'll be able to help doing so anyway. He's grown accustomed to little nightmares — no less shaken by them, but used to it enough to be able to deal — but the bigger ones, he knows he wakes up too abruptly not to make noise or be felt moving. That just makes it worse sometimes, waking up so suddenly that he's not sure if he's really awake at all or if he really slept. "But you need to get more rest."

He draws back a little, brushing his fingers back through S's hair again, expression quietly solemn. "It's not so bad lately," he says, "really. I... it's easier, falling asleep, when you're holding me. And with how tired I've been..." He smiles wryly. They can hardly be blamed for being unable to keep their hands off each other, he thinks, but it's also been surprisingly helpful to exhaust himself in such a pleasant way. By the time they go to bed, he's ready for it, S's embrace helping to make him feel comfortable and safe enough to drift off. "I don't remember much about my dreams. But when they come back, I'll want you awake with me anyway. I'll wake you up."

He'll feel bad about it, but he'll need it, he thinks, for much the same reasons as S has implied.

Not quite able to meet J's eyes, feeling oddly guilty for the extent of his own worry, S nods, a response to all of it. He knows he needs to get more rest, and he wants J to wake him up if anything happens, even if it isn't as dire as he feared it would be tonight. Whether or not J would be in any danger of hurting himself, he still shouldn't have to deal with something like that alone, and S would so much rather lose sleep and know when J is hurting than sleep better, oblivious to what J might be going through. In a way, having J offer that is more comforting by far than having him say that it wouldn't be necessary. He can't take any of it away, can't offer absolution, no matter how much he would like to. All he can do, really, is make sure that when J has to face it, he doesn't have to do so on his own. It doesn't feel like enough, but it's all he's got.

"Okay," he murmurs, frowning a little. "Please. I... If things are bad, you can always wake me up, alright? No matter what time it is, no matter how tired I am. I'll want to be with you." It helps a bit, at least, for J to say that he would want him awake. No matter how different things have been in the past day, he spent so long with J not turning to him for anything — not speaking to him at all — that it's a little difficult to expect him to now, but that, S thinks, will come with time. He'll just have to hope that they actually get that.

"I promise," he adds, soft and solemn. "You can always come to me. With anything." His expression turns the slightest bit self-deprecating. "And I'll try to get more sleep."

"Please," J echoes, but it's fond, hand resting in S's hair as he looks at him. He wishes he'd known this years ago — not simply known, but felt it. For so long, he turned to S with absolutely everything. Something took that away from them, some insecurity he can't explain, a paranoia he didn't know how to fight. At first, he knew it was a lie, but didn't understand how to stop feeling it. Bit by bit, he thinks, it just took over. If he'd had more sense, if he'd pushed through it, maybe things would have been better. It's something he'll need to remind himself of, he knows, as time goes on. Getting that time, he thinks, will depend on that.

"And I'll try," he adds. "I will. It's... I hate upsetting you, but I know you want to know." That's not all of it, though. He knows that as soon as he's said it, and he pushes through, making himself be more honest. "I kept telling myself I should be able to deal with it on my own, and... I couldn't. I just can't. I don't want to anymore anyway. It's..." He shrugs, uncertain. He doesn't want to say it's too hard, though it is. It still doesn't feel quite right. "It gets lonely. Not like being alone, because it's — it's like some horrible part of me telling me these things, but lonely. I need you."

Something about that hurts, a terrible ache in his chest, though that could just as easily be from his breathless panic earlier or all his crying more recently. It's a good thing, it has to be, that J doesn't want to deal with it on his own anymore. Still, it's hard to hear all of that and not think about those months J was alone, struggling with this without anyone there to support him, hard not to wish again that things could have been different sooner. And that's a dangerous path to go down, a counterproductive one, too, but even so, the thought of it makes him too sad not to consider it, at least fleetingly. Again he clutches at J, fingers curled in J's shirt as he nods, eyes wide.

"You have me," S says, soft and unsteady, his voice still a little rough from having cried so much. He's said it before, he's sure he'll say it again, but it bears repeating even so. "Always, always. You don't have to deal with it on your own now." Even when it upsets him, he thinks, he would be more upset to be shut out again, for J to feel like he had to hold all of this back. The distance between them hurt so much more than anything J could tell him. He almost says so, but he's certain that he has already, and reiterating that sees like it could just as easily make things worse instead of better. "I do want to know. Anything you want to tell me."

He can see it in S's expression, how even this hurts him to hear, and it's hard to lean into that, to say things he knows will only serve to upset S. He has to force himself to rephrase it in his head — things that will upset S. They serve more of a purpose than that. He has to be able to say it, even if it pains them both. It's for the best for both of them. That doesn't make it easy, but repeating it helps a little.

S's repetition helps more. Hearing those words makes his breath catch, chest heaving briefly as if he might start up again. He isn't alone now. He didn't have to be back then, he knows that now, but that knowledge doesn't feel impossibly out of reach this time. S is here, warm, close, loving, and he's listening, and they can do this. He has the love of his life in his arms, ready to support him through whatever happens. It's hard to know how he fell so far, bewildering to see how quickly his life has come back together — not in its entirety, but in the most important ways, enough to help him find his balance again.

For a few moments, all he can do is aimlessly stroke S's hair. Then he stops, slipping his arms around his waist and tugging him closer again. "Anything," he agrees. If S is willing to hear him, then he has to make sure he speaks up. "For you, too. This is — it's both of us, isn't it? We're a team. We'll get through it together this time. You have me too, okay? I love you."

And maybe, maybe, no, that won't always be true. But it isn't untrue either. If they do get through this, it will be together. And even if he isn't able to hold on, here and now, S has him, all of him. All he can hold onto is right now.

For so long, it was like that — the two of them against the world, inseparable, from the moment J first accepted his attempt to make friends as genuine. Even now, S isn't entirely sure how they lost that, what changed or when or why. He only knows that it did, and that having J want that again now means the world to him. Sniffling again, though at least he's calmer now, no longer quite such a mess, he nods in response, taking just a moment before he trusts himself to speak. It isn't even the first time since J got here that they've said something like this, but it's still moving, enough that he could set himself off again if he's not careful; there's still a small part of him afraid that things will go as wrong as they did before. He tries, though, not to dwell on the latter too much. J clearly means what he's saying now, and they've both been through too much, he thinks, not to have reconsidered their approach to this.

A bigger part of him is still afraid that this won't last, that their best efforts to make J want to stay alive won't be enough, that sooner or later, he won't have him anymore. S is too tired, though, to talk in circles about it now. J has offered him all the reassurance he feasibly can for one night; anything stronger, more decisive, most likely wouldn't be genuine and thus would only make him worry more. Right now, J is here. Right now, they stand a chance, and S isn't about to waste it.

"I love you, too," he mumbles, half-muffled when J pulls him close again, arms wrapping around him in turn. "So much." It's probably ridiculous, the way they keep winding up like this, all emotional and clinging to each other, but it isn't as if anyone else will ever see or know. As much as he hates seeing J cry — making him cry — he feels at least a bit less embarrassed for not being the only one of them who's continually such a mess. "It is. It's both of us now." The way it used to be, the way it always should have been. S doesn't want to say so when J has already spoken about having worried he just wanted things to be like they once were, but in this one way, he thinks it's true. It should always have been the two of them. He doesn't intend to give that up easily. "I missed that," he adds. "Us."

"I know," J murmurs, nosing at S's hair, pressing a kiss to his jaw. "So did I." If he hadn't been such an idiot, they wouldn't have had to miss it at all, but he's tired. Feeling so much all the time is exhausting, and he just doesn't have it in him right now to get into a fight with himself. The important thing is that they both felt that way and they both want this. He tried not to want it, but that was a fool's errand. How he ever believed he could do that, he doesn't know, when S has been his world for years. So much of who he is, so much of his day to day life, was wrapped up in the two of them being an us.

"But we have it now," he adds, quiet but warm. "The way we should be." It's been good for him these last couple days, he knows that — even more so than he would have dared to hope if it had occurred to him any of this might even be possible. "So if anything is wrong, if I have a nightmare or I can't sleep or — I don't know, whatever stupid things happen in my head, I'll tell you, okay? Even if I have to wake you up." Drawing back a bit, he lifts his hand to S's cheek again. "So will you try and get more sleep, darling?"

He doesn't know if it's enough, asking him for that. He can't have S promise him anything on that front, when he knows how difficult sleep can be, how evasive. Even if S wants to sleep, maybe the worry is too strong.

Just hearing that question is enough to make S feel a surge of guilt again, though he tries his best to hide it, nodding instead even as he leans into J's palm. Now, having admitted to it, if not the extent of it, it seems ridiculous. Staying awake for days on end, keeping J on some sort of unspoken suicide watch, it's not like it was ever going to be any kind of solution. He's surprised, actually, that he managed for as long as he did, something he supposes he can attribute to an odd combination of worry and contentment, not wanting anything to happen to J, enjoying how it felt just to lie beside him. There were a lot of things he missed in J's absence, far too many even to try to list, but that — sharing a bed, curling up close together, even without doing anything more — was definitely one of them. It's indescribably nice to have that back, the best possible way to lie awake all night, certainly.

He can't do that forever, though, or any longer than he already has. If this is going to work, as he so desperately wants it to, he has to trust what J says — that if there's a problem, if he's upset or in danger of hurting himself, he'll wake him up. "I will," he replies. "I promise I'll try."

He can't be certain that he'll succeed, that worry won't win out, and given that, doesn't want to promise anything more, but he thinks he'll be able to manage. After so long, he's bound to sleep easier with J at his side, in his arms, again. "And if I can't, I'll let you know that I couldn't. I'll... work on letting you take care of me again, too."

It's more than J is expecting, his gaze softening in reply, warm, a little relieved. He wants that so much — not just to be able to take care of S, but to be trusted to do so, to be counted on. With how he's been the last couple of years, he knows it would be sensible to doubt him, but he wants badly to prove he's still capable of that, that he can be reliable again.

"Thank you," he says softly, leaning into give S a small, sweet kiss. "It'll make me feel better. I don't think I can stop myself from worrying you at least a little, but if I can be here for you... it helps. Ah, really, when you need me, the rest of it goes out of my head, it's okay." Whatever else is on his mind always dims in comparison to what S needs, at least lately. Even when it doesn't put things out of his head entirely, caring for S is a welcome alternative to moping about whatever he can't stop thinking in any given moment.

Of course, he'd rather he not have any cause to worry about S and that S didn't need to worry about him, but that's part of love, he's pretty sure, picking someone worth being worried about for the rest of his life.

It's almost funny, if not altogether surprising, that what J says is something S could just as easily have said in turn. Although there are exceptions — like the day J got here, when he so utterly fell apart thinking he might have been about to lose J again — most of the time, it's easier to pull himself together for J's sake, to be a source of support, someone he can lean on. At least, hearing this now, he feels a bit less guilty about the times he's needed it in turn, though it doesn't rid him of the feeling entirely.

Maybe it's for the best, though, that he's a mess now, too. If part of what J resented about him before was the sense he gave of being calm and in control, having lost some of that can't be an altogether bad thing.

"I do need you," he murmurs, a confession in its own right. For so long, he was, or at least tried to be, the steadier of the two of them. He was so empty, though, without J. Practically from the first time they met each other, it felt like finding a missing piece, one he wouldn't otherwise have even known to look for. Losing that — losing J — was like losing a part of himself, and knowing he would never again be complete. Thinking about it in those terms feels unbelievably dramatic, far too much so to say it outright, but he means what he's said all the same. He does need J. He's not even sure he realized just how much until getting him back. "If it makes you feel better... I'll try. I will." He almost, almost smiles. "And it helps me to be here for you."

S has made it clear these last few days — or, rather, he's reminded J of the truth of something he once knew — that he wants to be here to support him. That this is better for both of them. Still, it helps to be told. When all of those fears and uncertainties ran so deep for so long, it's something that's going to take time. Going to S is so instinctive, and a lot of this feels like returning to who he's supposed to be, having that back, but every now and then, those old worries flicker back to life.

All he can do, though, is to try and push them aside, to keep moving forward, and S's reminders make that possible. Besides, there's such a relief in having S to confide in again. He does smile, pleased and grateful, leaning closer to press a kiss to the tip of S's nose. "Then we'll help each other," he says, heart thumping, dizzying. It's the I need you, he thinks, that did that. He spent a while resenting his own need for S. Settling back into that, it helps to hear he isn't alone, even if he didn't really think he was. It's still good to be needed.

"I need you, too," he adds, earnest. "I've felt a lot better, being with you again. Even now — it wasn't very bad, but I came out here to watch TV because I was — my thoughts, sometimes, it's like they go around and around, repeating. It wasn't anything important, but I thought, if I let this continue, it will get worse, so I turned that nonsense on, and it worked." He tips his head to the side, not sure if that will make things worse to have said or not. "If it had gotten bad, I would have woken you up, but since it wasn't, I thought you should sleep some more. In any case, I was okay just watching TV, but sitting with you, talking to you, I feel better than okay."

It isn't something that S likes hearing, exactly, but he thinks he gets it even so. These past months, he's had far too much time alone in his head, left to cycle through the same few thoughts, unable to think about much if anything else. When he started getting his strength back, there were times that seemed like a good thing. It gave him purpose, kept him going when it would have felt far too easy not to, something to work towards when he had nothing else left. The times in between, though — when he was still too badly wounded to spend much time on his feet, or when he was just worn down from the weight of everything — it was dismal and empty, his loneliness only magnified by the continued quiet, leaving him feeling as haunted as J wrote about being in his journal. It's not exactly the same, but it's close enough to it, he figures, for him to have some idea what J means.

"I feel better, too," he says, gently reassuring, though he pulls a slight face a moment later, self-deprecating. "I feel awful for making you worry about me, but I also feel better." Adoring and bittersweet in equal measure, he just looks at J for a moment, taking in the sight of him. They're both a mess, but even like this, he's beautiful, S thinks. Making himself turn away, he glances down for a moment, weighing his words, trying to figure out the best approach. He doesn't want to ignore what J has said, but he doesn't want to make too much of it, either. It's worrying, a little, but it's understandable, too, and at least this time, J found something that helped.

Too often, his words have come out wrong, skewed his meaning, given J the wrong idea. This, though, he hopes, will be straightforward enough. "And I'm glad it worked," he adds, a little softer, though a little lighter, too, as he continues. "Even if it does sound like the worst show ever made." It isn't much of an attempt at humor, but he doesn't linger anyway. "I'm glad I woke up, though, too. And if it does get bad, or worse... I'm here. I'll be here."

J huffs out a laugh at that assessment, brow raising briefly in agreement. Nothing he watched was much good, but that was spectacularly awful. But then, in a way, he thinks that's precisely what he needed, something so engagingly terrible that it provided a distraction. His smile softens as S finishes, and he shakes his head. "I know," he says, reaching for S's hand to hold between both of his. This time, he thinks, he really does know. Even if he has to be reminded, even if it takes effort to be aware of sometimes, he knows in a way he forgot.

"If it had," he says, "I promise — if it does, I'll wake you. I'm glad you woke up too, though, so we can have dinner together. And fall asleep together later." It's not as if they don't spend plenty of time together, given that there's no one else here to spend time with and nowhere they really go. Still, they missed out on a lot of dinners, a lot of nights drifting off wrapped up in each other, and he's enjoying the chance he's got.

He wrinkles up his nose then, leaning a little closer. "I feel awful making you worry about me, too," he continues. "But it's what we do, isn't it? That's part of loving someone." He made a mistake before, after all, trying to keep S from being able to know he had more reasons to worry.

Every time J promises to wake him up if it gets bad, S feels a little more at ease, a little more convinced that he actually will. He feels a little more ridiculous, too, for needing that reassurance at all, but then, he's not actually sure J was wrong when he pointed out that he'd been through a lot. The months he spent on his own after J left would have taken something of a toll on him anyway, but J dying, never mind his own near-death, compounded that more than he would know how to say. More than he would want to, too. He can't, he knows, keep it from J entirely, but he has no desire to say any more on that subject than he has already. No good would come from dwelling on it. As it is, it's something he knows he's going to have to carry around with him. Even in the face of all he just promised — and did so earnestly, too — the least he can do is try to keep it from coming to the surface too often.

"That sounds nice," he agrees, quiet, with a small, tentative smile. "Having dinner and falling asleep together." It's hardly new, except that they spent a long time not being able to do either of those things, except that he hasn't actually slept since J got here. He has, he thinks, dozed off a few times in very small bursts, but he that doesn't seem like the same as really sleeping. As soothing as he finds it just to lie beside J all night, he already likes the thought, too, of going to sleep in J's arms and then waking up that way. Hopefully he won't be in a panic like he was tonight, though if he's with J, he doesn't see that being much of a concern.

Shrugging, he leans closer in turn, the tip of his nose brushing J's, not quite closing the distance for a kiss. "And I guess it is," he agrees. "I still wish you didn't have to — worry about me, I mean — but I doubt I could stop you worrying any more than you could stop me." Fond, he gives J's shirt a little tug with his free hand. "There's no one I would rather worry about than you."

Even though he was the one to point out that worrying is part of loving someone, it still makes J's heart leap to hear S put it like that. He hadn't thought of it quite that way, and it feels good — less like an imposition, more of a choice. The way S tugs at his shirt feels good, too, much more playful than they were less than an hour ago, and he leans after it, hand slipping into S's hair as he pulls him into a soft kiss.

"No one," he agrees, fond, as he draws ever so slightly back. "And you can't stop me, no. I'll worry regardless. And I... I know you'll worry, too." He hates that part of it. It would be one thing if it were a normal amount of worrying; there's no one in the world who doesn't cause someone some kind of concern. But he knows that, with him, there's a lot more to fret over, a lot more reason to be a little scared. Or a lot scared. It isn't something he'd want to put S through, but he tried, before, to keep things from him, and it really only made it worse for both of them. Not knowing what was happening never kept S from fussing over him or watching to try and figure out the issue, and it made J feel even more on edge, resentful of the hovering. Back then, he was so sensitive to every little thing, and it was easy just to blame S for it. These last few days, though, have started to reshape his view of the things that bothered him, of how much of it he misinterpreted and how much he could have fixed if he'd just been honest.

That won't happen again. He keeps promising himself that. Even if he feels the urge to stay quiet, even if the idea of talking about these things makes him anxious, even if there are topics they both know he isn't yet ready to discuss, he'll do his best, at least, to resist the paranoia and the secrecy. S deserved the truth then and he deserves it now. "I'll just try to be less worrisome," he says lightly, his smile wry. That's going to take a lot of work, but already he can feel things changing.

Although it isn't really funny at all, given the reasons he has to be worried about J, that phrasing warms his smile the slightest bit. Truthfully, S isn't sure if that could even be possible. No matter how different things wind up being here, no matter how well J seems to be doing, he'll still have the weight of having lost him before to contend with. He'll still remember what it felt like to find out that J was dead, that he'd killed himself. He'll still, for that matter, know how strained and awful things were during that last year they were together — not as something to hold over J's head, because he wouldn't, and not as some kind of grudge he holds, because he doesn't, but simply as something that happened, that he doesn't want to let happen again. He wouldn't say it outright the way J did, that J was horrible to him, though that's probably not inaccurate. They were both so unhappy, though, and having gotten this back, having come so far in the past few days, he thinks it would hurt all the more to wind up back there again.

It's not all bad, though. He was always appreciative, always a little bit awed, that he got to be with J at all, but he's infinitely more so now for having lost him before. There's no way, now, that he could take this for granted or see it as just a given; he wouldn't want to. And he would, as he said before, rather worry with reason than be unconcerned, or less concerned, and oblivious. He didn't know how bad things were before. Though they can't go back and change it and don't actually know what would happen if they tried, it's hard not to wonder how different things might have been if he'd been more aware of what was going on with J.

"Even if you aren't," he says, still fond, quiet, almost shy, "I'll still be here to worry about you. No matter how worrisome." Despite his own awareness that it really isn't something to make light of, he lets his smile pull a little wider still before he kisses J's cheek, tasting a hint of salt from all their crying when he does. "There's nothing that could change that."

J pulls a face, but it's appreciative, really, an indication that he likes that, even if he doesn't like the context. He doesn't want to worry S. He doesn't want to cause the kind of distress he knows S went through tonight, or what he put S through a year or two ago or even, for S, a few months ago. He's endured too much, just for loving J, and J doesn't want that anymore. He has enough sense, though, to know that won't make it go away. And there is, there has always been, something comforting about knowing someone worried about him. Almost no one ever has, and certainly not like this.

And he believes S, this time, when he says nothing could change that. There was a time when he really did assume that was true, that neither of them would ever give up on the other. Saying it would have seemed silly, such an obvious fact, though they say plenty of silly, obvious things anyway. Then, for a while, he was sure it wasn't true at all. Now he knows it is. Always was.

"Good," he says, soft, smiling a little. "That's what I want." He's ready to return the sentiment when a knock sounds at the door, startling him. Eyes going wide, it takes J a moment to understand why anyone would be at their apartment at any point in the day, never mind in the evening, especially when he's not used to company at all. He's almost never had them anyway. And then it clicks and he lets out a short sighs and then a helpless laugh. "Aish, I'm a mess. Do you have the money? I'll get the door, but I didn't think to get the money."

Startled by the sound of a knock on the door, S lets out a soft laugh of his own, quickly followed by a shake of his head. They're ridiculous, the pair of them. At the same time, they aren't, really, having a plethora of perfectly good reasons to have been so emotional, but it feels ridiculous to have been sitting here, clearly crying, and have to get the food, which he'd nearly forgotten about. On the bright side, he feels more like he'll actually be able to eat than he did when they first ordered, having mostly figured at the time that he would just save some leftovers to eat later tonight or tomorrow, but he thinks that he'll be able to eat now after all, which is honestly a little relieving. He's given J more than enough reasons to worry tonight without skipping dinner, too.

"I have the money," he says, groaning quietly as he eases back from J. He doesn't really want to move, but he doesn't want to keep the delivery person waiting, either. There's little to be done about the state they're both in, tear-stained and red-eyed, cheeks still a bit flushed. At least ordering food isn't something they're likely to do very often. With any luck, whoever is dropping their food off won't remember them or their fairly obvious emotional state. "I'll get it, you get the door."

He leans in to give J one more quick kiss before he gets to his feet to retrieve the cash they have on hand. At least, with J having decided to stay here, he feels far less trepidatious than he otherwise would about spending as much as this is likely to be on food. They can afford it, and all of it will keep, and fuck, given the evening they've had, it's more than worth it not to have to make the effort to cook. Money in hand, he heads over to meet J by the door, hanging back a step. "Here."

It helps, that quick kiss, soothing J's nerves. He hadn't quite realized they were in need of soothing to begin with, but then, he'd also mostly forgotten there are other people in the world.

As S darts off to get the money, he calls out "I'll be right with you." Even so, he takes a moment, blinking quickly and swiping at his cheeks. It probably only serves to make them pinker, given that all the tears have already dried, and there's no hiding it if they've left tracks. No hiding, either, that his eyes are probably bloodshot from all the weeping, so all there really is that he can still do is smooth back his hair. It doesn't really matter anyway, not like the person delivering the food will care.

He flashes S a smile, reaching out for the cash before he opens the door. It's a relief, too, to find that the person at the door is, in fact, delivering the food, since it doesn't occur to him until he opens the door that maybe that isn't necessarily the case. He's not sure what other options his brain has conjured up, though, and then it doesn't matter anyway. "Thank you," he says to the indifferent young woman waiting there, and even with his fumbling first over the cash and then how to hand off the money for the bags, it doesn't take too long for him to figure out how much to give. She gives a little wave and heads off down the hall, and J lets out a tiny sigh of relief he doesn't quite hear. The savory smell of familiar foods wafts up from the bags as he picks them up and steps back, nudging the door closed, and that takes up most of his focus anyway. "Ah, it smells really good."

Somehow, it all happens more quickly and more easily than S expected. He isn't even sure why, really, when it isn't as if it's something that ever takes very long. It's hard not to be self-conscious about the state they're both in, though — nervous, almost, which he wouldn't usually be, except that he's tired and it's been an incredibly emotional evening already, his nerves already frayed from all that panic earlier, despite its having long since subsided. He really didn't get it before. That the bouts of anxiety J experienced were bad was clear enough, but he never knew how it felt, how the effects of it linger, how visceral a sensation it is. Having calmed down, he still feels a little shaky, and in a different way than just being worn out from crying would leave him.

Still, being with J helps, and the exchange of money for food happening quickly and easily does, too, and he can't even bring himself to be worried about the cost under the circumstances. They'll eat well tonight and probably tomorrow, too, with all this food. He's been so careful since he got here, anyway, too used to having too little money to start spending it frivolously, even having some supposed continued source of it to rely on. One night of a little extravagance isn't going to bankrupt them. Worn out as he is, he wouldn't really have wanted to cook tonight anyway.

"It does," he agrees, not bothering to try to hide his relief once the door is closed behind J. Stepping closer again, he reaches to take one of the bags of food to bring to the kitchen. "This was a good idea, I think." It may technically have been his idea, but he wouldn't have thought of it if J hadn't started talking about food and craving tteokbokki, so really, it feels like both of theirs. Besides, he wouldn't likely do this sort of thing on his own, or order so much. "I'm hungrier than I thought I was."

It's a small comment, but one that makes J brighten. S looks a bit worn around the edges in a way J thinks he can recognize, though he has a tendency to avoid mirrors of late. To see him look a little more ease, to hear that he's hungry, it's comforting. Had S not said they could get delivery, he's not sure he would have asked to do so, not wanting to make him worry about money on top of the rest of it. It's a relief that he did, though, since it spares them the trouble of cooking when S clearly needs a break.

Following to the kitchen, he nods. "Now that I smell it, so am I," he says, laughing a little. He was hungry, but not distractingly so, the tteokbokki more a craving than a matter of his needing dinner just yet. But with the mingled smells of all these dishes, he's ready. There are hints of spice and herb and a savory sweetness that must be the bulgogi, and walking into the kitchen, he's greeted by the scent of fresh, hot rice on the air. He sets the bag on the counter and immediately turns away to hunt down a couple bowls for the samgyetang, and some plates for the rest of it. Even before he's got either bag open, there's just enough of that rich combination of ginseng and chicken broth noticeable for him to feel a bit nostalgic. He's never tried to make it himself, but his mom used to, now and then.

He grins, handing the plates to S. "Rice please," he says, sweeping away to take the bowls to the table, deliberately angling himself to stay visible as he does so. It isn't long before he's coming back to help lift dishes from the bags. "If this is as good as it smells, we may not have leftovers."

Exhausted and wrung out though he feels, it's hard — impossible — not to grin when J does, moving around plates and containers of food almost instinctively, getting the rice from the cooker. Nothing is fixed, exactly, but he still feels a hell of a lot better than he did when he woke up. Still worried, somewhere in the back of his head, and not just because of the residual anxiety from all that panic, the way it still doesn't feel like his body has caught up to his mind, but better all the same. This isn't really something that can be fixed, after all. The things that happened still happened; the reasons he has to be afraid still exist. He can only trust what J has said, and he does, or at least he's trying very hard to. For now, J is here and safe, anyway, and it would be wrong not to make the most of that, to enjoy it. There's so much that's heavy behind them, and plenty more still ahead, too, but that's all the more reason to savor any peace while it lasts.

Being together, moving around the kitchen, substantially bigger than their last though it is, having gone all out ordering good food like it's a special occasion, he has a lot of reasons to be happy, too. Though he only lived here for a week before J showed up, it's still stunning how quickly this apartment, empty as it's felt, has begun to feel like a home. In that alone, there's a measure of comfort. He hasn't had that in so long. If he's honest, he thought he never would again.

"I don't know about that," he says with a soft laugh, one hand grazing J's hip for a moment. "We got a lot of food." Ordinarily, it might seem like too much, if only given the cost of ordering from a restaurant. As it is, though, tired and content, afraid and comforted, he doesn't mind the expense at all. They'll make it work. They always have before. Nodding towards it, he adds, "Rice. Ah, I barely know where to start."

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