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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Distant as everything feels right now, as if he's here and not here at the same time, S still shakes his head where it's buried against J's shoulder in an instinctive response to that question. Immediately, he regrets it. Saying yes might be smarter, safer, justify whatever is happening to him right now without his having to admit to the real cause of it. He doesn't really have the presence of mind for that, though, and even if he did, he's not sure he could stomach that dishonesty with J of all people, even if it would only be a little of it, in the interest of softening this particular truth. As much as he doesn't want to say it, doesn't want to make J feel guilty just for feeling the way he does, S doesn't want to lie, either, not to him. It's felt far too good to be open with him again; there was too much distance between them for too long.

It's just as well that he can't quite speak yet anyway, since he doesn't know what he would say if he could. J's quiet reassurances help, a little, but not knowing what's happening to him or why he feels like this only makes that feeling worse, panic creating a sort of feedback loop with itself, seemingly inescapable. All he can do is keep holding onto J and trying to breathe, the first easy, instinctive, the latter so much more difficult than it should be.

"Not a nightmare," he finally gets out, though it feels like one, the same sort of disorientation clinging to him as if he'd woken from a bad dream, only it didn't happen until he was already awake. "I thought — I was scared that —" He can't say it, he can't, he can't, not least because even in his head, it sounds so fucking stupid now, despite knowing that it also isn't. Of course he would be worried. But it isn't as if anything has happened since that conversation, isn't as if J has sounded again like he might be on the verge of killing himself, so why he should be so rattled just to have woken up alone, S doesn't know. "Something... might have happened," he settles on between his gasping little breaths, useless and vague as it is. "While I was asleep."

J waits a few moments, letting that settle in his head, unsure if S will say anything more — if he can. He's still shaking so badly, barely able to get the words out. But that's all there is, and J doesn't quite get it, but it only leaves him more worried. Just because he's never seen S like this doesn't mean it's the first time it's happened. They've only been together again for a few days. There was a very long stretch of time where he didn't see S at all, ignored his calls, did his best to avoid coming even close to where he might be. There were months, too, he knows, where S was just... alone, because J was already dead.

That part is hard to understand still, hard to make his brain wrap around and remember. It's possible, though, that S has had these bouts of fear on and off for a long time, and J just didn't know. He said he didn't know what was happening, but even after two years of having these on and off, J still doesn't understand it himself.

It's not something he can really dwell on now, though, not when S is in such bad shape. "Nothing happened, Hyunie," he says softly. "I was just watching TV. I couldn't sleep, but I didn't want to wake you up. You looked like you needed it." He still does, for that matter, wrung out and lost, but J doubts trying to go back to sleep will do any good. "But everything's okay. I'm right here. I'm okay. You'll be alright. Just keep trying to take slow, deep breaths, darling." It's hard to not have anything more to offer than that, unsure what could possibly help to put this right.

He probably did need it. He should probably say that, too. S can't even be sure how long he actually slept, waking with such a start that it both made him very alert very quickly and has left him feeling not rested in the slightest, though if J has just been out here watching TV, it probably couldn't have been that long. Given how absolutely minimally he's slept in the past several days, just accidentally, briefly dozing off a few times the other night, he shouldn't be relieved that that's the case, but he is. As awful as he feels — both in terms of whatever is happening to him now, and for making J worry — it might have been worse if he was asleep too long, if he left J alone with his thoughts for hours and hours.

And maybe that's the problem, or part of it. The immediate worry has passed, but the source of it hasn't. Everything is okay now, nothing happened this time, but there's no telling what might happen next time, or how much or how little it might take to tip J back into the frame of mind he was in that first day here, when they sat crying on this same couch. It doesn't explain this, how he trembles and gasps with such an overwhelming panic, but at least it makes sense of why he can't just shake this fear off and move on. He has to be able to, though. He has to live with this. If the cost of impossibly getting to be with J again is having to fear for his safety, then S will spend the rest of his life paying it if that's what it takes to have that time together. Knowing that doesn't make it any easier to face the fact that J might not be able to stay, that S could so easily lose him again.

"I thought..." he tries again, though he still doesn't know how to say this. It wouldn't be an easy thing to talk around even if he were mentally at his sharpest, which he isn't, and he doesn't feel like he can just be straightforward about it, as if saying I was afraid you might have killed yourself would just remind J of his desire to do so. He doesn't seem to have been clear enough yet, though, which is unsurprising even as it leaves him fumbling for a different approach. He should probably stop, just focus instead on trying to breathe, but he doesn't want to worry J more than he has already, hates that this keeps happening, that he continually needs comfort when he should be the one giving it. For so long, he tried to be steady for both of them. Granted, that failed catastrophically, but knowing that doesn't keep him from feeling like he should be again now.

He draws in another shallow, faltering breath. It helps, at least, to be held close like this, both for the physical comfort of J's arms around him and because it means he doesn't have to look at J as he struggles to try to say this. He doesn't know if it will do him any good, but it isn't like just sitting here with all of this still cycling through his head is calming him down at all. "That you might not be," he continues after a moment too long, words coming out between unsteady breaths, though he thinks he might have said something similar already. "That if... you were alone... and things got bad for you..." He still can't say it, shakes his head again instead, tries to let the relative steadiness of J's breathing and heartbeat soothe him.

That takes J a few moments, too. It's hard to keep his focus when he's so worried, when he feels painfully helpless. He didn't realize how hard it would be to be on this side of things or how frightening, and it makes it difficult to process any of what S is saying. He sounds so small and scared, words and body trembling, and all J can do is sit here and try to soothe him, not knowing how to put it right. If he can't make himself feel better when this happens, how can he begin to help S?

But then the words sink in and he understands. He thinks he does, at least. "Hyunie," he murmurs, kissing his hair again. What he wants is to tell him that it's okay, that he doesn't need to worry about that. He wants to be able to say that that's over, that he's not in any danger now. It would be a lie, though, and he can't stomach it, even to help calm S down. Though he's felt much better these last couple days, he knows how much he has yet to face. He knows how much the things he's already talked about still haunt him. None of this is going away. It gets easier to bear and he's had a chance to step away from a lot of it and breathe, but it isn't gone, and he knows it. Just because he's had a few good days and gotten some sleep doesn't mean it's over. The panic is still there, a distant undercurrent, and the worries, the doubts and darkness. It's quieter, buried further back, but it's there.

Just days ago, he was alone. Things did get bad. He killed himself. Even now, he's not sure he can say honestly that he was wrong. Things are different now, better, but he doesn't know if he could have chosen anything else, if he could have lived with himself without finishing the sonata. And, too, they would have caught him eventually, and that isn't something he can bear to think about. Just because he doesn't want to kill himself right in this moment doesn't mean he's entirely sure he shouldn't have done it to begin with or that he won't feel the urge to do so again. Even if he wanted to forget, the evidence of it is still written on his skin. He's getting used to it, but it's still jarring to see at times.

"You can't be with me all the time, darling," he says softly. He can't say things won't get bad. He can't lie like that. Rubbing slow, soothing circles against S's back, he takes a deep breath. "I told you if — if something's wrong, if I'm hurting — I said I'd tell you, right? I promised." He knows too well how quickly his mood can change, that he can't guarantee he'll go to sleep content and wake up the same way. But he also knows that S can't watch over him constantly, especially once he starts working. "I meant it. I'll tell you. If — if it gets bad — I can wake you up, okay? I'll wake you up, I promise."

Even as he says it, S knows it sounds stupid. If anything, somewhere under all the panic and worry, he's a little relieved that J hasn't responded more poorly, remembering too well what he said the other day about not wanting to need to be looked after like a child, an obligation. It isn't that S thinks he can't take care of himself; he would say so, if it were easier to get words out, if there weren't more pressing subjects at hand, if part of him weren't back in that hospital room, sound turning to static as he found out J was already gone. He doesn't know how to explain where this fear came from, why he feels like this; he barely even knows what like this is, unable to find words for a feeling so unfamiliar. What he does know, what he keeps trying to tell himself, as if repeating it in his head again and again might make this stop, is that J is alright now, safe and holding him, and that his presence has to matter more than any possible absence.

Whatever happens, at least they've had this, a chance to be together again, to say all the things they should have said months — years — ago, something more than that awful last meeting that left him closer to dead than not on J's floor. That was never going to be enough for him, though. Losing J once ruined him, left him a hollow, empty shell. He doesn't know how he could possibly bear losing J again, being this close but still too late.

"I know," he says, wincing guiltily against J's shoulder. "I know I can't." He didn't even consider, really, what the particular endgame for this would be. It isn't as if he could just never sleep; if anything, it's probably fortunate that he managed to stay awake as long as he did, especially with as exhausting, though good, the last few days have been. At some point, though, he figured he'd feel more settled, the danger less imminent, once J was a bit more removed from having just killed himself once and talking like he wanted to do so again. Either way, it makes no real difference when this is what's happened instead. Waking up alone shouldn't scare him this badly, but it has, and even J's reassurances only chip away at that a little. If J really wanted to be dead, after all, if it reached that point, why should he bother waking up someone who would only try to interfere with that?

It's a start, though, something to respond to when he can't begin to get his own thoughts in order, the same things looping endlessly and bouncing around in his head. So he nods, a slight, unsteady little movement between shaky breaths. "Please," he all but gasps, hating how he sounds, as lost and frightened as he feels. He should be able to keep it together better than this, but it's far too late for that now. "Even if... you don't want me to stop you. Even if —" Even if it's to say good-bye. These past minutes, or however long it's been, time seeming at once too slow and too fast, he's felt too panicked to cry, his throat and chest too tight, his breaths too shallow. That thought, though, nearly does him in, though he knows he would never just let go as easily as that, despite having meant what he said before, that he couldn't ask J to stay.

There's no easy answer here, nothing that makes sense, not even to him, never mind that he could put into words. There's just one truth he keeps coming back to, coming out of him now half-unbidden in choked little syllables. "I don't want to be too late again."

Edited 2021-05-22 12:16 (UTC)

Needing to take care of S has been his priority from the moment he realized something was wrong, and it's helped J hold it together here. He processes what's happening in a distant sort of way, more immediately concerned with soothing S than with fully grasping why he feels like this. That part, he reasoned, could come later. Or, rather, he gets it now, but in a way that wasn't yet complete — enough to know what S meant without latching onto it emotionally.

It's a lot harder to manage that when S sounds like this, leaving J to blink back the threat of tears as he pulls S closer still. This time, he doesn't need S to finish his sentence to understand what he's trying to say.

He remembers that first day like it happened years ago. Parts of it are bright and indelible, others faint, still others gone entirely. He distinctly remembers that part, though, S saying that J trying was all he could ask for, all but saying that he would let J go if it came to it. It struck him hard then, an impossible gesture of love, one he didn't know if he'd ever have the strength to make were their roles reversed. He hadn't thought about how it would happen, though, if the time came when he felt he couldn't do this any longer. Most of the time, when he feels that pull toward death, it isn't so much that he wants to die as it is that he just wants it to be over, and he has no idea how to explain that in a way that would make it sound even a tiny bit better.

But the idea of it hurts, a sharp ache in his chest at the idea of having to say goodbye, at the thought of S finding out he was dead once already. It wasn't as if he was too late before, J wants to say. He didn't even know for sure if S was still alive. He couldn't have had any way of knowing what J would do, no way of stopping him. Except J already knows that would only make it worse.

"I love you," he whispers. "I love you so, so much." He's clinging to S now, trying not to let his own emotions tip out of control when S still hasn't steadied. It's all he can do as it is not to start apologizing. "I —" He draws in a sharp breath, trying to regain his own balance. "It won't be like that. I promise. I'll tell you. I'll tell you. If I have to, if it comes to that —" He doesn't like thinking about it, made uneasy by the possibility of it, though it's not like he's forgotten it either. "It isn't... usually like that. Not wanting to be stopped."

But it has been. He remembers that, too, sitting on this couch and dizzily trying to figure out how he could manage it without S stopping him. That was before, he tells himself. He didn't know then that they could work through this, that he could be happy again. He didn't have a reason to want to stay, like he does now.

It was like that, S wants to say, though he holds it back, once again as if it might be tempting fate to remind J of it. His memories of that conversation are strange, simultaneously hazy and vivid — much like, of all things, his memories of almost dying. Many of the specifics are gone, but he remembers too well how he felt and why, the dread and fear and grief, all of it painfully overwhelming. Embarrassing, too — then, as now, he hadn't wanted to need to be comforted over something that he should be providing comfort for — but shorter-lived, even if, at the time, he hadn't known that would be the case. It was like this but not, his breath still catching now as he tries to settle, fingers still clutching at J's shirt in a desperate bid to keep him here. What J says should help, and it does, but it doesn't rid him of the feeling of waking up alone and not knowing what might have happened, all the worries and uncertainty he's carried around and buried for days crashing over him all at once, combining with months-old regret.

He couldn't have helped not waking up sooner, he knows. There isn't anything he could have done about the fact that he almost died and was in a fucking coma. Still, being aware of that doesn't change how much it hurt to have not even stood a chance, to have to wonder what might have happened differently if he'd been conscious sooner, able to find some way of reaching out. It wouldn't have changed anything that happened, it certainly wouldn't have given them the chance that this place has afforded them, but at least he wouldn't just have been finding out after the fact, as helpless as he was alone.

Even now, he still feels like he's the former, a part of this that's almost as frightening as anything else. He doesn't know what's happening to him, so he can't control it, can only sit here taking shaky breaths and trying to steady himself and holding fast to J. He doesn't know what to say, either, how to explain himself, how to make this make sense, how to apologize for making J think about this at all. The other day, J said he wanted to be able to take care of him, too, so maybe he shouldn't feel so guilty for falling apart like this, but he does all the same. J is the one who was so unhappy that he wanted to kill himself for a second time, who might still wind up there again. The way S sees it, he should be able to help him, not give him one more burden to carry.

"I didn't even have a chance," he says, more to himself than to J this time, trying so hard at least to breathe steadily, not able to manage it yet, maybe especially not when saying something like this. "You were gone. I woke up and you were gone." He doesn't know if it makes sense, or, rather, if it will to J, without the tangled mess of everything else in his head. Even as he still doesn't understand what's happening to him, though, part of him gets that, the place where old fear overlaps with new fear, turning something as innocuous as falling asleep and waking up with J in the other room into something absolutely terrifying. It feels so unbelievably stupid, but at least it's better than this being prompted by nothing.

He wants so badly to be able to do more. J has struggled for so long with this himself, it feels to him as if he should know what to do now. He doesn't. Half the time, he doesn't know how he pulls through it himself. "I'm here," he whispers, letting his eyes fall shut. For a moment, he still thinks S means he was gone just now, that he was here and not in bed. It clicks a moment later, and he feels foolish for that. When he was just thinking about how hard that must have been for S back home, it seems like it should be obvious that was what S meant, but a lot is happening right now, and it's hard for him to understand fully.

It must have been horrible, all the grief S felt anyway compounded by how disorienting it must have been. J doesn't even know when it was, he realizes. It wasn't like he could get any information on S in that interminable week. All he knows is that, by the time S woke up, it was over. "I know," he murmurs, and it feels painfully weak. He doesn't know. He understands what S is saying now, he thinks, and he knows how it feels to be enveloped by panic like this, but he doesn't know how it must have felt for S to wake up like that. Telling him that a chance wouldn't have done anything then won't help. "But I'm here now. I'm here."

He was determined that day. It was the only thing that made sense, the only thing he knew that could end it. The way he's felt since coming here is so vastly different from that, but he can't promise he won't feel something similar one day. He can't promise he won't ever try again, that he won't succeed. But he can give S this. He has to. He can't listen to him struggle like this and not do something. "I won't," he starts, then changes course. "If... if it gets to that point... if I think I might do something... I will come and find you. I will tell you. I'll try to tell you before it gets that bad. Okay? I promise." He wishes so badly he had more to offer, that he could make a better promise, but he can't. "I don't want it to be like that."

Still without pulling away, S nods, trying to believe that, trying to let it be enough. It has to be, really, already more than he can ask. The things J is dealing with won't just go away, and it wouldn't be fair to either of them to expect otherwise — would, in fact, be at least part of what J apparently used to worry he thought when they were together before, that things would just go back to how they were when the two of them first got together. S knows entirely too well how impossible that is, not just for J but for himself, too, the way he's sitting here shaking seeming like proof of that in its own right. Even back then, things weren't perfect, either, but he had J with him as he reeled and recovered from the death of his parents, and it made all the difference in the world. What should have been the worst time in his life was the best, too. There was nothing like that this time, and while he can't really compare the losses, J's was surely compounded by the fact that he had no one else left. Everyone he'd ever loved, everyone who'd ever loved him, was dead, and he was alive when he really shouldn't have been, and even a twist of fate as incredible as getting J back doesn't undo all those months of mourning or what it felt like to lose him. What it feels like to have to fear that he will again.

"Okay," he agrees, because he has to say something, because he knows how much it must mean for J to offer even that much with everything he now has to live with. As much as it hurts him to see J in pain, he's meant it every time he's said that he would rather know than not, too. Better to help J carry what he can, to bear some of that weight with him, than leave him to shoulder it alone, remaining oblivious to how bad things really are. "Okay."

He should say that he doesn't want it to be like that either, obvious though that is. He should apologize, or thank J for this, or both, probably. He should be able to fucking calm down, but somehow he can't, still just clinging to J like it might be the only way to keep him here. Or maybe it's the other way around, like he's the one who needs a tether, drowning and desperate and unsure how he even got here. "I don't know why I feel like this," he says, lifting his head just enough to look at J with wide, worried eyes. "How do you make it stop?"

It hurts, a sharp, bright pain in his chest, to see the way S looks at him now. To some degree, this is why he hid things from S for so long — he didn't want S to feel the way he does now, frightened and helpless, aching at seeing the man he loves in pain and unable to fix it. It was a mistake on his part, though. He sees that with greater clarity in this moment. As absolutely horrible as this is, as badly as it hurts, he's grateful to be here too. S shouldn't have to face this alone.

"I don't know," he says quietly. "I just... wait. Or try to distract myself. Tell myself all the reasons it's going to be okay." That one is particularly hard, though. He so rarely had any real reasons and knowing the ones he had didn't necessarily mean they sunk in. Now, at least, it's easier to believe that there are good things in his life. Slowly stroking S's back, he shakes his head. "I talk to myself. Out loud. I probably sound crazy, but it's easier than trying to hear myself in my head."

There are too many thoughts at times like that, everything rattling around at high speed, overlapping, contradicting. If he says it out loud, it's easier to focus on just one or two thoughts at a time. But he also lived on his own for a long period of time when he figured out that this helps somewhat; whether or not S will feel comfortable doing that now, he doesn't know, but he's sure that he can't leave S alone to try. It would only make this worse. "And it's because you're scared," he adds, trying not to sound as shaky as he feels. "Even if you know you shouldn't be or that it shouldn't be that bad, it doesn't stop. It's okay that you're scared. I — I know I gave you reason to be, darling. But I'm okay right now."

Waiting, so far, isn't doing much. Trying to tell himself the reasons it's going to be okay just puts him back where he started, knowing that things are alright now but that, one day, they may not be. S isn't sure he can catch his breath enough to try talking to himself, and he wouldn't know what to say if he did, the same thoughts still persistently racing through his head, nothing he would want J to have to bear the burden of. A distraction seems like the best option, then, anything to try to pull him out of whatever this is. He's seen J in similar states before, and he always worried and tried his best to be present for him at such times when J would let him, too helpless to do anything else, but he didn't know it felt like this. Somehow it's even worse than he would have imagined.

He should say that, maybe. He should definitely apologize. It isn't fair that J should have to comfort him over this when J is the one at risk of killing himself. Trying to say that seems like too much for right now, though. He will, but once he's managed to settle a little, when he's better able to catch his breath and get a coherent sentence out. Instead, for now, he curls further forward, leaning against J's chest, still clutching at his shirt as if for dear life. "Will you keep talking to me?" he asks, hating how small his voice sounds, unable to do anything about it. "About anything. Tell — tell me about what you're watching, I don't know."

It's the best he can come up with, a distraction and a continued reminder of J's safety all at once, something to focus on that isn't this but reassurance, too, that what he was afraid of hasn't happened. J is here, warm and alive and safe, holding him so sweetly. Even if it shouldn't be necessary, it still helps, at least as much as S thinks anything could right now.

Distraction then. It's a good choice, in J's experience. Talking might help, but sometimes it makes things worse too, makes him burrow deeper into the darkness. If he can just get himself to think about something else, though, at least he can try and catch his breath.

"I can do that," he says, pressing another kiss to S's hair, tugging him close, almost into his lap. It helps him, J can tell, to be close — not enough to stop the fear, but it's something. "It's nothing very interesting. I was just watching whatever came on." He flipped through a lot of channels to get to this, but that's because a lot of what was on was news, which he had no interest in, or worse even than this. Really, he knows, he was doing the same thing S is doing now, looking for something to take him out of his own head for a little while. He doesn't know if saying that would make things worse or better.

"These shows are pretty stupid," he adds. "This one is about people looking for a new house, but everyone wants a very small house." He's so focused on S now, still rubbing gentle circles into his back, that he can't even get all that annoyed about the concept yet, though he finds it offensive. "So stupid, spending extra money to get a place that small, and they have kids. Yah, can you imagine, a place like we had before with kids in it? And a dog? And they pick that."

It is, at least, not a problem the two of them will ever face. That's one additional advantage, he supposes, of having been born different; they'll never have to worry about having kids. But there were times when that studio was too small even just for the two of them, and these parents clearly don't have any regard for whether or not their children will want space. If they'll need space, the way J sometimes does. He doesn't think he's unusual in that need. "I don't understand it." He glances down at S, his head tipping briefly to the side to see if he can get a glimpse of S's face and see if this is helping at all. "I don't even know how they find enough people who want a tiny house to keep this show on the air."

S tries his best to focus on what J says, even as he tries, too, to focus on the relative steadiness of J's breathing, using it to try to slow his own, his chest still painfully tight. Little by little, though, it helps, having his attention elsewhere and J's arms still around him. It's all he can do, really. These things aren't going away, and in a way, it helps, too, that J hasn't tried to pretend otherwise, saying that it won't come to that when it still very well might. S hates it, but he would rather know that than have J downplay anything for his sake. Having some sort of plan, even a quickly promised one as a bid to try to calm him down, is better by far, more of a reassurance even as S still fears the likelihood of that happening. He can't help that, though, any more than he can help the way he trembles still — less pronounced than when he first sat down, but still probably noticeable with J holding him close like this, everything about him unsteady as he tries to will himself to settle.

"That does sound stupid," he agrees, the words half-mumbled. He's far too shaken to sleep again yet, but like this, he's aware, too, of just how exhausted he is, his body having been pushed further, probably, than it should have. Between that and the fear he hasn't quite shaken off, how relieved he is that J is alright and how comforted by being held, the sheer, terrifying vulnerability of experiencing something he still doesn't understand in front of someone else like this and the similarly strange way it feels to so slowly start coming down from it, it's easy not to give much thought to what he says now. Just moments ago, he had to choose every word so carefully, unsure how to say what he wanted to say. Having managed to say it, there's no such consideration to be made now. "I wouldn't want a house that small and there's only two of us. And with kids and pets?"

They've both spent so much time with no money and no space. J grew up with less of both than he did, too, and it certainly wasn't by choice. As much as S loved their studio, too, and the life they shared together when they lived there, it was a necessity, all they could afford when he lost his parents and could only get so much money every month. Even then, though, he used to imagine more for them — a little house somewhere, though not nearly that little, with space enough for the both of them and a nicer piano. This apartment is far better than their last, a place that he wants to make a home now that he doesn't have to be here alone, but with the state he's in now, barely present and trying to ground himself again, there's something comforting about imagining that kind of future again.

It's a relief to hear S reply like this, clearly taking in what J is saying. He couldn't fault him if he didn't hear a word. He knows there have been plenty of times when he felt as if he was falling apart and couldn't have remembered anything said to him even a minute later. He isn't sure how much it's helping, the things he's saying, but it's a start. He hopes it is, at least.

"I don't think I could ever," he says, shaking his head. "I wouldn't even bring a pet into a space that small. It wouldn't seem fair. They need room to run around, even little animals." He doesn't have any particular interest in having kids. Even if it were possible for them to have children or to adopt a child, he doubts he'd want to. Even so, he finds he has strong feelings on the topic. Granted, he has strong feelings about a lot of things, but this particularly irritates him, though he tries still to keep his voice soft. "And a kid — yah, they need space too. If you have the money for somewhere bigger — even to have your own house built — why would you do that to them?"

He grew up in a small apartment, only able to get any real room to himself because his mother was so often working. If she'd had the kind of money these people have, he knows she would never have done something like this. She would have made sure they had a place big enough for him to have solitude when he wanted it, maybe to get a better piano. They don't need anything grand, not for the two of them, but she would have given him more, not less, and then saved the difference so she could be home more. "It's selfish."

Admittedly, S only half-pays attention, focused as much on trying to breathe steadily as on what J says. It's sweet, though, endearing, how much J seems to have found himself caring about this, though it's obvious enough to S why that's the case. Of course, having grown up with so little, he would be bothered by people who could afford far more choosing that for reasons that S still hasn't grasped. He doesn't know why anyone would do that, really — not to kids, not to pets, and not to themselves. If they two of them could have afforded a bigger place when they first moved in together, he knows they would have gotten one. Maybe then he wouldn't have driven J so crazy, though that's a line of thought he's far too frayed to really let himself entertain now, trying instead to let the distraction of this soothe him, no matter how much he hates needing that in the first place.

"It is," he agrees, his voice still soft, just a bit distant. His chest is still tight, but it's a little less difficult to try to breathe now, at least; his breath still hitches intermittently, but he isn't gasping as distinctly, and little shudders still run through him, but milder than when he first sat down. The fear is still there, and he's still too aware of it, but having something else to think about does help, makes it feel a bit less all-consuming as he tries to make himself settle, to remind himself that J is here, he's fine, nothing happened. Not here, anyway, and that has to be what matters most for now. They have a chance. He can't lose it.

He's quiet for a moment, still just listening to J's breathing in an attempt to steady his own, savoring the warmth and closeness of him, working up to speaking again. There are still plenty of things he should say, more important than a show about people moving into excessively small houses, but they'll have to wait a while longer. He isn't grounded enough for that yet, not enough to get all of that out and not enough to return to even alluding to what set him off so badly, even if he still doesn't understand just what happened. "Their kids will hate them."

J nods, every response S makes coming as a relief. Little by little, he seems to be doing better, but that's relative, something he's all too familiar with. Even if he can breathe a little more now, he's still shaking, and J wishes he knew how to help with it, how to do anything more than hold him tight and keep talking. A part of him wants to take this time to tell S he understands, that he's felt this, too. For similar reasons, even — there have been days when he lingered on the edge of death and it terrified him, the desire to simply stop existing more frightening than death itself actually is. But S said to just talk to him, and he suspects that this what he needs, not J rattling on about existential crises. Later, maybe, he can try and tell him these things. For now, his priority is taking care of S.

"Probably," he says. "They clearly care more about being on TV than about their children." He can't imagine it. He knows there are people for whom that's the case, but it's one of the few ways in which he knows he was incredibly lucky growing up. He saw less of his mother than he wanted, but she did all she could to provide for him, gave up everything she knew to keep him. If he ever had kids, he'd do the same. In a strange way, he thinks he might even be doing that simply by not wanting children at all, knowing he could never give even hypothetical kids the care they need. He doesn't have the temperament for it, and the last several months have made it clear he's hardly fit to take care of himself, never mind any other living creature.

Except, of course, for S, and even there he feels a bit lost, chattering on in hopes of helping in any way. "Poor things. I hope they get out of there as soon as they can, but the dog is stuck. Yah, but sharing a room with a sibling like that! I'm glad I was an only child. Only ever liked sharing a room with you. I would have had to if I had a sibling, but they could give their kids better and they don't. Isn't that what people are supposed to do, try and give their kids better?"

In a far-off sort of way, S is aware of the effort that must be going into this. That, too, is something he should probably say, when having J help him through whatever this is means the world to him — when just being together does at all — but he doesn't quite have the words for that yet, too aware of how easily he could tip back into the same overwhelming fear from just minutes ago at most. He needs a little more time to settle first, to catch his breath, to not have to cling to J like he's afraid of losing him at any moment. At least this makes for as good a distraction as he could have asked for. It's sweet, the way J rambles about the family on some ridiculous TV show, so impassioned even now. When it isn't aimed at him, S loves that indignation, loves how much J cares. For that matter, though he hasn't wanted to need it and doesn't feel like he should now, there's something soothing about being taken care of like this, reminiscent of the days when they first moved into their studio, when he was the one barely holding himself together and J was the one supporting him through the worst of it.

He doesn't know when that changed, what fractured or how. What he does know is that this feels as comforting as anything could right now, and that even if it's hard to let himself need or accept this, he's grateful for it all the same. "Supposed to," he agrees, nodding without lifting his head. He was so lucky in that regard. Even if he lost them far too soon, he knows he was fortunate to have the parents he did, good, kind people, without some of the prejudices their classmates' parents had. They never tried to discourage his friendship with J, and there was always such affection in his home. It made the loss of them that much worse, part of the reason why he was so goddamn hopeless for so long. J pulled him out of that, too. He's never forgotten it, he never could. "You're the only person I would've wanted to share a room with, too."

For a while, it worked. Even in that tiny space, even having enough room only for one bed even before they started sharing one for other reasons, they were as happy as they could have been. He wouldn't have had that with anyone else. And he highly doubts that the children of the couple buying some ridiculously small house will have that with each other or with their parents. "I hope they have a nice yard, at least."

J smiles, a tiny bit of his worries easing at hearing S offer up something new. It's hard, he knows it is, to try and participate in any kind of conversation at a time like this, let alone to add anything. It is, a little bit, why he's trying to get S to do so, hoping he can focus on making that effort instead of everything he's scared of. They'll still have to talk about it later, he knows. If S is scared enough to have panic attacks about what he might do, then they need to discuss it. He's not sure if anything he has to say will help on that front, but he can try.

For now, though, his only goal is to help S feel better, to get him to a place where he can breathe easier, where his heart doesn't race quite so much. Pressing a kiss to S's hair, J breathes him in for a moment. "They will," he says. "It's the only good thing about it. Stupid, if you have enough money to get that much land, to build such a little house on it, but at least they can run around outside. If I were their dog, I'd run away."

He gets it now, though, or he thinks he does. It really is just the same as it was before, if differently. As badly as it hurts to see S struggling like this, he's thankful too that he can be here so he doesn't have to face it alone, the same way he felt when S's parents died and he first came to live with J and his mother, and then in the months after they moved in together. He absolutely aches with it, wishing desperately he could make it stop. He couldn't stop the pain back then either, though, only try to soften it a little. That's all he can do now, still making small, steady circles against S's back. "If I were their kid too. Ah, why did I jump right to dog?"

Wrung out as he still feels, that, at least, is enough to draw the barest hint of a laugh from S, a weak little exhale of a thing, but real all the same. "Good question," he says. It's something, at least, that there will be a yard, but like J has said, he also doesn't see the point in having a house so small built if there's plenty of land for it to go on. The whole idea is absurd, and he can't imagine it's going to end well for anyone involved. It would be one thing, he thinks, if it were a necessity, even for a family, if there weren't anywhere bigger they could afford. Having been in that position, though — and knowing that J has been for even longer — just makes it seem worse, oddly insulting to people who don't have a choice, as if it's somehow fashionable to live in as small a space as possible. If their studio was anything to judge by, it definitely isn't.

"They both should," he decides. "The kids should take the dog." Just saying it feels nonsensical, and he still feels like he's not entirely here, but talking about nothing is better than talking about the state he was in not long ago, and he'll take whatever he can get, whatever will help him settle. If nothing else, he doesn't feel steady enough to go back there, better now than he was but aware that that could too easily change. At least the longer he sits here, with J holding him close and kissing his hair, the better he feels, moving in tiny little increments away from that awful, overwhelming fear.

That doesn't mean it's just gone. A few words, a few minutes, they won't change how terrified he's been for the past few days, even if he's been capable of ignoring it more often than not. Clearly doing so did him little good, given how abruptly it overtook him, but it wouldn't be any better to rush back into it now. He just wants this first, a reminder that they're both here, together, safe, his fingers still twisted in J's shirt, but more gently now.

It feels like a victory. Small and weak though it is, it's a laugh, and J knows very well how hard-won those are. When he's struggled just to breathe, there have been times it felt cruel to him, trying to get him to laugh or smile, but he thinks he understands the impulse now. Of course S wanted to make it better. Of course he wanted to see J smile. He wants the same now, not to make light of S's fear, not to treat it like nothing, but just as reassurance that S is okay. He isn't, but he's a little closer to it, and J is relieved for it. It'll take time, he knows. It's extremely rare that this kind of thing passes in only a few minutes — he's not even sure that's ever happened for him — and he expects it'll be a while before S feels steadier. Still, at least he seems to be breathing a little easier, not shaking quite so noticeably.

"You're right," he says, arms wrapping just a little tighter around S for a moment before he goes back to stroking his back. "Now that their parents have made them get rid of so many things to fit into this itty bitty house, it'll be easier to pack to run off, too. Maybe they have family they can hide with." He doesn't, but that would be his first choice, if he did, he thinks. Maybe they would send the kids back, but they're too young to have to fend for themselves, and family seems like the best bet.

Vanity is a terrible thing, he thinks. It's what led his grandparents to drive his mother from their home, he knows, fear of how her pregnancy would reflect on them. How his very existence would make them look. At least that alone is enough for him to know he wants nothing to do with them.

"It would be nice to have some land like that," he muses. "Not that much, just a little. A yard. Somewhere to sit outside on nice days."

S still feels worn thin, his nerves all frayed, deeply shaken. At least like this, though, wrapped up in J's arms, he's a bit calmer in spite of that. His chest is still tight, but if he focuses, he can manage to take deeper, steadier breaths, trying to match them to J's, no longer all but gasping for air; that same fear lingers in the back of his mind, but with something else to occupy his thoughts, it isn't as overwhelming. He hates it still, having to be taken care of like this when it shouldn't be necessary, but it is, and J is being so sweet even when talking about nothing of particular consequence, so he can't bring himself to try to resist it. Besides, until just the other day, he couldn't even remember when the last time someone held him was. All those months he was alone, he longed for this, those last few especially. He may as well let himself have it now, soothed by the warmth of J's presence and his soft voice.

"Guess they're too young to have a friend move in with them so they don't have to go live with some relatives they barely know," he says, fond and a little wistful. All these years later — so long, and yet hardly any time at all — he's never stopped being appreciative of that. It meant the world to him then, having a way to stay, J leaving home to live with him in a tiny apartment with one bed, the two of them just barely able to make ends meet. They were too young, really, but they managed it anyway, and what should have been the worst time in his life was, in some ways, the best, too. No matter how badly things ended the first time, he's no less grateful for it now than he ever was, hoping that J hears it in what he's left unsaid for the moment.

There's enough else to say, when such a simple conversation takes more effort than it usually would. Besides, given everything, it seems better right now to talk about the future than about the past, even a vague, hypothetical future. If anything, he prefers that aspect of it; it's easier, if it's all theoretical, not to start telling himself they might not get that long, that J might not be able to stay.

"It would be nice," he agrees, thinking less about what he's saying than simply that he's saying it, his voice a murmur. "A yard. A little house — not as little as that." Between breaths, one corner of his mouth lifts the slightest bit. "A fence." Though it would matter less than the others, he would like that, too. It would be a welcome change of pace, being able to sit outside together and not worry about being seen, not having to pretend to be something other than what they are every time they set foot out the door. "I'd like that."

J smiles, utterly adoring, and nods. He moved in with S when they were both young themselves, still really just children in so many ways. No matter how it turned out, it's not a choice he regrets. Even when he was miserable in that studio, even when he had to leave, he doesn't think he ever once felt sorry they'd started. It fell apart, but they were happy once. That they get to be again is a miracle. And maybe, yes, he was the one who had to make that choice, who gave something up to have that, but he doesn't really feel that way about it. He got so much from it in return.

The future will be better, though. He believes that. He has to. Or, rather, he at least believes that it could be, that they can have one, that they'll get the chance to do better. That in itself is a big deal to him. It's nice to imagine how it might look, though, if they get that chance, if they could have more. "A fence," he echoes, nodding. "That would be nice. Just a little place for the two of us. The size of this apartment is good, but with a yard and all the neighbors are a little further away. A tree or two. Even with a fence, a tree to pull you behind so I can kiss you and no one will know. We could put a blanket down on the grass and eat outside on a nice day."

He doesn't think they'll ever own a place of their own, but he'd like to, something they can really call theirs. Still, even to rent, a house would be a luxury.

It's awful, really, painfully unfair, how he's finally started to breathe a little easier and now finds himself feeling like he could start crying, eyes brimming with tears. Really, it makes sense, or he thinks it does. Exhausted and emotional as he is, shaken still and having been so vulnerable, of course he wouldn't be able to stave off such a reaction, even, or maybe especially, in his relief, his guard far too low for that. At least this time, it's not a bad thing, necessarily — bittersweet, maybe, but more of the latter than the former. After so long apart, after everything they've been through, when he had every reason to believe they could never be together again, he can't help if it aches to hear J say such things, like something he didn't know he needed, never thought he'd get.

"That's all I ever wanted," he murmurs, nodding just a little in turn. "All I want now." He's not sure J ever understood that about him, really, though the same is probably true of him as well. His dreams were domestic rather than grand, centered around the life they could build together, not accolades or awards. A quiet life doing what he loves with the man he loves would have been enough for him. One piece of that may not be possible now, but at least it's the part he's far more readily willing to sacrifice in favor of the others, the least important of the three. Considering all he thought he lost, it's more than worth it if it means getting to stay with J.

Of course, the same would be true if they stay in this apartment, too, but it's nice to imagine somewhere that would feel a little more like theirs, without shared walls and neighbors to run into in the elevator or laundry room, where they could even sit and be together outside without fear of someone seeing. "Someday, maybe."

J nods, a tiny pulse of guilt working its way into his heart. He failed to give S that kind of peace in his last attempt at life. Everything was so much, so overwhelming, and all he could do was get caught up in all he hoped to achieve, forgetting he wanted to do so with S at his side, S as his muse, S sharing a home with him, a life. Even when he dreamed of making a name for himself as a composer, he never expected to make much money off of it, but it would have been enough maybe to get them a small place — not even quite as nice as they're talking about now, but still something that would have been theirs.

This time, he intends to get it right. If that means they spend what time they have right here in this apartment, that will be enough for him. If he can make this little dream come true, though, even in part, then he will. When he can't even get a job yet, he doesn't know how he'll manage it, but it's something to dream toward, even if it only ever stays an unreachable goal. It's still a worthier one than what drove him before.

"Someday," he agrees. "I'd like that." He lets out a soft laugh. "No kids. Probably no pets either, though I won't rule it out. Just you and me and a yard with a tree or two. Some flowers I'll try in vain to keep alive. Space enough we can have privacy when we want it and a big bed when we don't." He'd like a life like that. Some part of him used to think that, if he tried for such things before he achieved his other goals, it would be like giving up, but it doesn't feel like that now at all. It feels like a comforting kind of a dream. "But as long as you're there, the rest doesn't matter."

S doesn't know if that will still be true once the newness of this, the rush of being reunited, has worn off. He doesn't know if they'll have any kind of future at all, a thought that makes his breath catch once more, though at least he doesn't start gasping again. Still, all of that aside, right now, it sounds like something he's been wishing he could hear for years, something that was always true for him, that he long ago stopped thinking was true for J, too. And he was fine with that. He can't fault J for being ambitious, even if he never really understood the extent of it, just like he doesn't think J understood his lack of it. He doesn't need the rest not to matter as long as he matters, too. After everything, though, to have wound up here, wanting the same things, regardless of how out of reach they might be, it's deeply moving, and he's far too tired, all his emotions too close to the surface already, to pretend otherwise.

"That's all that matters to me, too," he says, his voice still soft, at least in part to try to mask the way it wavers. It's nice, dreaming about a house with a yard and trees, a future he would like for himself and to be able to give them, but he would be happy with J even in a studio the size of their last one, or some ridiculous, pointless tiny house. Where doesn't matter as long as it's them. That they could somehow find each other across worlds and lifetimes and start again in a place as insane as this seems like proof of that, an oddly comforting thought when he's still so rattled, something to cling to, to hope for. Whatever the future holds, he doesn't care, as long as J is still in it.

Saying that seems too close to what had him so upset only just a few minutes ago, though, what he's still trying to shake off. Focusing on this imaginary future feels much better. "No kids, though," he agrees. "And probably no pets." He wants to add that they at least shouldn't get one that would climb on a piano, but decides against it. All of this is theoretical anyway; there's no need. "Just us. A yard. Somewhere quiet."

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