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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.
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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Still, the apartment feels oddly empty without a piano, and if he's aware of it, he's certain J must be, too. He can even imagine where one would go if he did have the money, but he doesn't — doesn't even have a job yet — and he doesn't know how to bring it up without admitting that he barely plays anymore. There shouldn't be any reason for him to balk at the thought of saying that, of all things, but he has no interest in ruining the mood again so soon, and he's sure that's all it would do.
"I have no idea," he says instead, shaking his head a little. "I got too used to that studio. It's nice having more kitchen space, but I don't know what to do with the rest of it."
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Still, he can feel it tightening his throat, his gaze lowered but not quite taking in the food, as he scrambles for an answer. He doesn't have one. Or he has exactly one and it's the wrong one.
Eventually he'll have to say it. He can't just erase music from his existence without a word. There is, admittedly, a small part of him that's almost relieved, a bigger part ashamed to feel that way. Even so, it's so intrinsically woven into his being that he doesn't know how to address its absence without starting a conversation that ends with him in tears, and he's already cried enough tonight. They both have.
Even in that tiny studio, they managed to make room.
It feels disingenuous to keep on as if S doesn't know what he isn't saying. He must, and the fact that he hasn't brought up a piano himself says as much. J's skin is crawling with holding it back. He did that a lot before, keeping things just under his tongue, feeling his nerves light up unpleasantly. Though he never stopped feeling uncomfortable about it, he did get used to it. He doesn't want to do so again.
"I have an idea," he admits wryly, his tongue feeling too thick in his mouth, "but not a good one." He really made a mess of everything. That isn't something he wants to say now. It all fell apart so utterly, and that isn't something J wants S to think about right now, when he's already worried about J's wellbeing. "Ah, nice to have a bigger bedroom, though. And a bigger bed. Bigger shower."
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Something seems wrong beyond that, though. S isn't sure what it is, exactly — he can hazily grasp at reasons why the subject might be an awkward one, but he isn't about to assume he knows what J is thinking. However well he might be able to read him, he can't do so that well, and it would feel presumptuous to try. The last thing he wants is to ruin the mood when they've finally calmed down, anyway, and pushing the subject seems likely to do that in some way or another, no matter how well-intentioned he would be. It's not like it would be the first time he said entirely the wrong thing in an attempt to help.
"I don't know what to do with the rest that would actually be affordable," he says, amending his previous statement, voice a bit dry. It's true, anyway. Torn between not wanting to be too serious and not wanting to be dismissive, though, he sets his chopsticks down again and reaches over to rest his hand on J's arm. "I guess we probably shouldn't be interior decorating until I have a job, anyway."
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Still, the way S reaches out makes J's heart thump harder for a moment, longing just to let it all spill out of him. The problem is, on top of the rest of it, he doesn't know exactly what it is he'd say. There's too much he isn't ready to discuss — though, if he's honest, he doesn't know how he'll ever be able to talk about the last several months easily — and so much he doesn't know how to put into words.
"Probably not," he agrees, forcing a small smile. "Maybe we just stick to the basics for now." Even that feels a little off to him. Music, after all, is a basic necessity of life for them, even if a piano can hardly be considered such. Even a radio seems like too much to ask for right now, though. He's too scared of himself, too afraid of what he'll do if given the slightest nudge in the wrong direction again. Trying to move forward without any kind of music — even the idea of it leaves him feeling small and lost, and yet he doesn't know what other choice he has, at least to begin with. "Still, it's nice to dream, right? I was already coming up with an entire house."
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"It is nice," he murmurs, partly to buy himself a moment's time, partly because what J has said is true and leaves him newly fond all over again, expression softening as he looks over at J. "And of course you were. You always had bigger dreams than I did." He says it like a compliment, like something he's in awe of. In a way, he is, really. While he may not have understood the scale of J's ambition any more than he thinks J understood his lack thereof, it was still something he spent a long time admiring in J. Selfishly, he likes the idea of it taking this form instead now, but that also makes him all the more aware of what isn't being said. Whatever else has happened, it's hard to imagine any dream of J's not including a piano. "Tell me more about it. The house."
Like he said earlier, it's what he always wanted. He never gave it much detail, though, just imagined their future being spent together somewhere nicer than their studio, though he loved it there, too. Now, it's hard to tell if this is the right approach or not, part of him instinctively bracing himself for it to go over as badly as all his attempts to cheer J up used to. It feels best to him, though, a cautious way forward, and all he can do is hope that J will tell him if he's making whatever this awkwardness is worse.
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Why S still looks at him like his dreams are something good about him, he doesn't know. They frighten him now.
But a house, a house might be okay.
"It's nothing fancy," he says, prodding around a piece of bulgogi. "A little one, just on the edge of town, I think, so it's quiet but not far from everything. Just a couple of bedrooms, so we can use one for... whatever we want to do that week." He huffs out a laugh and takes another bite. Though his true passion has never wavered, there are plenty of things he might have liked to try if he'd had the time or the money to indulge in new interests. Maybe now he can. "With a kitchen as big as this one, and a nice bathroom. Maybe... a little garden. I don't think I'd be any good with plants, but it'd be nice to have some flowers. Trees, like I said, to hide behind, and a porch to sit on." He could, he knows, go on. Once he starts spinning dreams, it's easy to get swept up in them, especially when he's sharing them with S, but he wants S to be able to chime in. Also he wants some more tteokbokki, so he picks up a bit, and nods to S. "What else?"
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"Let's see," he says, lips pursed in exaggerated thoughtfulness. There isn't much else that comes to mind, really; there isn't anything else he could ask for. He almost says as much, but since J has started this, he figures he can reach a little further, dream a little bigger in turn. "A TV," he decides. "But a really nice one. Ah, they make them so big now, with a picture so clear. I've seen some in store windows. We'll have one of those."
Pausing for a bite of food, he considers what else they could have in this house of theirs, trying to stay within the same realm of not impossible but not immediately within their grasp. "Some kind of spare room," he adds. "Like a study or something. One that's all yours, so you have somewhere to go when you need space. And... a nice tub in that nice bathroom. A big, deep one."
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It's the rest that touches him, though, his smile soft, faintly grateful. In another time, another life, he knows what he would put in a study. In this one, it matters more to him that S put it in these terms than any notion of what he would do in it. "All of that," he agrees. "A tub so big we could just rest in it together without being cramped. And — and it would be good, a room like that, where... if I need to be alone, I can just... close the door." It wouldn't have to be more than that. He doesn't need to be able to lock the door or anything, and he thinks S would feel better if he can't, though maybe that's bringing too much reality into the dream. But if he needed that space, it would be good to have a way to signal as much gently, especially if he doesn't feel like speaking. It isn't like he doesn't want S's company specifically. There are just times when he needs to be entirely on his own, at least for a little while, and he knows S knows that, but still, with how he cruelly he behaved before, it helps to hear S suggest this, gives him hope that he might be able to take those moments in time he needs without S taking it personally. There was a time when he wouldn't have, but J is gradually adjusting to the understanding that he made that difficult.
"Just until I feel like a person again," he says wryly, though sometimes the problem is that he feels far too much of a person. He gives a little gasp as a thought occurs to him which isn't actually dramatic at all. "Yah, you know what else we should have? A washer and dryer in the house." They have it in the basement here, but even that is a luxury to J. He's never once had that kind of thing for his very own. Most of his life, he washed his clothes by hand — or, really, very often his mother did it while he was at school — and they hung it up to dry, or else they walked to a laundromat. But if he gets to build a dream for them, then it's going to be one where they don't have to make their way into town or wherever every time they run out of clean clothes and sheets.
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He knew that, anyway. Now, it's more like he has to remind himself of it. Despite having the one to suggest it, despite J's response being largely what he would have expected, he still has to stop and tell himself that it isn't personal, that it wouldn't be about J needing to get away from him, just needing space, nothing more simple or more complicated than that. In a proper house, with more rooms, maybe it would just start feeling natural, anyway. Maybe, given enough time together, he won't be so fucking clingy, wanting to spend every moment at J's side, as if needing to be assured of his continued existence.
Thoughtful, he then brightens at J's suggestion, nodding in agreement. "We should," he says. "That would save so much trouble." Not having to go to a laundromat or even just down to the basement, it wouldn't feel like nearly as bothersome a task, something they could do in their own space, on their own time. They wouldn't have to save change or make sure to have a set of clean sheets on hand if they could do laundry at home as needed, too. "I'd really like that," he adds, warmer. "A place that's just our own."
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But this apartment is more than they had in Seoul. Being here at all, alive and physically well, with the man he loves, he would have made do with a place as small as they had before. He can't pretend, though, that it doesn't help that they have more space here, even as he knows he won't be able to take advantage of that for a while. He's not all that inclined to be away from S for long anyway, and he thinks S needs his presence even more.
"It would be nice," he agrees. "Close enough to town it isn't an ordeal to get groceries, but somewhere quiet and calm." He laughs softly. "Where we can make as much noise as we want without pissing off the neighbors." He arches an eyebrow, giving S a significant glance. Here, at least, without any piano on hand and the pair of them currently not inclined to argue, there's really no other kind of noise they could make. He's thankful as it is that the walls in this apartment seem much sturdier than the ones in Seoul, because he's not particularly interested in or practiced at being quiet, and he doesn't need nosy neighbors making guesses about what they're up to. "Mm, I like this apartment though. I'm happy here."
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It's different now. S doesn't need to think twice about it as he nods again, his smile widening just a bit further. "So am I," he says. Despite all the crying they've done tonight and the panic he woke up in, he's so fucking happy, far more so than he thought he ever would be again. He's home, sitting at a small table with his boyfriend, a ridiculous amount of food still in front of them, discussing a hypothetical future but pleased with their present, too. "I like it, too. I'm in no hurry to leave."
J will know this, he feels fairly certain, but it seems worth saying anyway. Nice as it is to talk about potential ideas — dreams, really — for the future he thought they wouldn't get to have, he likes their present, too. He would have been just as happy, for that matter, in a studio as small as their last one, in an apartment even smaller. He never needed much to be content with J. If anything, that's truer now even than it used to be. "One day, maybe, we can have all that, but this... this is nice."
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"One day, maybe," he agrees. "And by then, we'll probably have all kinds of things filling this place and no idea how it filled up." In spite of their shifting moods, though, it's been a nice night — a nice day overall — and it feels good to sit here like this and see S looking happy. It wasn't very long ago at all that he was in a panic and J barely knew how to help, and it feels like, somehow, he managed to get it right. It's an unfamiliar feeling these days, the quiet contentment of being useful to someone else, reassuring, providing love and comfort. Getting things right instead of ruining everything.
He glances up from another spoonful of samgyetang and tips his head to the side. "Ah, I think already I would miss this place. It feels important. Where we had a fresh start. But I wouldn't miss sharing walls with neighbors."
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If they never live anywhere else, he'll still be happy as long as they're together. If they wind up broke — again — and have to move into some shoe box apartment, it still won't matter. He isn't about to be picky when he was never supposed to be with J again at all. Still, he wants it, this little future they've collectively imagined for themselves. He doesn't expect it, and he won't be disappointed or regretful if it never happens, but it's a nice idea for the future, a dream for the two of them to share this time.
"I like it even more when you put it like that," he says warmly, head ducking for a moment, though he doesn't look away from J for long, even while still taking bites of his food. "I was thinking about what it was like when I first got here, but you're right. It's where we got to start again. It's... home, now."
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So the apartment may not be anything special at a glance, beyond being notably more spacious than anywhere else he's lived previously, but it means a lot. Their studio gave him a similar feeling — they moved there under such grim circumstances, but it was home, the first place they had that was theirs and no one else's, the place where they fell in love. Or, anyway, where they admitted they had done so, since J is pretty sure he fell in love sometime before that without having put a name to it. It's never been something he could pinpoint with any precision. Figuring out he had fallen in love was a more distinct moment than having done so to begin with.
"Home," he agrees softly. "I'm glad it's home." He really didn't want to leave, but he was so determined to do so if he felt it was necessary. Though he hasn't yet felt nearly as desperate as he did that first day, when he fell apart so utterly he only half-remembers any of it, he knows now he had it backwards. If he's a threat to S in any way, he thinks, he'll figure that out fast; he's hyperaware of the possibility and on close guard. He's much more of a danger to himself, and if he were on his own — he knows how easily he can fall into despair, how utterly without warning. And if S has trouble sleeping now, J can't imagine him sleeping at all, knowing J was by himself in this state. "Things haven't felt like home in so long, and now..."
He shrugs. It's hard to find words for how overwhelmingly good it is to feel this way again. Even after he left S and moved back in with his mother, that brief while before the professor invited him to stay on campus, it didn't feel like home anymore, like he'd somehow grown too big for his childhood spaces, took up too much room, all jagged limbs jammed into awkward corners. He needed this, needed to find a way to feel at all like himself again. Needed, more than anything else, to be with S.
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"It hasn't," he agrees, quiet. "I... didn't think anything ever would again." It's too serious, probably, heavier than this moment should be, but he can't not say it. In a way, it just seems fitting, too. He was a child the first time he lost his home, reeling from the deaths of his parents, clueless how to move forward. So fucking hopeless, he didn't know how he would ever feel good or right or at home again, and then he and J forged one for themselves, pieced it together in that ridiculously small apartment, until he wound up, in spite of everything, the happiest he'd ever been. He was still sad, too, but then as now, the two coexisted, happiness and grief impossibly intertwined, one grown out of the other.
None of this should even have been able to happen, though, so of course he thought any actual home would be out of reach. He lost that when he lost J. That studio could never have been home anymore in J's absence, when just being there reminded him of what he used to have; that reminder was the same reason he wouldn't have left on his own. Now he's gotten J back and a home as well, and there aren't words for how grateful that still leaves him. "I'm glad it's home, too," he echoes, which is a start, if also an understatement. "I'm glad we're home." He huffs out a breath. "Even in a place as strange as this."
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He nods, small, and then, without quite thinking about it, gets to his feet. Walking around the table to S's side, he bends down to kiss him. It's probably ridiculous. The table isn't that big and they probably don't have much longer before they both decide they're done eating anyway. He doesn't care. He just wants to kiss his boyfriend, to touch him, a hand on S's shoulder and the other at his cheek. This time, he's determined, he won't fuck it up. At least, he intends not to fuck up in the same ways, not to take for granted how incredibly fucking lucky he is and what a supportive, loving boyfriend he has. Isolating himself from the rest of the world is one thing, perhaps entirely necessary as he regains his balance, but he won't shut S out again.
"I love you," he murmurs when he draws back, crouching slightly. He isn't just going to run off back to his side of the table, not yet, enjoying the proximity too much. His thumb brushing along S's cheek, he smiles, quietly fond. "I think anywhere we found ourselves now would be strange. We're here. That's enough."
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What he isn't expecting is for J to get up and walk over to him. Still, S doesn't hesitate to respond in kind when J leans into him, eyes half-shut as he returns the kiss, one hand reaching up to curl gently over the back of J's neck. This, this is good, a better reaction than he'd honestly hoped for. They should finish eating, probably, and take care of the leftovers so they can go curl up together again, but for the moment, savoring this feels far more important.
"I love you, too," he says, just as soft and impossibly fond. "And it is. It's enough. It's... everything." As long as they're together, he doesn't give a damn where they are. This, them, is all that matters. The rest can all just fit around that. "If it had anything to do with our both being here, I think that strange is a good thing, anyway."
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He settles instead for leaning in for another kiss. "We were always weird anyway," he murmurs, at once wry and affectionate, once he draws back. Straightening up, he presses a kiss to S's hair, making himself move back around the table to take his seat again. "Might as well live in a place that should be impossible." He ducks his head, reaching for his chopsticks again, mostly to keep himself from changing his mind and returning to S's side. "I'm looking forward to seeing more of it later. You can show me around."
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Despite that thought occurring to him, he nods in agreement to what J has said, smiling at the thought as he reaches for his own chopsticks again. "I'd like that," he says. "I haven't seen very much, but I can show you what I have seen. And we can see the rest together." It's a little bit like he imagines it would be if they ever got to travel, or at least it will be at first. That's out of the picture now, for obvious reasons, but they might as well be tourists until they're more settled here. Almost teasing, he adds, "I like being weird, too. I like that we both are."
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Admittedly, he's pretty sure S did a good job of blending in both before and after that. J saw him now and then, being in the same class, but he didn't really pay him very much attention. He didn't know S was different from the others until S made it clear he was nothing like them, not in the ways that counted. S, he knows, admired his confidence, his bravery, back then, but to J, S is the one that made everything happen, the one who was brave enough to be kind, confident enough to wait for J to trust him.
"I don't want it to," he adds. "I like how weird you are."
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His smile softens a little after a moment. Under more typical circumstances — if such a thing even exists anymore for them, or could for a long time — he might just leave it at that, let the humor speak for itself. They've only been back together for a couple of days, though, after he spent so long having every reason to believe they would never even see each other again, never mind reunite like this. For all the panic he felt earlier, so impossible to contain, there's just as much fondness, spilling out of him with every chance it gets.
"I like how weird you are, too," he adds, warm. "Always have."
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"Mm, I know," he says, lightly teasing, though he can't hide that he's pleased. "You always had really bad taste." Still, he nudges his foot against S's shin in turn, enjoying the quiet blend of fondness and levity. It's a nice pause after the evening they've had, and it makes it very difficult for him to try and be reasonable. When he wants very much just to cuddle on the couch, taking care of the food they haven't yet eaten feels like a lot of effort. "We should order from this place again sometime."
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Still he can't manage to be anything less than utterly fond. It's so nice to sit here like this, sharing a meal and teasing each other, savoring the utter normalcy of it. "And we should. This is good. Plus we'll get another meal out of it for sure."
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The thoughtfulness leaves his expression, though the pout remains, but it turns into a kind of a smile when he glances from the food back to S. "Of course I like that you have bad taste. It means I get to be with you." He suspects that, now that he's not eating — trying, at least, to keep himself from picking at food when he's not even hungry now — S will be done soon, too. But he's not about to get up and start putting things away until they're both sure they're finished. Instead, he's content to lean with an elbow on the table, watching S. It's cozy, just sitting like this together over a meal. They can't yet get through a day without tears, but they can eat dinner happily enough, and he's enjoying how comfortable it feels.
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He nudges J's foot with his own again, contact mostly just for the sake of it. "Ah, and if that means I have bad taste, I wouldn't want it to be any better," he says, once again teasing and earnest in equal measure. He really doesn't think he has bad taste at all, or that his feelings for J are any indication of that, but he wouldn't want to want anything other than this. It doesn't matter where they are, really; he's exactly where he's supposed to be. "Not when I get to be with you."
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