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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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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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So he slides back in his seat and gets up again, walking around to S's side and holding out his hand. "That's good," he says warmly, "because I have no intention of letting you go this time. Come on, let's get this put away. I want to go sit with you again." He wants, really, to cuddle, but he's pretty sure he doesn't need to say as much. If nothing else, S probably wants the same. He was pretty shaken up earlier, and though he seems to be doing much better, it can't hurt to hold him more. They'd do as much anyway.
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Self-conscious as he feels for having been so panicked, and for being so worn down, he supposes it makes sense that his composure would give in such spectacular fashion. He said as much the other day, and he suspects J already knew it anyway, that when things are difficult, he tries to hold together whatever he can, to maintain any flimsy shred of control. He's fallen apart plenty in the past couple days, but there's a lot he's held at bay, too, and in a way, it just stands to reason that it would come rushing to the surface at once. There's no taking it back, so he may as well let himself lean on J instead of trying not to need anyone. It's what J asked him to do, after all.
"I want that, too," he agrees as he gets to his feet, hand staying curled around J's for a moment. He lets go in short order, though, if only because they can't very well put leftovers away while holding hands. "As soon as we've taken care of the food."
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He suspects S wants that just as badly, maybe even more. J remembers vividly how upsetting such attacks can be — not just the attack itself, but how badly he wanted S just to hold him, how often he tried to hide that because he didn't know how to explain what was happening. Shutting S out was his mistake, time and again. He doesn't expect S to do anything half as foolish, but he can still step in and try to offer what he wishes he'd accepted. He was too stubborn, too paranoid and proud, and they both suffered for it. Now, though, all he wants is to take care of S. Carrying plates and containers back into the kitchen, he sets them on the sink and goes looking for storage tubs.
"Some of it can just stay in the container, I think," he muses. The samgyetang, what remains of it, will need to be moved into something else, but it's not like the fridge is so full they can't just put some of these straight in.
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"I think so, too," he agrees, turning to open and peer into a cabinet, retrieving a container from inside it. "Here, this should do for the samgyetang. I'll make some room in the fridge." It's hardly packed full or anything, but even so, crossing to it and pulling the door open, he sets a few things aside so they can fit their leftovers in neatly. As much as he may not usually order to excess like this when getting food out, in this case, he thinks, it was very much worth it. He wouldn't have wanted to have to cook, they're a bit more comfortable in terms of money now that J has decided to stay here, and it's nice, really, to do something a little bit special. Besides, it's good to know there's a restaurant nearby where they can get good food like they would have gotten back home.
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He sets the container next to the rest of the food and starts moving plates into the sink, rinsing them under warm water. Really, with the red sauce and the cheese, tteokbokki makes too much of a mess just to wash off without a bit of scrubbing, but he doesn't want to linger for too long here. Now that they aren't eating, he feels aware all over again of how fraught this evening was, and he just wants to pull S close. With that in mind, he plugs the sink and runs hot water, pouring in a little detergent. "I'll let these soak or the cheese will just stick to it all. That should be fine for now, right?"
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Closing the refrigerator again, he straightens, then holds out a hand for J. "Might be a little harder to clean tomorrow, but we'll manage. I just want to go sit down with you." Even just saying so feels like too much, really, but that feeling is one he tries to ignore. J just finished saying how much he wants S to be able to talk to him too, and he never used to hold back in that regard, more vulnerable around J than anyone else in his life. S wants to have that again so badly. All he can do, then, is try.
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Stepping close, he moves a hand to rest at S's waist. "Couch or bed?" he asks. The couch is closer, but the bed might be more convenient, if S ends up drifting off again. But then, with how frightened S was when he woke up earlier — even if J would be in the room with him now, he thinks, it might scare S to sleep again so soon. He can't possibly know either way, not least when S may not even be sure himself. All he can do, J thinks, is to be here. It doesn't feel like a lot. Yet, at the same time, he knows how desperately alone he used to feel even when they lived together, shutting himself away or trying to pretend he was fine when he clearly wasn't. He made that mess all on his own. If he learned anything at all from it, though, that can help S now, then he'll make use of it however he can.
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"The couch is fine," he says with a ghost of a smile, soft and barely there but still so fond. Appreciative, really, in a way he wouldn't know how to put into words. "I'll get the blanket from the bed, and you can keep watching TV, and... when you want to go lie down, we can just move back to the bedroom." Having said as much, he nods a little to himself, satisfied with this decision. If J wants to do something else, that's fine, too, but with it left in his hands, he thinks this makes the most sense.
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"Okay," he says, leaning in to brush a kiss against S's cheek. "Sounds good, darling. Come on, let's get the blanket." S may have said he's going to do it himself, but J doesn't see any reason why he should have to do so alone. The bedroom isn't far and he knows S will be fine — he might have been badly panicked earlier, but it's not the same thing, not like he's a danger to himself the way J knows is true of him — but there's no reason not to go with him. All he would do out here is sit on the couch and fret needlessly. So, instead, he steps back, swinging their hands between them as he heads toward the hallway. "Probably isn't anything good on anyway, but the company improves it."
The point wasn't the quality of what was on the television anyway. It was the sound it provided, something to keep an eye on, to try and draw his focus off whatever terrible path his thoughts wanted to wander down. Idle chatter with S will likely serve the same purpose; the last couple days, he's been letting himself say more of what's on his mind than he has in a long time, and it's a relief. He'd stopped thinking that could help because he'd stopped trying to do it. It might not be a perfect process, but it's better by far than letting the same thoughts cycle endlessly through his head without anywhere else to go.
"Don't ask me to explain any of it, though," he adds lightly, flicking the light switch. "Even when I know what they're saying, I don't know why they're doing such stupid things."
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So he keeps his hand in J's as they head toward the bedroom, expression making clear how fond and how appreciative he is, even if he wouldn't be quite sure how to say it or even if he should. He still isn't altogether sure what actually happened earlier, and he doubts he'll figure it out tonight. Better just to let J take care of him for a little while, as J asked to do. At least, being this exhausted, it's easier not to fight that. They'll get the blanket and curl up on the couch, he can maybe doze off for a little while, and then they'll sleep in each other's arms. If anything will make him feel more settled, it's all of that.
"Alright, I won't ask," he says with a soft laugh, giving J's hand a gentle squeeze before he lets go only to cross to the bed, starting to gather up the topmost blanket, the bed still unmade from when he got up a little while ago. It's just as well, really, one more thing he doesn't want to deal with now, both because he would rather go sit down and because they'll be getting in bed soon enough anyway. There's no sense in spending time and effort on it now. "And after the one you were telling me about earlier, I'm not expecting to find anything good."
He smiles, tired but earnest, as he moves toward J again. "Let's go sit."
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He doesn't particularly care, though, at least not tonight. It's not as if he's going to pay very much attention to whatever comes on. Still, if it helps him to have that background noise, maybe S will find it helpful too. Once they make it to the couch, he moves to tuck himself into the corner, arm out for S, beckoning him closer. He wants so much just to pull S into his embrace. That's been one of the biggest comforts these last few days. At first, it worried him that S wasn't scared, but as they've spent more time together and talked more, he's felt more secure in the certainty that S understands perfectly well the risks he's taking and that he doesn't particularly feel like he's taking any at all. It's put J gradually more at ease. Neither of them yet trust J with his own wellbeing, and he feels that's perfectly justified, but knowing S trusts him when they're together helps him to see himself as trustworthy. It makes him feel safe in turn, cherished, understood. All he wants, really, is to return the favor.
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It's still there now, for that matter, but easier to quiet. He trusts what J said earlier, hazy as much of tonight feels now, between his exhaustion and his emotional state. He has to. "Mm, I should have brought a pillow, too," he says, nose scrunching a little. "You'll just have to be my pillow instead."
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Truthfully, he loves this kind of thing. Sometimes he just wants space, no one at all touching him, even talking to him. Other times, he wants this, the two of them all tangled up, inseparable, whether happy or not. He likes cuddling, plain and simple — now, maybe, more than before. There was a lot of time, as he remembers it, where he could barely stand something like this; his mind just wouldn't let him relax into it, too full of concerns and paranoia. But he missed it, too, desperately, and it feels even better now for knowing how much S still trusts him, still loves him.
Besides, right now, nothing matters more than ensuring S is comfortable. He pokes gently at S's hip. "Ah, maybe after that dinner, I'll even be better at it. I thought I might be too sharp to be a good pillow, but I ate so well."
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He exhales slowly, still having to focus to do so, though it's much easier now than it was earlier. "Sharp or not," he continues, "you're still comfortable." There's nowhere he's happier. For all he cares right now, they could be anywhere, the specific couch or apartment or city irrelevant. He likes thinking of this as theirs now, fond of this place and everything in it simply because J has decided to stay, but the same would have been just as true anywhere else. "I like this. Just sitting with you."
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But he spent too long on the other side of that divide. Maybe S will feel differently, he doesn't know, but he remembers too clearly how it was before — how often he'd will himself to keep quiet when he would have been better off talking, how he pushed aside any efforts S made to get him to do so. Though he knows it's hard to discuss, though he isn't entirely sure how he could have replied if he'd actually done so, the last couple days have made it increasingly clear to him that it helps. The panic doesn't go away, but it lessens when he talks to S, or it gets easier to bear, one of those. He's not entirely sure which, but it doesn't matter. It helps. And if he can help S, he will.
"How are you feeling?" he asks, resting his forehead against S's head. "Better?" He seems to be, J is pretty sure, his breathing much more even, the stress no longer coming off him in almost tangible waves. Even so, it's worth asking, worth giving S a space to speak if he needs to.
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