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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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."

Even if they could have kids, J knows it wouldn't be a good idea. Maybe eventually he would change his mind on that front, because he knows they're still very young, no matter how old and worn he might feel. He doubts it though. He doesn't have his mother's patience, and that's the least of the reasons why he'd be no good at it. For that matter, if he can't even remember to feed himself regularly, he doubts he'd be much good at taking care of a dog or a cat. It's nice to be reminded they're still in agreement about all of that.

Besides, when he's crafting an imaginary future for them, he doesn't want to imagine anyone or anything else in it, not yet. That he gets this at all is still so much. He wants just to enjoy that for a while. Kissing S's hair again, he nods. "Close to the city," he says, though he knows they don't really have any other options in this place, "but not right in it. On the edges or in a neighborhood, quiet. Somewhere peaceful. I'd like that."

He laughs, hushed. "Somewhere with air con," he says, "or better ventilation, so you don't have to peel me off the floor in the summer." He knows he used to whine about that, but he endured it as a child, too, making do with rickety floor fans. Back then, after he got old enough to understand their situation, he didn't complain so much, but when it was just him and S, it felt okay to do so. This apartment, at least, seems better equipped for that kind of weather, though it's still too cool for him to know for sure.

Whether or not anything ever comes of it, just being able to talk about this is more than S ever thought he would get. Days ago, he had every reason to believe he would be alone for the foreseeable future, if not forever. Maybe that, too, is part of why he was so shaken when he woke up alone. New as this is, it still feels so fragile, not because he doesn't trust J or worries he might change his mind but just because this shouldn't be possible. Of course he would be afraid of losing it, losing J, again so soon. Of course he would be afraid that it wouldn't last.

He wants it to, though. More than anything, he wants the future he always thought they'd get but didn't, no matter what that winds up looking like. A house with a yard and trees in some peaceful neighborhood would be incredible, but he's never needed more than he had to be happy with J. That feels even truer now than it used to. S doesn't think, at least, that he ever really took their relationship for granted — he naïvely assumed it would last, but he always knew how lucky he was — but he's that much more appreciative now, too grateful to be particular about where they live, not that he ever could have been anyway.

Still, it's a nice dream, nicer still that it might actually be possible, that J wants it, too. S still feels perilously emotional, like he could too easily swing back into the same panic from a few minutes ago or start crying just for the fact of imagining a future together, but the last thing J says helps with that, at least, drawing another little exhale of an almost-laugh from him. "No, definitely somewhere with air con," he agrees. "If we can have a yard, I think we can have air." He wants to tease J, to say that he doesn't want to listen to him complain about how hot it is all summer every year, but this doesn't seem like the time. He'll deal with that, too, and gladly, if it means having all their summers to spend together. "Ah, what else? I can't think of anything."

S's voice sounds just a little bit lighter to J — still somewhat tense, like he's only just holding back the emotions that could so easily overwhelm him, but not nearly as much so as just minutes ago. Every little shift in his tone brings J relief, grateful that he seems to be having at least a tiny positive effect, helping to soothe S when he knows how incredibly hard it is to come down from that kind of fear.

"A kitchen," he offers. That S can't think very clearly isn't a surprise. When he's like this himself, J knows he can't think much about anything other than the things he can't stop thinking about. It just means he'll have to try to help keep both of them focused on other things. "This one is good. One like that, with some counter space, so we can cook together. I still want to learn a lot of recipes. You won't have to worry so much about keeping me fed if I can cook more. Or maybe we'll both starve if I'm the one cooking." He laughs a little, shaking his head at himself. "But I'd like to try. To take care of you like you take care of me. Still, one with enough room for both of us to cook without knocking things over or running out of space for ingredients and dishes, I think that would be good."

"You are taking care of me," S murmurs, the words spilling out of him thoughtlessly, soft and fond, if just a little bit rueful. He shouldn't need it. As much as this distraction helps, it's still there in the back of his head, the fact that he shouldn't require J's comfort over the possibility of J wanting to die again. J is the one who did that, after all, who might wind up in that same place once more. It isn't fair that J should have to try to make him feel better because of it, but he is, doing as much as anyone or anything could to keep him anchored when he could too easily drift back into too-deep water.

It was like this for a while, years ago, after he first lost his parents. S can't be sure when things changed, almost reversed; he can't be sure of a lot of things. What he does know is that it means more to be held and soothed and distracted than he would know how to say right now, having to settle instead just for that acknowledgment of what J is doing. Later, when he's steadier, he can get into it more. Right now, it seems like enough just to be that present at all.

"And it would be good," he agrees, idly toying with J's shirt where his hand is wrapped around it. "A real kitchen. With enough space for both of us."

"Always," J says softly, smiling as he looks at the one S plays with his shirt. That's a good sign, that he says that; it means J is doing something, and that's as much as he can ask for, even if he wants more. If he could make it all go away, he would. If he were to try to, though, if he said S doesn't need to worry about him, that he doesn't think he'll ever want to kill himself again, it would be a lie, and they would both know it. That would only make things worse, he's pretty sure. It's better just to be here as much as he can be, as steady as he can be. "I want to take care of you always. Not just now, not just this, but in every way I can."

He lifts a hand to brush through S's hair, the other still gentle at his back. "I love you, Sihyun-ah," he says, "so, so much." He won't always be able to do this, to be the one giving comfort. Sometimes he'll need it — more often than he'd like, undoubtedly. But that's how it is in a relationship. He's learning that now, figuring out things he should have known years ago. He wants to give S as much as he can when he's able to. It will make the times when he doesn't have the strength to do more but keep dragging himself forward as best he can easier to bear.

"What should we make?" he asks, not wanting to risk making S too emotional — or himself, for that matter. "In our kitchen, with all that counter space. What do you want to cook?"

Please stay. It's there on the tip of his tongue, barely held back, repeating over and over in his head like when he was so overwhelmed yesterday. S knows, he knows, that he doesn't get to ask that. It wouldn't be fair, it wouldn't be right, when he can only guess at the kind of pain J must be living with now. It's all he wants, though, to be able to hold onto this, not to have to lose J again. If that's what J wants, to take care of him always, in every way, then the only way he can do that, S thinks, is by being here. Anything else — the fear that overtook him so completely a few minutes ago, the crying they've done and have yet to do, the awful, messy history between them — he can face, as long as they're together, as long as J can find it in him to stay alive.

He can't say it. He can only stay close, letting J hold him, soothe him, trying to keep his breathing as slow and steady as he possibly can. "I love you, too," he replies instead, the words soft and just barely tinged with melancholy. "So much. I always will." More than ever, that's the truest thing he knows, an indelible, unshakable part of him. Both losing J the way he did and then unexpectedly getting him back have made that incredibly clear, though he wouldn't have doubted it in the first place. Even if the worst does happen, it will still be true then, something he'll carry around for as long as he has left.

When this calm still feels so precarious, he can't let himself think too much about that now. He tries to focus on J's question instead, coming up with some menu, but he gets stuck between what's feasible and what's fantasy, and it makes little difference anyway. "Anything," he says. "I don't know. But I'll show you how to make all of it."

Something about it stings, a quiet, shared melancholy, and J wonders if he was wrong to say that. It's true, though, and he was utterly in earnest. He's always wanted that, to give S the same kind of love and support he's always given J, to be his best friend, his protector, even when it's his own thoughts he needs to be protected from. More than anything, he wants to believe he'll be able to do it. He's more hopeful about that than he could have thought possible, but that doesn't mean it's guaranteed. When he's only just begun to cope with the things that haunt him — when even that assessment might be a generous one — he can't possibly say what tomorrow will bring. He aches to stay, clinging to life, to S, with all he has in him, but he's grasped after the things he longs for before and failed. He won't make a promise that solemn without knowing he can keep it.

But he can hear what S doesn't say, what that always carries, the way it would echo in his absence. It's all he can do not to hug him tighter and keep professing his love, make promises he's unsure of, fall into tears himself. But when he can tell that S is still trying to regain his balance, it wouldn't be right. If he wants to take care of S, it starts with this. Later, maybe, maybe, he can tell S these things, but right now, it would only make things worse for both of them. Besides, the problem is S already knows. He wouldn't have gotten this upset if he weren't all too aware of how precarious J's place in this world is.

With a soft, thoughtful hum, he nods. "All of it," he echoes. "I want to learn everything." He lets out a tiny laugh. "Ah, well, the basic things. I don't think I'll ever be a chef. But I could learn to make steamed eggs and kimchi jjigae and tteokbokki. Ooh, cheese tteokbokki."

Even just in J's words, there's a welcome distraction, one that comes not a moment too soon. Still curled close, S lets out a soft laugh of his own — still not much more than an exhale, really, but it's something, and hard to help given what J has just said. "You could be a chef if you wanted to," he says. He's never known anyone as stubborn, as persistent as J; if he really wanted to be, S thinks, he would get there, find a way to make it happen. And though this probably isn't something he should joke about, veering too close to uncomfortable truths, he is at once just out of it and just relaxed enough and worried about enough other things that he continues without stopping to talk himself out of it, quiet and fond. "Just watch, I bet I'll teach you everything I know and you'll wind up cooking circles around me."

He wouldn't mind that, if it happened. He likes cooking, and just happens to have gotten fairly decent about it, but it's nothing he particularly cares about beyond keeping himself, and now the two of them, fed. Especially when he was younger, too, when his parents had just died and he and J were first living on their own, it was something he could do, one small thing he could control, a way of moving forward and proving he could handle it. It's nice to know that J likes the things he cooks, but it's mostly just convenient.

"We'll make those, though," he adds. "In that kitchen, with all the counter space."

J laughs and shakes his head. "I think you're mixing us up," he teases. He was so jealous of that for so long, how easily S seemed to pick up on how to play the piano, how good he became so quickly. It isn't like it was all easy. He practiced too and he observed, and it took time before he got as good as he is now, but he did it faster even than J did. Or maybe it's that it always seemed effortless in spite of the effort, like things just came naturally to S. When he was little, J thought he was the same with the piano, but the further he tried to push himself, the less true it felt.

It doesn't matter so much now. Any resentment over that is nothing but an old habit he's learning to break, and it isn't like he's playing at all these days. He probably won't for a very long time; he's not sure he ever will again. "But I'll do my best," he says, "and if I cook circles around you, then good, more reason for me to be the one who makes dinner for us. All the things you like best, that's what I want to learn."

He shrugs. "Though now I just want tteokbokki." It's been a while, but he's not even sure what time it is or if anywhere around here sells it or if the grocery store is open for them to go buy the stuff to make tteok themselves. Given how wrung out S must feel, that seems like a lot of work anyway.

If he wanted to, he could dispute that, but it really doesn't seem like the time. S is too tired for that, too unwilling to shatter this fragile contentedness when that could still so easily happen anyway. Though he's feeling better now than when he first came out here, that's mostly just due to being in J's arms and having a consistent distraction. Everything that had him so frightened a little while ago is still there, it's just drowned out for the moment, pushed to the background. He'll probably have to deal with it more later — trying to bury it and just keep himself awake clearly didn't accomplish all that much — but it's too much for right now.

So, too, would be arguing what J has just said, even lightly, even as a joke. With as long as they've known each other, he suspects that's one point on which they'll never agree, anyway, his admiration of J's persistence at odds with J's envy of things that came more easily to him. None of it matters when all they're doing is discussing food, and when he'll teach J as much as he can anyway. Maybe it's just because this is still so new again and he would be happy for anything they could do together, but he really does think it will be fun.

Right now, though, he definitely doesn't have that sort of energy, too wound up to go back to sleep, too tired to do anything that strenuous. He doesn't even know what time it is or how long he was asleep, everything still a bit hazy. "I wonder if there's somewhere that delivers," he says, thoughtful. There aren't a lot of restaurants around here with food from home, but there are a few, and while he doesn't feel hungry in the slightest right now, mostly wants to curl up with some tea or something, it might not be a bad idea to have something on hand for later when he's this worn out. "We could order food, if there is. Save cooking lessons for later."

It's a nice idea, J thinks. He's not entirely sure if they should, but maybe it's okay. Now that they're sure he'll be staying here, they can be a little more free with their money — not much, but enough that some takeout shouldn't set them back in any real way. Now that they're talking about food, he finds it sounds like a good idea. Sitting out here, flipping channels, he probably could have found or made himself something, but he forgot that he probably should have, and he wasn't sure about using the stove in S's absence yet anyway.

Now that S is up, though, and clearly exhausted, it might be the best thing they could do. "Mm, maybe lessons tomorrow," he agrees. "For now — it doesn't even have to be tteokbokki, but now I have a craving. You have menus in the drawer, you said? We can look if you want." If S feels much as he does during these attacks, he probably won't have the presence of mind to choose much on his own, too overwhelmed for such decisions. That's fine, though. J knows what he likes well enough to figure it out for both of them, and he can make a phone call if he must. He doesn't want to push S to get up, though, to pull away, before he's ready. "If you're even hungry. You seemed so tired, darling." He still does.

S nods, a quiet concession, unable to argue the truth of that even if he wanted to. He was tired; he still is, at once both wound up and all the more worn out from that surge of panic. Even not wanting to explain the extent of it and the reasons for it, he can admit that much. The past few days have been exhausting, anyway, even as they've been the best he's had in a long, long time. It ought to be understandable that they'd take their toll, regardless of how much he did or didn't sleep. They do need to eat, too, and if he isn't up for cooking now, he doubts he'll be any more so in an hour or two or whenever. Ordering food doesn't seem too unnecessary, then — a little frivolous, maybe, but still worth it, all the more so now that J's gotten himself in the mood for something specific that they don't have the ingredients on hand to make.

"Ah, it'll be good to have something for when I do get hungry," he says, shrugging a little. By the time any food gets here, he might well be, anyway, or the smell will entice him into it. Either way, as long as it gets eaten, it won't be a waste of money, and they did talk the other day about trying some of the nearby restaurants at some point. This seems like a good opportunity to start, another little distraction in its own right. "Menus in the drawer. I can get them, I was thinking of getting up to make tea, anyway."

He doesn't start to move quite yet, but he will. Even if it turned out alright in the end, he still remembers J's uneasiness when he first used a burner on the stove, and S doesn't want and wouldn't expect him to do so now if he'd be uncomfortable with it, not least given what they were talking about not long ago at all.

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