hismelody | I'm on waves, out being tossed

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I'm on waves, out being tossed

Eventually, the lack of sleep was always going to catch up to him. Through three sleepless nights, or at least mostly sleepless, S knew it, exhaustion increasing, though easy enough to push past with so much else to focus on. Still, it was only ever a temporary solution at best, nothing that could have lasted much longer than it did. With that being the case, it shouldn't be such a surprise when, after that third night, on their third full day together, he hits a wall, no longer able to keep his eyes open, drifting off while sitting on the couch. He isn't expecting it all the same, though even that, he barely registers, just as he's only half-aware of J ushering him back to bed, too tired to protest or to focus on why he should.

It's different when he wakes up. S grew accustomed a long time ago to sleeping and waking up alone, though it was one of the most difficult things about all that solitude, no longer having a warm body beside him at such times. He and J shared a bed for years, even before their relationship became more than platonic, cuddling together for warmth in the one bed in their small studio when the weather began to change. Of course, he felt it then, the beginning of something more, and it wasn't all that long after that they admitted their feelings for each other, but they spent ages like that. Even when they fought, even when J would barely speak to him, he still had the anchor of J's presence at his side, the distance sometimes easier to breach that way. It was comforting, always, but like so much else, he never thought he would lose it until he did.

He had months, though, after J left, after J died. At some point, following the former, it just became routine, as sad and empty as everything else about his life, J's absence as tangible as it ever was to be with him. It shouldn't, then, have taken only three nights to change that. They've hardly been apart in that time, though, save for brief moments of one going into another room for something or other. He's spent every night holding J as he slept, so overwhelmingly grateful to be able to do so, determined to do anything in his power to keep him safe.

So, when S wakes up distinctly alone, disoriented and unaware even of how long he's been asleep, the first thing he feels is cold, sheer terror.

For moments — sometimes hours, even — at a time, he's managed not to dwell on it. It's always been there, though, never too far from his thoughts, always ready to creep back in, the memory of how J sounded that first day on his couch, what S was so fucking scared he might do, J's promise not to stay, but to try. Even that was more than S could have asked for, and yet he knows it's not a guarantee, either. And while the past couple of days have been good more often than not, there's no telling what might happen with J alone, left to his own thoughts. Believing that a couple of decent days would be enough to override all that darkness would be entirely too naïve, even for S; it isn't as if he ever stood a chance against it before, and things are far worse now than they ever were then, even if, in some ways, they're better, too. He doesn't know how long it's been, he doesn't know what might have happened, and it's too much, his chest so tight that it feels like he can't breathe. Despite still being tired and out of sorts, it takes him only moments to pull himself out of bed, trying not to move quite as frantically as he feels but unable to take his time about it.

Not so very long ago at all, he woke up to find out, not very long after, that J was already gone. Now, as he moves out of the bedroom and down the hall, he silently prays to whatever deities might exist that he won't be too late again. He only just got J back. He isn't at all ready to lose him again.

He's dimly aware of a few things — muffled noise that he can't distinguish, the fact that the bathroom door is still open and the light off, which is something of a relief in its own right, though he doesn't really feel it until he rounds the corner and sees J sitting on the couch, watching TV. Overwhelmed and breathless, trembling with worry, he presses his free hand to his chest, the other resting against the wall for support he's surprised to realize how much he needs. "You're alright," he finally manages to say, though it's more to himself than anything else, his voice so small he's not even sure it will be fully audible over the sound of whatever J is watching. He doesn't care, just taking in the sight of him, mercifully alive and alright, relief mingling with the panic he can't yet shake off.

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It 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.

J nods, making a small hum. "Good idea," he says. "Sometimes it helps just to have a warm drink like that." He was too distracted to think of it himself, but it's something to remember for the future. If this happens again, he'll be better prepared. As much as he hopes it won't, he doesn't think these are one-off kinds of things. It isn't for him, at least.

It might help, too, for S to have the tea-making process to focus on. If he seems to need help or wants it, J can step in, but until then, he decides, he'll let S handle it when he's ready. "I'll come with you when you're ready," he says, "and look through the menus. Tea sounds good. Ah, and we're not far from those shops we went to before. I saw restaurants then. There must be at least one that delivers tteokbokki." There are a few things he wouldn't mind getting, but he's trying not to get ahead of himself. He can make decisions once he sees a menu. Until then, he just keeps stroking S's back, slow and steady. "And something else, too, of course. Some beef maybe or chicken."

It'll be good to have something like that on hand. If S ends up not being hungry, J knows he'll eat most of the tteokbokki himself, less because of greed than because of the way the cheese and sauce and rice cakes tend to congeal after sitting out or being in the refrigerator a while. It's hard to reheat them well. But meat and rice will keep well, and most other things can be heated again just fine. "Ah, now I really am hungry."

"That sounds good," S agrees, still leaning into J, trying to focus on the steady movement of J's hand against his back. The tteokbokki won't keep, but anything else they get, they can always keep being able to heat it up later in mind. By the time the food gets here, he may well want to eat anyway. Right now, all he really wants is to stay where he is, warm and comfortable in J's arms, reassured with every soft touch that, at least for now, J is alright, but it will probably take a while for any food they order to get here anyway. They might as well get it over with, and then they can come back here and he can let J hold him for a bit longer while they wait. He hates needing it, he really does, but he's too tired and too worried to pretend that he doesn't. Food should be a good distraction, too, at least, whether he eats yet or not, something else to give his attention to that isn't just how scared he is.

With a soft sound of protest, he lets out a sigh, still staying close even as he speaks. "Let's do that now," he decides. "Get the water on, see what menus we have." He feels reasonably certain that there should be one that has what they're looking for, at least, food from home. Some other time, it would be nice to branch out, too, but right now, J is in the mood for something specific, and for his part, if he does eat, S thinks he could use something comforting, which means something familiar. "Since we'll have to wait for delivery, we should go ahead and order."

The more he thinks about it, at least, the more it really does seem like a good idea. They've never been able to do this sort of thing very often, but now that J has decided to stay here, the expense of it shouldn't be too great, and with how he feels right now, there's something nice about knowing their food will be brought right to them, that they don't need to do anything but sit and wait.

"Okay," J says, nodding. At a time like this, it seems best that he follow S's lead as far as what he does or doesn't feel up to. If he says he's ready, then J will take him at his word. Except that he doesn't seem entirely sure of it himself, still lingering against J even as he says they should get up.

If it were him, he thinks, he might do the same — say he's ready, but not want to move. Hesitate. Get mad at himself for hesitating. "You have to get up first though," he says, lightly teasing, prodding at S's side to get him to do so. He'll just have to stay as close as he can until he's sure S is steady on his feet. For now, though, he just sits up a little straighter, pulling S with him to nudge him into action without actually making him go if he really isn't ready. As it is, he hardly wants to let go of S either, worry still buzzing through him. "I don't know which drawer they're in. Show me?"

It helps, having a question to answer, a task to do. S still doesn't really want to move, but he knows he should, so finally, eventually, he makes himself sit up a little straighter, then start to lean away. All they're doing is going to the kitchen to make tea and retrieve takeout menus. He spent a long time having to do far more on his own while feeling a lot worse than he does now. This — the lingering worry, the slight tightness in his chest — is bearable. It has to be. He knows better than to think that this fear is just going to go away, so he has to learn how to live with it, not just fall to pieces every time he gets a little worried that J isn't beside him. Putting that on J isn't fair, anyway, when J has so much else to carry already, when he chose this and doesn't regret it in the slightest.

"Yeah," he agrees, instinctively reaching for J's hand as he gets to his feet. J will still be close, anyway, and in a few minutes, once the tea is made, they'll be able to settle back on the couch again to wait for their food. "I'll show you. Ah, you ought to know where everything is, anyway." At the last, he summons up a small smile. Although it's strange, in a way, for J to be moving into a place where he already lives rather than the two of them doing so together from the start, at least he's barely had time to settle. It doesn't really matter, anyway, when he'd be overwhelmingly grateful for it regardless.

J nods, his smile soft and fond as he squeezes S's hand. "True," he says, stepping beside him to head toward the kitchen. He doesn't rush, unsure how steady S might be on his feet after that. Even if it still feels horrible to him, even if he wishes S didn't have to experience it, too, there are things he knows are routine occurences for him when he has these attacks. It might help S to know that they're as normal as all this can be.

He doesn't want to be overbearing about it, though, or to remind S too much of why he was so nervous and upset. He keeps his voice light, but gentle as he asks, "Are you okay? Sometimes I get dizzy during and after. Ah, we should get some water, too. I don't know when I last had any." He definitely forgot to while he was watching TV. At least that much he can take care of while S makes tea. He may not know where the menus are, but he's learned the location of all the basic necessities, and he'll figure out the rest in time. Still, even as he steps into the kitchen, he doesn't pull away to do anything, grasping S's hand in both of his now.

"I'm —" S starts, already nodding as he speaks, instinctively starting to say I'm fine. It's both true and not, though, and not really enough to actually say. No matter how much he wishes he could downplay whatever just happened, he doubts he would be all that successful if he tried, not because he couldn't sound convincing but simply because J was there for all of it. As much as S hates having worried him, it would probably be worse, he thinks, if he pretended like it was nothing when they both know it wasn't. Besides, as hard as it is to think about J feeling the way he just did, it helps, too, to know that he gets it. S can only imagine how much more frightening it would have been without J to hold him and talk him through it.

So he opts for honesty instead, expression soft as he looks over at J. "I'm a little lightheaded," he admits. With as hard as it was to try to catch his breath, to breathe at all, for a few minutes there, he figures that was probably inevitable anyway. Still, he would rather not dwell on it, or continue worrying J, any more than necessary. "Water sounds good." He doesn't really want to pull away, but they did come out here for a reason; as a momentary compromise, he opens the drawer, the one furthest to the outside of the kitchen, that he's been keeping the menus in with his free hand. "Menus are in here."

That much is to be expected, J is pretty sure. For a while there, it was frightening, listening to S trying to catch his breath, and he's feeling a bit shaky himself now that the worst of it seems to have passed. It might come back, he knows that, and it's unnerving to know that all he can do is be here whether or not it does, but at least for now, S seems to be breathing more or less normally.

He glances at the drawer, then back to S, tipping his head up to kiss him, soft and chaste. At least S told him the truth. He's thankful for that. Knowing as he does the urge to wave these things off as nothing, he couldn't fault S for trying to downplay it. He's done it too many times himself. Still, it helps. There's something grounding about it that he can't quite name. It doesn't really matter as long as S is feeling even a little better. "It can be like that," he says when he draws back. "It'll pass eventually. Put on the tea and I'll find a restaurant, okay?"

He doesn't want to let go. That's the problem. It's protectiveness and projection both, knowing that he would want to stay close if it were him. He doubts S feels any differently, especially given what set him off. But it'll be better if they can take care of this soon and then sit again, so he squeezes S's hand and steps over to the drawer, slowly letting go so he can pull the menus out. There are quite a few, but they should be easy enough to sort through, since he knows exactly what kind of food he wants now.

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